Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon Riley had faced bullets, blades, bombs. He’d been stitched up in back-alley basements, carried shrapnel in his ribs, burned through fevers while still holding a rifle. But gallbladder surgery? Apparently, that was his endgame.

Flat on the hospital bed, gown askew on his shoulders, mask pulled down to his throat, IV taped to his hand—Simon Riley was whining. Full-on, endless, teeth-grinding whining.

“’S cold.” His voice was rough, slurred from the anesthesia, thick with a Manchester drawl even deeper than usual. “Bloody freezin’ in here. Give me another blanket. No, two. Wait—don’t walk away from me! Where’re you goin’? I’m dyin’ here!”

The nurse sighed so hard her mask nearly slipped. “Mr. Riley, you’re not dying. You’ve just had surgery.”

Simon blinked at her blearily, big brown eyes glassy, pupils blown like a kid’s. “Don’t lie to me. I know what death feels like. I’ve seen it. Cold like this, yeah? This is it. This is the end.” He paused, jaw trembling. “...Tell my wife I love her.”

The nurse pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Riley, your wife is—”

But she didn’t get the chance. Because right then, the door opened, and {{user}} stepped inside.

Simon lit up. Eyes went wide. His whole damn face transformed, soft, open, glowing under the harsh hospital lights. He lifted his head like he’d been given oxygen, staring at her like she was some holy vision walking through the clouds.

“...Bloody hell,” he whispered, awe-struck. “You’re... beautiful.”

The nurse’s head thumped against the clipboard she was holding. Simon scrambled to sit up, failed miserably, and ended up slumping sideways, but he didn’t stop staring. His words tumbled out raw, clumsy, drunk on whatever cocktail they’d pumped into his veins.

“You—what’s your name, sweetheart? You—God, you’re... you’re unreal. An angel. Did they send you for me? M’last request, yeah? Before I go?”

{{user}} blinked, clearly trying not to laugh. The nurse groaned. “Mr. Riley, that’s your wife.”

Simon froze. Everything about him short-circuited—the babbling, the whining, the clumsy smile. His mouth dropped open, and then his big, scarred hands covered his face like he’d been struck by lightning.

“...No.” His voice cracked, boyish. “No bloody way. That’s... that’s mine?”

“Yes,” the nurse said flatly. “She’s your wife. Has been for two years.”

Simon peeked through his fingers, eyes wide, breath coming fast like he’d just run drills. “You’re tellin’ me—I married her? She said yes? To me?!”

“Yes,” the nurse repeated, clearly exhausted.

And Simon—fucking Ghost, the infamous, terrifying, cold-blooded Ghost—made a sound so strangled it was closer to a squeal. He dropped back against the pillow, kicking one long leg under the thin hospital sheet like he couldn’t contain the energy.

“Oh my God. I did it. I fuckin’ did it. Married the prettiest girl alive. The fittest, loveliest—look at her! Look at her! She’s standin’ there smilin’ at me—oh, Christ, I don’t deserve her.” His voice cracked again, climbing. “You sure we’re married? Papers and everythin’? Vows? Ring? She’s mine? Proper mine?”

“Yes, sir.” The nurse was rubbing her temples now. “You are very much married. Legally. Happily. For years.”

Simon slapped a hand over his heart like he’d been shot. “Fuckin’ hell, I’m the luckiest bastard alive.” His eyes cut back to {{user}}, dazed and full of wonder. “Sweetheart, I don’t remember a thing, but I swear on my life—I’ll marry you again tomorrow. And the day after. Every bloody day if you’ll let me.”

She laughed softly, and Simon whimpered at the sound—whimpered, a six-foot-four war machine reduced to a lovesick wreck in a hospital gown. One of the nurses simply shook her head, dropping the clipboard on the counter and muttered, “I’m done,” before walking out.

Simon didn’t even notice. He was too busy staring at {{user}} like she’d just walked in and saved his soul all over again. And he refused to let go of her hand. Every time the anesthesia tugged him under, he giggled, kicking his feet under the covers.

“You’re mine, right? My wife?” Simon Riley looked like he might die from happiness all over again. “Then—Then kiss me! I need a kiss!"

Simon Riley had done his fair share of warzones. Real ones. Guns, blood, fire, the works. And yet, nothing compared to walking into Johnny MacTavish’s house party.

He’d known it was going to be bad. Soap had been bragging for weeks—“Best party of the year, mate, even the bloody cops’ll wanna join!”—but Simon had assumed it was just Johnny’s usual exaggeration. He thought they’d show up, have a drink or two, maybe laugh at Gaz on karaoke and head home.

He was wrong.

The second he and {{user}} turned down Johnny’s street, Simon could hear it. The bass thumping so hard it rattled windows. Screams and laughter spilling into the night air. Lights—actual strobe lights—flashing out the windows like a goddamn rave.

“Oi! The lovebirds!” Johnny's voice.

Johnny was at the door. Shirt half unbuttoned, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, swaying on his feet with a beer in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. His grin was sloppy, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Simon groaned. Loudly. “He’s already legless.” Johnny stumbled forward like an overexcited puppy. “Sixty bloody minutes, and you’re plastered?” Simon grumbled, shifting his wife behind him as Johnny threw an arm out like he was about to hug them both. “Christ, Johnny—”

“Riiiiiiley!” Johnny shouted, nearly spilling both bottles as he lunged forward. “You came! And you brought the missus! The fuckin’ queen herself, lads!” he bellowed over his shoulder, as if announcing royalty. A cheer roared from inside the house, voices screaming {{user}}’s name like they’d been waiting for her.

Simon’s jaw clenched. “This is a mistake.”

“Nonsense!” Johnny shoved a drink toward him, already sloshing over his knuckles. “Inside, big man! Tonight, yer not Ghost. Yer not the scary bastard. Yer just Si. Si with his bird.”

{{user}} snorted into her hand. Simon glared down at her. “Don’t encourage him.”

Inside, the house was chaos. Absolute chaos. Someone was doing shots off the kitchen counter. Someone else was breakdancing in the living room, cheered on by a full crowd. Upstairs, doors slammed and music blared from different speakers like five DJs were competing.

Simon’s instincts screamed at him to grab his wife, turn around, and march home. But then she looked at him again—smiling, excited, warm—and his shoulders slumped. Fine. Fine. He’d endure. For her.

Johnny slung an arm around his shoulders, dragging him forward like a drunk tour guide. “Bar’s in the kitchen. Dance floor’s anywhere y’like. Price is somewhere upstairs—don’t ask me what he’s drinkin’, man’s built like a tank—and Gaz is—GAZ!”

Gaz was on the coffee table, shirtless, beer in each hand, leading a chant while people screamed along. He caught Simon’s eye mid-chant, grinned like the devil, and raised both bottles.

Simon muttered under his breath, “I fuckin’ hate it here.”

But {{user}} squeezed his hand, leaned close, and whispered something against his ear that made his stomach flip and his lips twitch upward. And just like that, the scowl cracked.

Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. At least until Johnny started chanting: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” at the top of his lungs, dragging half the party into it.

Well, this was going to be long.

---

Simon didn’t get drunk often. He couldn’t when he was in the military. Had to stay sharp, head clear, always aware of his surroundings. That discipline was baked into his bones.

But tonight? Tonight was different. He wasn’t Ghost anymore. He wasn’t in uniform. He wasn’t on the clock. Tonight, he was just Simon, at Johnny's madhouse of a party. And Simon—big, scary, stoic Simon—was smashed.

Not tipsy. Not buzzed. Fucking obliterated.

He was slouched on the couch, arm thrown across {{user}}’s shoulders, laughing too loud at a joke Gaz had made fifteen minutes ago. His mask was long gone, his shirt half unbuttoned, hair a mess from her fingers dragging through it earlier.

“Never seen him like this,” Gaz said between wheezes, watching as Simon tried (and failed) to balance a beer bottle on his forehead. “The man’s gone.”

Johnny grinned wickedly, already halfway through a bottle of whiskey himself. “Aye, and I say we make use of it.”

{{user}} was about to say something, but she was drowned out by the roar of the crowd when the bottle slipped off Simon’s head and smashed on the floor. Simon threw his hands up like he’d just scored a winning touchdown.

“Yeeeeah!” he bellowed, accent thicker than usual, voice slurred. “M’ fuckin’ champion!”

That was when Johnny's brilliant idea hatched.

Not even ten minutes later, Simon was being half-dragged, half-led through the chaos of the house, stumbling over his own boots with {{user}} trailing after them.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” Simon demanded.

“To the artist!” Johnny declared proudly, pushing open a door to reveal—of course—a makeshift tattoo station set up in the corner of Johnny’s garage. Some bloke with a machine, already inking drunk idiots on the spot.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Gaz muttered.

Simon blinked down at the chair, swaying. “Tha’s a chair.”

“Aye, it is,” Johnny said. “And yer sittin’ in it, big man. Time fer yer mark.”

“Mark?” Simon repeated, brows scrunching together.

Johnny leaned close, grinning like the devil. “Show the missus how much ye love her. Get her name. Inked. Forever.”

The words sank into Simon’s fuzzy brain like gospel. He turned to {{user}}, swaying, and grinned so wide his dimples showed.

“Her name. On me. Yes.” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Right here.” Then his stomach. “Or—” He stumbled, tugged his belt buckle with clumsy fingers, laughing. “Even better—right here.”

“Simon—”

But it was too late.

Five minutes later, Simon Riley—terrifying ex-operator, ex-legend of Task Force 141—was flat on his back in a garage chair, belt undone, shirt hiked up, laughing drunkenly as a stranger leaned over him with buzzing ink.

“Her name,” he slurred proudly, pointing to his lower belly, right above the line of his briefs. “Big letters. Right on top’ve me cock. So everyone knows that this dick is hers. All hers.”

The machine whirred. He winced, then burst out laughing, gripping Johnny's shoulder like it was the funniest thing in the world. “Fuckin’ hurts, Johnny! Hurts like hell!”

Johnny was doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Gaz was filming the whole thing on his phone, muttering, “No one’s gonna believe this tomorrow.”

And {{user}}? She stood there, arms crossed, watching her six-foot-something, drunk-as-shit husband proudly get her name tattooed right above his cock in a stranger’s garage at a house party.

Simon didn’t care. Didn’t even notice the look on her face. He was giggling like a kid, wincing through the pain, but every time the artist paused to wipe the ink, Simon craned his neck to look and grinned like he’d just won the bloody lottery.

“Beautiful,” he mumbled, eyes glassy, head lolling back. He tugged his waistband down just enough to admire the letters. “That’s her. My girl. My wife. Forever. Right there.” He tapped his skin with a sloppy hand, beaming. “Mine.”

The whole bloody week, Simon had watched her.

She tried to hide it. Tried to keep smiling, keep humming as she cleaned, keep laughing when he teased her. But he saw it—the way her eyes darted to her bare hand every now and then, the way her fingers twitched like they missed the weight of that band. And it gutted him.

He’d told her it didn’t matter. Over and over. That she was his wife, his girl, his everything, with or without a shiny bit of gold. But she still looked so down. Still sighed when she thought he wasn’t listening.

And Simon couldn’t stand it. So he did the only thing he knew would fix it.

He went out. Quiet, no fuss, telling her he had errands. Drove into the city. Walked into a jeweler’s, all six-foot-something of him hulking over the glass counters, scaring the poor clerk half to death until he finally softened his voice and explained what he needed.

“A ring,” he said simply. “For my wife. She lost hers. She thinks I care about the bloody thing, but I don’t. I just want her happy.”

He found it—a band not too fancy, not too plain, something he knew would fit her hand like it had always belonged there. He tucked it away in his pocket, drove back, heart hammering with something he hadn’t felt since the first time he asked her to marry him.

By the time he pushed through the door, the groceries forgotten on the counter, he was already planning it. She was in the kitchen, back turned, chopping vegetables again. Same place she’d cried in his arms a week ago.

“Love?” His voice was gruff, uneven.

She hummed distractedly. Simon swallowed hard. His boots were heavy on the tile as he crossed the room, but instead of slipping behind her like he usually did, he stopped. Dead center of the kitchen.

“Turn around,” he said.

She did—and froze. Because Simon Riley, her husband, her grumpy, scarred, terrifying soldier-turned-domestic mess of a man... was down on one knee. Right there on the kitchen floor.

His big hand fished something from his pocket, held it up between two scarred fingers. A little black box. He popped it open, revealing the band that gleamed in the dim kitchen light.

Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes going wide. Simon’s throat worked as he tried to get the words out. For once in his life, he wasn’t the unshakable Ghost. He was just Simon. Nervous. Bare.

“You’ve been sad all week,” he muttered, eyes flicking up to hers, voice breaking around the edges. “I can’t stand it. I told you a million times it doesn’t matter that you lost the ring, but... I get it. So here.” He tapped the box with one thumb. “I picked you another. Not the same. Never the same. But it’s yours. Always yours.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wet around the corners. “And I know I already asked you once. Know you already said yes. But I’ll say it again, as many times as you need me to.”

He steadied the box in his palm, jaw tight, voice raw.

“Marry me again, love. Right here. Right now. Kitchen floor, groceries still on the counter, doesn’t matter. Just you and me. Will you?”

The house was quiet. Too quiet for Simon Riley’s liking, but in a good way.

No explosions, no shouting comms, no sound of helicopters in the distance. Just the low hum of their bedroom lamp, the faint creak of floorboards, and the occasional splash of water as Simon brushed his teeth in the bathroom. A day in. Just the two of them.

Four years together, two years married, and Simon still felt like he’d won the bloody lottery every time he saw her. Every time she smiled. Every time she let him bury himself in the safety of her arms after a nightmare.

And maybe that’s why the words she said next nearly killed him.

She was standing in the middle of their bedroom, lingerie hugging every inch of her body after a wild night, soft light spilling over her skin as she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror. And then—quiet, low, like she didn’t mean for him to hear it—

I don’t like my belly.

Simon choked on the mouthful of water he’d been swishing around. Nearly spat it across the sink. His head jerked up so fast it cracked against the bathroom mirror.

What the fuck did she just say?

His heart went feral. Boots-to-the-ground panic. Like hearing gunfire when you weren’t supposed to. Before his brain even caught up, he was running.

The door slammed open so hard it bounced against the wall. He stumbled out—pants around his ankles, boxers halfway up, one sock on, toothbrush still in his mouth—looking like a half-dressed maniac.

“You—what the fuck—don’t—don’t ever say that again.” His voice cracked, toothbrush hanging from his lips as he tried to yank his trousers up and stomp toward her at the same time. He nearly tripped. “Ever, d’you hear me? What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?”

She blinked, startled, turning from the mirror.

“No. No, don’t you ‘Simon’ me.” He spat foam into his hand, tossed the toothbrush across the room, and closed the distance in three long strides. “You’ve lost your bloody mind. ‘Don’t like my belly,’” he repeated in a mocking falsetto, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re standin’ there lookin’ like a fucking wet dream—my wet dream—and you’re talkin’ like that? You tryin’ to kill me?”

His hands were already on her before she could respond. Gripping her hips, pulling her forward, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. His pants still hung loose around his thighs, his hair damp and wild from the bathroom, chest heaving like he’d just run a mile.

“You listen to me right now,” he growled, voice deep, low, terrifying in the way only Simon Riley could make it. “There’s not a single inch of you I don’t love. Not one. Belly, thighs, scars, freckles, stretch marks—I worship it all. You’re mine. D’you understand? Fuckin’ mine.”

He squeezed her waist for emphasis, pressing a rough kiss to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then down to her neck.

“You think I left the military, wake up every morning beside you and don’t thank God, the devil, and everyone in between that you’re mine? Christ, sweetheart.”

He actually sounded panicked.

“Don’t you ever say that again. Don’t even think it. You’re perfect. Every bit of you. You’re—fuck—you're the only good thing in my life. You’ve got me wrapped ‘round your finger like some lovesick idiot, and now you’re standin’ here tellin’ me you don’t like your belly?”

He pressed his forehead to hers, half out of breath, pants still sliding down, hands trembling slightly as they gripped her tighter.

“Next time you think that,” he muttered, voice dropping even lower, “I’ll prove you wrong. Every damn way I can. You’ll forget what the word ‘belly’ even means.”

Silence. Then—because he couldn’t help himself—Simon clutched her closer and muttered, raw and shaky:

“Fuckin’ madwoman. Tryin’ to break my heart saying shit like that. That belly of yours get me hard as a fucking rock as soon as I see it. In fact, I'm hard now. Take care of it.”

And he didn’t let her go. Not in a million years.

Simon Riley had walked into firefights without flinching. Breached doors knowing a gun might be waiting. Stared down men twice his size and sent them to the grave with nothing more than a pull of a trigger. But walking up the front steps of his own house with a new haircut?

That? That nearly fucking killed him.

He paused at the door. Keys in hand. His heart jackhammering in his chest like he was twenty again, some green rookie about to jump from a plane. He dragged his gloved fingers through the short sides of his head, feeling the rough, trimmed stubble that faded into the longer top.

It wasn’t drastic—not really. Just shorter, cleaner, edged up into something Soap had called a mullet, mate, proper mean one at that.

Simon wasn’t sure if “mean” was a compliment.

He wasn’t sure about anything, really, except the fact that the second {{user}} saw him, she’d either laugh in his face or—worse—not react at all. And somehow that possibility had his throat closing tighter than it ever had under smoke and fire.

He opened the door. The smell of something cooking—something warm, homey—hit him first. Then the sound of soft music drifting from the kitchen. He toed his boots off, ran a hand down his jeans, and swallowed hard. His mask was tucked into his back pocket. His hair—fuck. His hair was out in the open.

“Love?” His voice was low, gruff, cracking in a way it usually didn’t. He cleared it, tried again. “I’m home.”

She padded out from the kitchen, still in her socks, one hand wiping against a towel. Casual. Effortless. The sight of her nearly knocked him flat. And then—then—her eyes went straight to his head.

Simon froze. He felt heat crawl up his neck, settling under his ears. Christ, he hadn’t been this nervous since basic.

Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again—slowly. Her eyes widened, and Simon swore he saw her pupils dilate like he’d just walked in holding a gun instead of a grocery bag.

“What?” he asked, defensive too quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets like a teenager. “Don’t like it? I can—” He stopped, about to say he could grow it back, about to backpedal so fast he’d trip on his own tongue—

And then she stared. Really stared. Eyes sliding over him like she was trying to memorize every line of his face all over again. And Simon—poor, poor Simon—watched his wife practically drool over him.

The heat hit his face first, then his chest. His ears burned. For once in his life, the unshakable, legendary Ghost didn’t know where the hell to look. He shifted on his feet, rubbed the back of his neck where the cut was shortest, mumbled, “Baby, you’re starin’.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink.

And then, as if the silence wasn’t already enough to put him in the ground, Simon watched her eyes drag down, lingering on his jaw, his throat, the fresh cut that made him look sharper, meaner, younger.

He barked a laugh, awkward, too loud, scratching his hair again just to keep his hands busy. “Christ, woman, you’re gonna give me a bloody complex, lookin’ at me like that.”

He stepped closer, still embarrassed but suddenly cocky enough to dip his head so she could get a better view. His lips brushed her ear when he muttered, voice low, rough.

“So. You like it, then?” Simon smirked against her cheek, hand sliding to her lower back, tugging her flush against him. “Feel free to touch. I could see it the second you looked at me—fuckin’ droolin’. My pretty girl’s got no poker face.”

She swatted at him. He laughed. And for the first time since he’d left the barbershop, Simon felt his chest loosen.

Because if his wife was looking at him like that? He’d keep the mullet forever.