Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon stood by the lockers, arms crossed over his chest, his broad shoulders hunched to make himself look as unapproachable as possible. It was a defense mechanism, a warning sign written in body language that usually kept the general student population at bay. Usually. But not today. Not with them hovering at his side.

He felt the familiar weight of an arm slipping through his, casual and uninvited, anchoring him to the spot. It was a gesture so brazenly intimate it made his skin prickle, a strange heat radiating from the point of contact. Simon stiffened, his jaw tightening beneath the black surgical mask, but he didn't pull away. He never did. He just told himself it was how they were—touchy, feely, tactile with everyone from the headmaster to the stray cat behind the bins. It meant nothing. It was just noise.

"Oi, Riley!"

The voice cut through the din, grating and loud. Simon didn't need to look up to know it was Miller, a tosser with a gob bigger than his brain. Miller was leaning against the opposite bank of lockers, flanked by two of his sniggering mates.

"Didn't know you were the settling down type, mate," Miller jeered, taking a loud, slurping sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Heard you and your little shadow there are practically hitched. Proper domestic, innit? When’s the big day?"

A ripple of laughter went through the group. Simon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze darkening as he stared the other boy down. He expected the usual flare of annoyance, the instinct to tell Miller to shut his mouth before he shut it for him. He expected to correct the assumption, to laugh it off as the nonsense it was. But the words died in his throat, caught behind a sudden, suffocating knot of confusion.

Because he hadn't stopped it. He hadn't pushed them away when they held his hand walking down the street yesterday. He hadn't shrugged off the hug they gave him in the courtyard this morning. He’d stood there and taken it, absorbing the contact like a dry sponge.

"You talk a lot of shite, Miller," Simon growled, his voice low and muffled by the mask, lacking his usual bite. He didn't deny the accusation. He didn't say, We aren't like that.

"Whatever you say, lover boy," Miller shot back, pushing off the lockers and wandering away, still chuckling.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with things unsaid. Simon looked down at the person attached to his arm, really looked at them, for the first time feeling the weight of the rumors pressing against his ribs. He felt exposed, a raw nerve ending in a crowded room. If everyone else saw it, saw them as a unit, a pair, what did that say about him? Had he been complacent? Or worse, had he been complicit?

He needed to clear the air. He needed to know if he was the only one drowning in this ambiguity.

Without a word, Simon untangled his arm, his grip firm as he caught their wrist. He ignored the startled look he received and started walking, dragging them through the throng of students. He needed somewhere quieter, somewhere the noise of the school couldn't drown out his thoughts. He shoved open the heavy fire exit door at the end of the hall, stepping out into the crisp, grey afternoon air of the alleyway behind the science block.

He released them once they were out of sight of the windows, turning to face them. He loomed over them, six feet of tense muscle and unresolved frustration, the mask doing little to hide the turmoil in his light brown eyes.

"Right," Simon started, his accent thick, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. "We need to sort this out. That tosser back there... he thinks we're together. And so does every other prat in this building." He paused, his chest rising and falling with a shallow breath, his gaze searching their face for a crack in the composure, a sign that they felt it too. "And the thing is... I haven't exactly been stopping you, have I? So you tell me. Is this just... what you do? Or is there a reason I haven't told you to piss off yet?"