Archive of Our Own ^beta

Love was always complicated: one-sided, reciprocated, or none at all.

You recall elementary school days; you had your eyes on a particular boy that sat beside you during classes. You two would always exchange shy glances, and both hands would always be so close yet far. The two of you had been young and naive to the true concept of love. But it had been nice; he would always wave at you after school before being sent home and shared the same table as you during lunch—sharing his food with you as well.

It was the purest form of love, yet so far from the truth of it.

You were transferred to a different school only a month after—something about your mother having an affair with the school principal, and your father had found out. You remember the argument your parents shared at the principal’s office; a couple of other teachers had peaked into the office to get an earful to fuel their gossip later, leaving you awkwardly standing to the side as you held your head down low.

When your father clasped his large palm around your small one and dragged you out of the office, you saw the boy walking around the corner—the two of you shared glances, and without knowing, it would've been the last time you ever saw him again.

He merely waved you an enthusiastic goodbye; the promise of sharing lunches the next day hung on his lips as he watched you leave through the front door with your father in hand.

You had no idea how much it meant to you, not until you recalled the memory years later, whilst enjoying a romance book—the evening dawn basking your figure as you sat in your chair on the balcony. 

“If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets.”

For the whole evening that day, you wondered if the boy had ever thought of you, too.

It hadn’t taken long for you to find your next love; it was during secondary school when you were a freshman. 

A surge of gossip circled around a particular sophomore student who won the national basketball championship with his team. It was a big deal, apparently—not to you, but even so, you could applaud his effort to achieve such a feat. 

The way you two met was nothing short of cliche.

You were rushing down the empty school hallway; with a stack of paper sandwiched in a folder, clutched in your arms as you practically flew across the hallway. You rounded a sharp corner, and the next few seconds were a blur—you felt the file filled with papers flying out of your grasp as you landed on your butt, head hitting the corner of the wall; pain started blooming in your temple at the harsh impact.

You let out a string of curses as you registered your situation. 

You bumped into someone, or rather, he bumped into you. 

Your eyes squeezed open as they trailed toward the boy on the floor across from you. He was rubbing the back of his head as he slowly propped himself back up with his elbow; hisses spilt out of him as his eyes shot open. “Hey, you—” his irritated gaze landed on you, and as he took in the imagery in front of him, his eyes softened tenfold.

You tilted your head, hand reaching up to soothe the nagging headache. You were stunned—before remembering the purpose of running down the hallway in the first place.

You were late for class.

Panic ensued—you were totally screwed if you couldn’t attend Mrs Fellot’s class in time. Your arms reached out as you picked up the fallen file and scrambled to retrieve the scattered papers across the ground. You mumbled incoherent ‘oh nos’ and ‘fucks’ under your breath, so busy with collecting the sheets that you hadn’t noticed another hand reaching out, bumping into yours.

Your eyes flickered from the papers to the boy in front of you. His eyes shone a bright green as they pierced deep into your skin, and his lips hung open as though he had words to say. But you only cocked an eyebrow at him and went back to gathering the layer and layer of written scripts from the floor. The boy’s hand froze in place, unknowing of what to do. You stood back up a minute later, and all the papers were now comfortably seated in your file. 

Before you leave the scene, your eyes trail his hunched-over form, and you both share glances at each other as you soon dart away down the hallway. 

You had been late to class that morning.

Mrs Fellot gave you detention for being a minute late to her class, and as a student, you had no choice but to glue your butt to your seat and accept your fate as your classmates gave you looks of pity.

Around lunchtime, the boy from earlier approached your table as you were seen picking and prodding at your food—you had no appetite for the food they provided at school. He invited himself into the seat across from you; you hadn’t even noticed his presence until you heard a snap of his fingers in front of your face. You perked up at the noise, your cautious gaze recognising the pair of bright green ones that faced you. 

Your lips pulled into a sneer as you looked at him, displeased at the event that unfolded that morning. And for that entire lunchtime, you both bantered with each other, throwing light-hearted insults—that wasn’t to say you have forgiven him for the detention you received because of him, but your mood was no longer soured for the rest of the day.

You both found out later that he had gotten detention from his teacher for being late, too.

Detention that day was blissful because he had been there by your side. 

And so, your 9th-grade love story unfolded. 

He would meet you for lunch every day and walk you home from school so he could wave you goodbye at your front door. Once, he had gotten into trouble with his coach because he abandoned his practice just to meet you in the school’s backyard and spend leisure time with you as you both chatted about everything and anything.

It wasn’t until he had confessed his feelings to you one day when you noticed the little things he did—He looked at you with such fondness in his eyes and would become a puddle of gush at your shoulder brushing against his, or whenever you’d lock gaze with him, his eyes would trail toward your lips as you rambled his ears away.

You had your first kiss that day of the confession, behind the school, tucked away in the corner of the backyard that no one knew of—except for the two of you.

After that day, he would frequently drag you to his basketball practice; it was as if he was showing you off to the entire school—putting you on the throne as his one and only queen and he, the king. 

You both were known as the high school sweethearts—many would come to tell the stories of whenever they’d find you huddled away, whispering sweet nothings to each other and giggling at one another’s jokes. 

It had felt like a dream; you both spoke of goals to achieve whilst your fingers would lock together, invading each other’s personal space—but it felt right, and to be honest? It felt as though you both could conquer the world with your love.

The feelings lasted for what felt like an eternity.

As passionate as the love had been—it was fragile. 

Rumours would fly around school about him hanging out with another girl, but you brushed them away and took them as that—rumours.

You had all your trust in him to not betray the love you two shared so intimately.

To be frank, you wore rose-tinted glasses whenever you were around him.

And it wasn’t until one day in your junior year when your best friend pulled you into the restroom and looked at you with worry that swarmed her eyes. 

“He’s cheating on you.”

You almost couldn’t believe it. After all, you both had been together for years by then—2, to be exact. So why would someone, especially him, throw his love for you down the drain? So naturally, your best friend grew frustrated with you, but she never gave up on proving you wrong. Unfortunately for her, your boyfriend at the time had been a slimy bastard. He would be seen with another girl one second and be alone the other—it was difficult to catch him in the act, to say the least.

But it hadn’t taken her long before she thought of a fool-proof plan.

The school’s backyard.

She teamed up with a friend of hers—and it took much convincing to get the other girl involved. First, it took a few days of the girl reaching out to your boyfriend through his social media, then his personal phone number and a couple of sly glances shared with each other in the school’s hallway before he agreed to meet up with her in the backyard.

Specifically, the corner you and him shared over the years.

Your best friend had been delirious when she approached you one day at school; she took your hand before abruptly dragging you along the school hallways and toward the infamous backyard. Of course, you were angry at her; admittedly, you had no idea why she had been trying to prove to you the things that never happened: your boyfriend cheating being the case.

It didn’t take long for your clouded conscience to be shattered.

As it took a quick glance at the little corner of heaven you had been building with your boyfriend over the years to see one of the worst things you had laid your eyes on.

Your boyfriend hunched over another small frame of a girl as he took her in for a kiss.

You were deaf to the gasp that the girl let out. At that moment, it felt like all your senses had been stolen—buried away somewhere you could barely reach with your fingertips. He had turned around at the surprised yelp the girl beneath him let out; following her gaze, it landed on you: the love of his life.

You looked devoided of life, and the pang of hurt he experienced was nothing short of minuscule—it hurt .

It hurt to see you glance into his eyes, the love and tenderness your glances held gone in an instant. It hurt to see you pick up your feet and walk away from the scene, your best friend throwing him dirty looks as she tugged your arm in hers and took you away from him.

He had been angry, had tried chasing after you—but your friend dragged you into the nurse’s office and lost him in the crowd of students in the hall.

For the first time in your friend’s life, she saw you break down. Not with tears, but the mere image of your sunken, depressing gaze and you barely holding your head up high made her almost regret she had shown you anything, almost .

She knew it was the right thing to do, and if the shoes were switched, you would’ve done the same. She loved you, and it pained her to see you losing your spirit for the next month. You barely ate, conversed with others and hadn’t had a good night’s rest for a whole month.

Heartbreak was a bitch.

Throughout the first few months, your ex would attempt to find ways to talk to you: whether it would be during breakfast hours, lunchtime, or even the house parties you attended. He would always be there, stalking your steps and watching your every move. 

It wasn’t until he graduated before you that he stopped bothering you.

And you?

You had hardly shed a tear during post-breakup, and it only took you another half a month before you were back to being, well, you.

Just without the pep in your steps you had when you were in love.

The school years passed by in a blink of an eye, and soon, you were graduating.

You found yourself submitting an application to be enlisted in the military: you wanted to follow in your father’s footsteps, as he had been nothing short of the perfect father figure you could ever ask for. It only had taken a few months before you were mailed a letter from the military: you had been accepted.

The grin you wore as you rushed downstairs and flashed your father the letter you received; he had been so happy that he gave you the tightest hug he could muster. 

You told your best friend, of course. 

You two had stuck through thick and thin during and after secondary school—and even whilst she was in another state studying for college, you both never failed to send each other silly texts; your private messaging app served as a placeholder for her notes, whether it’d be school or just love letters she received from girls over the years.

She was an endearing presence to you, and you swore to her that you would never leave her side as you both grew old.

The love you both shared differed from the previous— whilst passionate and exciting, it had been overwhelming. No, the love you shared with your best friend was one of endearment, respect and understanding. You learnt that love wasn’t only exclusive to one between two significant others but also between those that mattered to you. 

It had been half a decade since you last contacted your best friend.

You two grew apart gradually due to the difficulty of your busy schedules; you both weren’t always able to take the time out of your stressful days to sit down and chat with each other—catch up and whatnot.

The military had been way more stress-inducing than you realised; you worked your ass off to be where you are today—second lieutenant in command.

The first droplet of tears you had was when you were being put through a brutal in-action training course.

You had been sent out to the field with a task force to take care of a local drug ring and were told to eliminate possible threats before they spiral into something worse. That was when you first rode a helicopter, too.

Action sprung into life when the aircraft landed on American soil before your feet had even touched the ground. 

Bullets were flying through the air above you, one barely grazing the skin of your arms as it punctured through the fabric of your uniform. Your captain at the time pulled your team away to a safe spot tucked inside a house that sheltered all of you— most of you.

One of your comrades had gotten caught in the crossfire and died an unfortunate death upon entering the field: bleeding to death. None of you had the time to mourn over her death and hurried away as your captain led you all to an advantageous ground. You were situated on the roof of the building, prone as you teased the trigger of your rifle with your fingertip, your crosshair hovered over an enemy’s head—the perfect shot. 

Whilst you were focused on taking down your target with the precision of a falcon, your team had been ambushed. To none of your knowledge, one of the enemies managed to slip into the building without being spotted and picked you all off one at a time. Although he was soon killed by your captain, more had swarmed the building and overwhelmed your team.

Yet, despite the odds, your team came out on top—skillfully eliminating them a wave at a time. 

You placed a bullet through what you assumed was the last enemy’s head before you turned to your captain—only the two of you remained during the whole combat, the others K.I.A. Though as devastated as you were, you carried out the mission beautifully with the aid of your captain. 

He had his hand on your slumped shoulder, his face prideful as he gave you one of the brightest smiles you’d ever seen.

One moment, you watched as he ruffled your head and gave you a hearty chuckle.

The next, you saw red painted the front of his uniform—right where his heart would be.

You still remembered the weight of his large body as he fell on you like a heavy sack of potatoes, the quiet murmurs you voiced as you let your mind soak the situation. Your captain, dead, with a bullet through his heart. 

His blood, your red-tinted hands as you pushed him to the side and pressed against his wound, the red you saw in your eyes when you felt the shaky barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head. The red you felt in you when you tackled the enemy to the ground, of the enemy’s blood spilt on the floor, and the red that decorated the child’s head.

The child.

To say you were horrified was a mere understatement.

When you came to your senses, you were beyond mortified .

You murdered a child.

The ache you felt in your heart constantly stabbed at you like a mother’s anguish; you couldn’t imagine your future child suffering the same fate. It pained you; it did.

That night, you mourned over the lives deserving of death—and those that were not.

You recall how you picked up a discarded shovel found on the side of the road, how you carried the body of the child and walked to the garden you found tucked away behind the building, how you worked to dig up the dirt and buried the child. You had taken a look at the child, and from what you could see, he seemed like a sweet one. Your heart had been torn apart at the thought of having to bury a child soldier.

The child soldier you murdered.

You remember calling in for extraction as you sat in the garden near where you had buried the child and sobbed away. The extraction team struggled to find you—and assumed you died whilst calling for them, but one had stumbled upon you, hunched over with your arms hugging your knees, wailing.

You couldn’t stomach food for the next few weeks, only consuming water and sweetened drinks for nutrition—or the lack thereof. Everyone back at the base had said you were cold and distant and would actively refrain from joining fun base activities.

You had even turned down the invitation to go to a bar with others, which, if you had been yourself, you would’ve accepted the invitation in a heartbeat. 

It was a surprise you lasted for weeks without food and still had the energy to be deployed for more missions. And even more surprising when you returned from every task, and all of it had been successful despite the odds you were given.

The news of your spectacular performance reached the ears of many; the higher-ups had gotten a few words of your feat and decided to promote you gradually as you kept on attending missions and completing demanding tasks.

It was how you ended up in Task Force-141.

This force was a strange bunch; you had never seen a team with this many varying personalities collide at many times of the day yet work so well with each other.

When you were told Captain Price wanted to recruit you into his task force, you politely declined the offer at first—not willing to deal with the heavy-hitting tasks they were usually assigned. The news of your rejection had broken out within the base—rumours had flown from ear to ear. It had felt like being back in 9th grade again when most students would engage in gossip in the school’s hallway.

Many had approached you during your free time in pursuit of hurling question after question at you; some of the questions threatened your right to privacy. 

“How’d Captain Price approach you?” 

You had no clue yourself. He asked for your presence in his office one day and offered you the chance.

“Why’d you decline it?”

  Because you wanted less of the mental torment and even less of the bloodshed you would have to endure.

“I would’ve taken the chance in a heartbeat if I was you.”

That question felt like a jab at your choice, more than just a simple question.

“Did you think you weren’t good enough?”

You remembered the red mark you left on his face after he had said that to you, feeling the stinging pain in your palm as he rubbed his cheek and cursed at you before lunging forward. But there were eyes, and the eyes moved—he was dragged away soon after before he was able to land a hit on you. 

You hadn’t missed the dirty glances some people stole at you when they thought you weren’t looking.

The second time you had been summoned to Captain Price’s office, his offer to recruit you into his task force was one of desperation. They had been struggling with an ongoing operation, and he explained how your help would greatly benefit the two parties involved: you and the task force.

He even went as far as to drag you to the briefing with his squad the following day; irritation gnawed at your mood as the day would’ve been an off-day for you if it wasn’t for the briefing. 

You had been a few minutes late, but as you placed your hand on the large door, you exhaled and pushed it open.

Eyes immediately fell on you.

Unfamiliar faces stared you down.

You felt like you had barged into the wrong briefing for a second as silence dangled in the air, your eyes searched for Captain Price’s, and it wasn’t long before you found his gaze. Relief washed over you, thanking the heaven above that you were saved from potential embarrassment and greeted Captain Price before taking an unoccupied seat for yourself.

“Hey, that seat’s reserved.” you heard a monotonous tone from your right, and you turned to him. You held his gaze in yours as you bore into him with your staring. He broke away soon after—you noticed his adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open. 

You adjusted your sight, eyes trailing toward the person that had just entered. 

He was tall, standing at 6’4 in height from what you saw, well-built, and kept to himself as he chose to lean against the wall to his left instead of picking a seat. The whole time you had your eyes on him—his never left yours. And when you caught his gaze in yours, it felt like those sunken, dark eyes of his spoke to you. 

For once in your time, you communicated with someone without spilling a word. 

“Ghost, you’re late.” Price’s voice had severed the tension between you two.

Ghost, huh.

As your eyes found him again, you could understand the meaning behind the callsign.

Those eyes of his never left your mind for quite a while.

It was hard to avoid; you weren’t able to if you had wanted. You had accepted Price’s recruitment offer when he extended it to you once more after the briefing, you agreed with what they had planned, and you promised to carry it out.

Sweets were the callsign they had given to you within the first week of you all working together. You had a keen liking for sweets—and the task force members would occasionally catch you with your hand in a sweets jar more often than not.

You all had a conversation over what your callsign would be, and everyone racked their exhausted brain for ideas until a husky, deep voice put down a suggestion—

—”Sweets.”

Everyone in the room turned to Ghost, his word taking a while to register in everyone’s mind.

“Why?” Gaz was the first to bring up the question everyone wanted to ask—he looked at Ghost and tilted his head. 

“She likes sweets,” Ghost muttered, his eyes lingering on your face before he continued, “Caught her sneaking around the kitchen at midnight looking for sweets more than once this week.” 

Heat flooded your face, and you were sure you resembled the colour of a tomato at how embarrassed you felt being exposed to your comrades. 

“You do, too!” In a poor attempt at biting back, you also called Ghost out on his bullcrap. “You were in the kitchen yesterday night with your head in the sweets cabinet,” you narrowed your eyes at him as he stared at you, almost dumbfounded.

“Because you have been dwindling our sweets supply—” before he could resume, you cut him off. “ You had your hand shoved deep in the choco pie boxes,” you scoffed. “Don’t play dumb, lieutenant.” 

Ghost shrugged at your words, “Gotta finish the sweets before you do—” At that, you stood up from your seat, hand slammed onto the table as you shoved the accusation back at him. “You finished a whole jar of the Cadbury picnic bars. I was saving those for myself, asshole.” 

“Should’ve finished it yourself before I had my hands on them, love.”

“I’ll fucking finish you first—”

“Enough,” Soap had gotten up from his seat at the table, his choice of liquor in his hand as he shook his head at the two of you. “Aye, I’m done with listening to them flirt with each other. Gaz, let’s head out yea?” his words slurred, you were sure whilst you and ghost argued back and forth—he had been taking way too many sips from his bottle. Gaz held his hands up in defeat, then followed Soap out of the kitchen.

Price sat at the end of the table, his head in his hand as he observed the situation in front of him. And when both your gazes fell on him, he felt an immense pressure to get away from the table and escape the kitchen. 

From then on, you started labelling your jars with your callsign—yet as time had proven you right again and again, you could never catch Ghost in the act of stealing from your sweets jar. 

And the time you did—

It rained cats and dogs that night, thunderstruck loud and hard. You always had a difficult time being embraced by sleep, and when it did come, you usually would wake up sweating from a rough nightmare.

Tonight was no exception, and before you knew it, you found yourself walking down the stairs and toward the kitchen. You could use some nice Cadbury chocolate in your mouth right about now. 

But as you steadily approached the kitchen, you noticed the lights were on—and you immediately cling to the wall beside you as you glide along the textured surface. Your head peeked around the corner, eyes searching for any signs of a potential break-in. As you neared the kitchen, however, you spotted a large man sitting at the kitchen bar. He had his back turned to you, and you noticed his exposed hair.

He had no mask on.

You tilt your head at the strange view and clear your throat, alerting him of your presence. He lightly jolted at the noise and shot his hand out to collect his balaclava before pulling it over his head. 

Weird.

Usually, he would’ve been able to sense you even if you had been miles away from where he sat. But tonight, something seemed off. You shrugged and walked into the kitchen, immediately reaching for the sweets cabinet and pulling out one of your favourites: Maltesers. You hummed in glee and grabbed a few more into your hands. 

You turned around and could feel the stress emitting off him like strong tides.

For some reason, the sight of Ghost being sad shot a pang through your chest—as if it had been personal to you.

“Can I sit next to you?” your voice quiet, not wanting to startle the burly man that seemed deep in his thoughts, his head hung low.

You took his silence as a response and sat beside him at the kitchen bar. You tore open the packaging of your sweets and nibbled on it, savouring the taste. You glanced quickly at the man beside you and jumped when you saw that he had been staring at you, having a go at it with the sweets. You didn’t fail to notice the way his eyes flickered from your face to the chocolate in your hand and back to your face.

Amusement flashed across your eyes, and you reached your hand out, offering him the sweets.

It took him a while to react, but after a few more alternating glances, he took the bar from your hand and stared at you. 

“What?” you cocked your eyebrow at his odd reaction.

“Look away, sweetheart.” 

You rolled your eyes, “I’m not gonna bite if you take your mask off in front of me,” you decided to push his buttons further—to fish a reaction out of the man. “Why,” you leaned in, your face now halfway from where you sat. “You’re ugly?”

He chuckled.

Love has a way of finding you.

Wherever you are—whenever you were.

You just hadn’t expected it to manifest in the form of a tough, bulky man who had his heart closed to the world. 

You knew Ghost was a man that preferred to be left alone, but on the occasions, his walls would be down, letting you get a glimpse of who he was. 

And that night, as you both shared bars of chocolate over the kitchen bar, you knew he was worth getting to know about. 

It would happen again and again.

Nights where you both would find yourselves in each other’s company, enjoying the comfortable silence that lingered around. Nights where you both talked about your favourite sweets, music, show—favourite person. 

He had said he didn’t exactly have one, but you had a suspicion you knew who he treasured the most—because it wasn’t a person, it was the entire task force.

You recalled the memories you had with your best friend— ex , best friend. You weren’t sure if she had remembered you still after years of no calls, texts, or wind of each other. But you cherished the sweet moments during the times you needed them. 

Ghost wouldn’t admit it, but when he was with you, he wasn’t Ghost—no, he was Simon whenever you would share trinkets of your memories with each other. His usual uptight demeanour progressively softened over the many nights at the kitchen bar; his eyes would drink in your face as you told your stories. Making mental notes of the way your smile would tug at your lips, the way your eyes would water at the emotional talks, how you seemed to know ways to comfort him with just your presence. 

And whenever each of you felt down, you would seek each other’s company.

You sneezed; the sudden cold air blow sent chills to your core. Ghost’s head snapped toward you, his gaze visibly concerned, and he watched as you cowered underneath the thick blanket you both were sharing. 

You two had been in his room, watching the reruns of Modern Family, when you suddenly felt under the weather. You hadn’t had time to take care of yourself recently—between the assignments you were deployed for and the countless paperwork you had to finish by a tight deadline, you barely had 5 hours of sleep every night for the past weeks.

Ghost had seen it coming from miles away: the darkening eyebags around your eyes, your usual casual nature now dissipated, leaving only a shell of you that operated on a routine.

He let out a long exhale, his arms reaching out to tuck you into the blanket even more. 

But as you peered at him with those fluttering lashes, he groaned and moved to sit behind you. He adjusted his position and laid you down on top of him, your head flushed against his chest—and you refrained from fidgeting as you felt his toned yet soft muscles underneath you.

Your head was screaming.

Yet as he cradled your smaller frame into his larger one, you felt safe—like you belonged. 

You sighed, letting yourself completely relax against him. He placed a hand on your head, rubbing comfort into your temple in the motion of circles. 

Yeah, you could get used to this.

The noises coming from the TV soon gradually muffled as your eyes threatened to close every passing second. The deadly combination of Ghost rubbing all the right spots on your head and his warm, large arms around your figure coarse you into a deep, peaceful slumber.

And ever since then, you’d find yourself in similar positions with Ghost—in his room, him with his arms around you and giving you the comfort you so desperately needed. 

So, here you were.

You and Ghost were wrapped around the two of you underneath the thick blanket. Reruns of the show you were watching had been long forgotten; instead, the two of you looked into each other’s gaze. 

Your hand rubbed small, comforting circles into his cheek—he practically melted under you. It had been about half a year since you joined Task Force-141; after the first mission, you had ultimately decided to stick with the team—strangely enough, they all accepted you as though you were family. 

Sure, missions hadn’t gotten easy over time, but the bonds you managed to kindle made up for all of it. The countless nights all of you would spend losing your minds at a local bar—the constant lighthearted bantering that never seemed to cease. You lost count of how many times you had to drag Soap out of a bar before he went and flirted with anything that moved, the numerous times when you had to pull Gaz out of a dangerous situation during high-risk missions—not to mention whenever Price would go off and try to get himself killed just to save one of you. When you had him seated at the debriefing, you made sure to give him an earful anytime he attempted something idiotic for the lives of others, even if it had been for his team.

But, you would never take one thing for granted—

—Ghost stirred in his position, changing the angle of his body so he could get the optimised comfort. You watched as he nudged your hand with his face; amid your daydreaming, you had stopped caressing his cheek.

You feel the nervousness churning in your stomach, thoroughly giving your following words more thought.

You knew that you had grown feelings for the man for quite a while now—from the joking banter down to the bold flirting you both shared, it was as though every time you were with each other, you had your own bubble.

One that you would be too afraid to pop.

“Ghost–”

“Simon.”

Huh?

Did you hear that right?

Staring into the eyes of the man whose heart had been closed off to everyone—you were in shock. The sight of him finally opening up to you had been unfathomable since you first thought about it—he was a tough man to crack and an even tougher man to understand. 

“My name’s Simon, love.”

His voice was soft as silk, with the undeniable hint of tenderness he reserved only for you as he continued to gaze into your eyes with such a yearning that you couldn’t believe it had been for you. 

Your other hand shakily reached up to cup his face into both hands, feeling the smooth texture of the balaclava he still wore under your fingertips. Your eyes scanned his feature for any deceit—there were none.

He was as genuine as is. 

And you couldn’t help the tear that slipped your eye; you had waited for this moment for quite a while now— 

“Simon,” you took a fleeting breath, “I like you.”

Simon sighed, and for a moment, your calm facade was slowly falling apart—did he change his mind? Had he been lying all this time? But your doubts were short-lived as Simon reached his hand up and lifted his skull-printed balaclava off.

It was him.

The man you adored so much in blood and flesh,

You felt his rough skin with your fingers as you explored every nook and cranny of his face with all that you could. Your finger brushed his lips; they were surprisingly soft and very kissable.

As though he could read your mind, he closed the little distance you both had, and the next thing you know: he had his lips on yours.

Love was always complicated: one-sided, reciprocated, or none at all.

But as you shared an intimate, passionate kiss with Simon.

You knew you had found the one to share your never-ending love with.

And you wouldn’t trade him for the world.