Simon Ghost Riley

You hated her.

That was a lie. You didn’t hate her. What was there to hate? Lacy. That was her callsign. It’s like it was made for her— she was lacy. Dainty, soft, sweet. She was perfect. Fucking perfect, so much it made you spend minutes just analyzing her. Her strawberry blonde, thin, shiny hair that reached her lower back, but was usually braided up, curled pieces framing her symmetrical face. Her pale skin that never seemed to scar.

The 141 had one and only one new member for the first time in years, you, and for months it was nice to receive attention. To be the new, shiny addition. The guys seemed to like you. You liked them too— especially Lieutenant Riley.

And of course, Lacy was drawn to him just as much. Was this intentional? The constant twisting of your stomach, the sick in the head feeling you got when you catch yourself staring at her figure like she’s some kind of angel. You couldn’t help it, neither could Johnny, or Gaz. Hell, even Price had let his eyes wander once or twice. She was so sweet too. There was so much guilt piling up in your throat when she complimented you, even though every time you heard her voice you wanted her to say something sharp and mean, to belittle you in some way so you had a reason to be so loathing towards her.

Huddles were the worst. She would have some new gadget to show the team every once in a while, and it felt like watching tigers surround a bunny. You didn’t even have a real crush on any of them, but watching them practically drool over a new headset? Your eyes never left, staring blankly at the circle. She was the center. She was the goddamn sun, and you weren’t even a star.