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They hadn’t met like this was supposed to happen. Not through work. Not through necessity. It just happend. It was a small coffee shop tucked between a bookshop and a charity store, the kind of place that smelled like burnt espresso and vanilla syrup no matter the hour. He’d wandered in one morning while he was on leave, quiet and broad-shouldered, ordering black coffee like it was a habit he didn’t want questioned.
Then he kept coming back. And again. And again.
Always the same order and the same seat near the window. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he just watched the street like it might do something stupid. He never really said much, but he listened, really listened, and over time, that counted for more than chatter. Especially when his favourite barista liked to talk for two. Nothing deep, but still about everything at once. Lately he stayed longer than necessary, coffee gone cold in his hands, listening like it still mattered.
He pretended not to notice how his gaze always tracked her instead of the door, how the noise of the shop softened when she was nearby. He told himself it was just the routine, the familiar voice, the way she filled the quiet without demanding anything from him, but he always ordered one more coffee than he needed.
He began giving things away slowly, small truths folded in a wry remark, a shared look, like they might go unnoticed. Eventually, even his name, just his first, like it was a calculated risk. Later, a quiet admission that he was a soldier. She never pressed, and somehow that made him give a little more anyway.
When he deployed again, the chair felt empty no matter who else was sitting in it. She missed the way he listened more than he spoke, the way his silence never felt awkward, just… safe. There had always been something about him, something steady and unreadable, about the way most of his face stayed hidden beneath that balaclava, like a mystery she never felt the need to solve to feel drawn in.
She’d noticed, once when she turned too quickly as he was leaving, how close they’d been, close enough to see the warmth in his brown eyes, the light sweep of lashes that almost disappeared into his skin. Close enough to catch her breath. And he’d registered it too, of course, every detail about her, but somewhere deep down, he hadn’t moved away. He could have. He hadn’t.
When he came back, he noticed immediately that something was wrong.
She smiled the same. Worked the register the same. But her eyes checked the door too often, her shoulders tensing whenever it opened too fast. He clocked it before he reached the counter.
““Alright?” he asked, voice low and rough. “You good?”, eyes already searching her face.
“Yeah,” she said too quickly.
He didn’t push...usually. Didn’t pry. Didn’t ask questions he didn’t need the answers to. But later that night, after the shop had closed and the last few customers drifted away, something about her posture, the way her hands lingered on the counter longer than necessary, made him lean in.
Not aggressively. Not in a way that would startle her. Just close enough that she felt the weight of him noticing.
“Somethin’ off” he said, voice low.
She froze for a heartbeat, then shook her head, trying to smile. “I’m fine. Really.”
He raised an eyebrow beneath the mask. “Sure?”
There was no edge in his tone, just… insistence.
A quiet, steady pressure that made it clear he wasn’t letting it slide.
And then, finally, she sighed, the sound almost lost in the hum of the lights, and told him. Quietly. Carefully. Like speaking too loud might make it happen all over again. Someone had come into the shop while he was gone. Not a robbery exactly, no smashed counters or overturned chairs but a message. Money demanded. Threats made. The place hadn’t been trashed, but that didn’t matter. The safety of it had been cracked clean through.
He listened, silent, arms crossed, mask hiding the way his jaw tightened. He didn’t speak until she was finished, only then letting a small, deliberate sound escape, almost a grunt.
“…Didn’t tell me,” he said at last.
She shrugged. “You were deployed. What were you gonna do?”
That was when he looked up.
Not angry. Not soft either. Just decided.
“Aye,” he said, voice low. “I’ll teach you to defend yourself.”
She blinked. “You? Teach me?”
He shrugged, minimal, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get caught flat-footed. Not your fault they tried it, but… best you’re ready if it happens again.”
She hesitated, caught somewhere between gratitude and uncertainty. “I’m not… military. I don’t—”
“Good,” he interrupted, flat but not harsh. “Means no bad habits. Can’t unlearn what you never knew, right?”
She gave a small laugh, half-nervous, half-exasperated. “You really think I need lessons?”
“Wouldn’t be offerin’ if you didn’t,” he said. “Look, this isn’t about showin’ off. Or playin’ tough. Just… keepin’ you safe.” His eyes flicked to hers for a fraction of a second, sharp and unreadable beneath the mask. “And if you can land a punch without thinkin’, makes things a lot simpler when the world goes sideways.”
She swallowed, realizing he wasn’t joking. Not really. There was that pull again, calm, precise, impossible to ignore. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was deciding for her. And, somehow, that made her feel… safer.
“Alright then,” she said quietly, voice tight with nervous energy. “Teach me.”
“Good” he added, softer now. “Not sayin’ you’re helpless. Just sayin’ no one should feel like they’ve got no options.”
That part was personal.
So were the lessons.
No uniforms. No base. Just a quiet gym a friend owed him favors at, mats laid out and gloves pulled tight. Ghost kept it practical, stance, balance, how to keep your feet under you when adrenaline hit. He explained things in blunt terms, peppered with dry commentary and the occasional, “Oi, don’t argue with physics.”
He never hovered. Never talked down.
But he watched closely.
“Hit harder,” he told her one evening, lifting padded hands in front of him. “You’re pullin’ it.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
A faint scoff. “You won’t.”
She hesitated anyway.
Ghost tilted his head, voice dropping just enough to matter. “They didn’t hesitate,” he said. “So you don’t either.”
Something in her snapped into place then. Not fear, resolve.
She raised her gloves.
And as he braced himself to take the hits, Ghost made a quiet promise to himself, one he’d never say out loud. No one was ever going to make her feel unsafe again. Not while he was standing with her.
The mats smelled faintly of rubber and disinfectant, the kind of clean that never fully erased effort. Sweat. Frustration. Impact. Ghost rolled his shoulders once, feeling the familiar pull settle into place, then raised his hands. The pads strapped tight over his knuckles, black, scuffed, broken in. Practical. Reliable.
He looked solid behind them. Unmovable. Like something you could hit as hard as you wanted and it would still be there when you were done.
“Alright,” he said, voice low behind the skull mask. “Don’t overthink it. Just swing.”
She blew out a breath and tugged her gloves tighter, leather creaking as she flexed her fingers. “Easy for you to say. You’re basically a brick wall.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Careful. Say nice things like that, I’ll start chargin’.”
She stepped forward anyway, cautious at first, testing the distance. A jab, controlled, restrained. He met it without effort, pad absorbing the hit with a dull thud. Another jab. A cross. He shifted, redirected, always exactly where he needed to be.
Never crowding her. Never retreating too far.
“Harder,” Ghost said.
She frowned. “I am.”
He shook his head once. “Nah. You’re bein’ polite.”
That did it. Her next punch landed with real intent, weight finally behind it. The crack echoed sharper through the room. Ghost grunted, approving, and braced.
“There you go,” he muttered. “Again.”
She went again. And again. The rhythm built, hit, absorb, reset. Her breathing deepened. Heat spread along her spine. With every strike, something tight in her chest loosened, bled out through her gloves and into the pads he held steady.
Ghost watched closely. Not her stance. Not her footwork.
Her.
The way her jaw locked. The way her eyes sharpened, brighter now, focused. Like she was finally letting herself take up space.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Don’t hold back on my account.”
She didn’t answer. She just punched.
After a while, He peeled off the left pad, letting it hang loose at his side. The other pad also lowered, but still on. He didn’t step back. Instead, he leaned in just enough that she could feel the shift, could see the faint crease between his brows through the mask.
She slowed, confused. “What...?”
He lifted his left hand and tapped two fingers against his cheek through the mask, tilting his head slightly. The gesture was deliberate. Clear. Meant to be.
“Here,” he said. “Go on.”
Her heart stuttered. Adrenaline still buzzed under her skin, muddling the edges of her thoughts, softening them into something warm and off-balance. She looked at him, really looked, and at the spot he indicated. And her brain betrayed her. Instead of drawing back her fist, she leaned in and pressed a quick, instinctive kiss to his cheek.
Right where he’d pointed. It lasted barely a second. The room went dead silent.
Ghost froze.
Not figuratively.
Completely.
If someone had clocked him across the jaw, he’d have reacted faster.
She pulled back immediately, eyes wide as reality slammed into place. “I... I thought you meant...”
Ghost’s breath hitched. His hand hovered uselessly in the air. Under the mask, heat flared sharp and sudden, ears burning like he’d been caught out in a way no one ever managed. “…Bloody hell,” he muttered. He stared at her like she’d just disarmed him without throwing a single punch. And for the first time in a long while, Simon Riley had absolutely no idea what to do next.
The silence didn’t rush in.
It settled. Heavy. Pressurized. The kind that buzzed under the skin, like the half-second before something went very wrong.
Ghost cleared his throat once.
Then again.
Neither helped.
His shoulders squared automatically, muscle memory dragging him back toward control, but his pulse was still thudding hard enough he was certain she could hear it. He kept his hands down at his sides, hanging uselessly, like he didn’t trust them not to give him away.
“…That,” he said slowly, carefully, “wasn’t what I meant.”
Her face burned. “I know. I...I’m sorry, I thought you were...” She gestured vaguely between his hand and his cheek, flustered. “You pointed and I just... my brain did something stupid.”
“Mm,” he muttered. “Seems it did.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
She glanced up at him, caught the tone. “Wait...”
Ghost exhaled sharply through his nose and finally lifted a hand, rubbing at his cheek like the sensation might still be there. Like it had weight. He didn’t look at her when he spoke.
“Was tryin’ to get you to hit me,” he said. “Proper. Thought you might need it.”
Her throat bobbed. “In the face?”
“Aye.” A shrug. “Wouldn’t’ve been an issue.”
“That’s… not reassuring.”
A beat passed.
“…Just meant for you to let go,” he added dryly.
She let out a weak laugh, breathless, tension cracking just enough to let air back in. She folded her arms, rocking back on her heels, still not quite sure where to put herself.
“I didn’t mean to...” she said. “You don’t exactly give clear signals. And with the mask...”
Ghost looked at her then.
Really looked.
The flushed cheeks. The way her gloves brushed together, restless. The fact she wasn’t bolting, wasn’t freezing, just caught in the aftermath like he was.
“Didn’t expect you to go for a kiss,” he admitted. “Caught me off guard.”
“Well,” she said, attempting composure and failing slightly, “you caught me off guard first.”
She hesitated. “Not, in a bad way. Just...”
“Oi.” His voice cut in, low but steady.
She stopped.
He stepped closer, only a fraction, enough that she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. His posture stayed relaxed, non-threatening, but there was intent there now.
“You didn’t do anythin’ wrong,” he said.
Her brows drew together. “I didn’t?”
“No.” A pause. Then, quieter, more honest than he probably meant to be. “Just… unexpected.”
The air shifted.
Not awkward anymore. Charged. Like something had been acknowledged without being named.
Ghost reached to the pad on his right hand and adjusted the strap, a nervous habit he hadn’t indulged in years. “For what it’s worth,” he added, voice roughening, “if you’d actually hit me… wouldn’t’ve fazed me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And that...?”
His jaw tightened. Just slightly.
“That...” he said, “was a clean hit.”
Her breath caught.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The mat beneath their boots. The hum of the lights overhead. The space between them narrowed until it felt intentional.
Ghost broke first.
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, reclaiming the instructor’s stance like armour snapping back into place. “Right,” he said gruffly. “Gloves up. You still owe me a punch.”
A small, dangerous smile tugged at her mouth. “In the face?”
He tapped his cheek once more, but this time, deliberately curling his fingers into a fist afterward.
“Aye,” he said. “This time, don’t kiss it.”
As she raised her gloves, he turned just slightly away, the faintest hint of a smirk hidden beneath the mask—
Because no matter how many hits he took after that,
He wasn’t ever forgetting the one that landed without force at all.
Training ended the way it usually did, on a technical note.
Breathing exercises. A reminder to stretch. A gruff, “Good work,” that meant more coming from him than praise ever should. Ghost packed the pads away methodically, like routine could sand down what had happened earlier.
It didn’t.
She was still flustered. He could see it in the way she avoided his eyes, in how she focused a little too hard on unwrapping her gloves, fingers fumbling where they normally didn’t. The kiss replayed in her head whether she wanted it to or not, heat blooming fresh every time she remembered how solid he’d gone. How close.
Ghost noticed everything.
He didn’t comment on it. Not directly.
He grabbed a bottle of water and tossed it to her without warning. She caught it on instinct.
“Drink,” he said. “You’ll regret it later if you don’t.”
“Bossy,” she muttered, but she did.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching her over the rim of his balaclava. His eyes didn’t dare linger for too long. A minute passed. Then another. She was just about to excuse herself, say she should get home, thank him again, disappear into the safety of distance, when he spoke.
“You in a rush?”
She paused. “Not really.”
“Good.”
That was it. No explanation.
He pushed off the wall and reached for his jacket, movements slow, casual. Like he wasn’t rehearsing this in his head the way he’d rehearsed missions. Like his pulse wasn’t doing something stupid again.
“There’s a place ‘round the corner,” he said, not quite lookin’ at her. “Decent food. Nothin’ fancy.”
She blinked. “Oh.”
He finally glanced at her then, eyes steady, unreadable. “Thought we could get somethin’ to eat. If you want.”
Not do you want to go out with me. Just an opening. An option. An out, if she needed one.
“And if not,” he added, already giving her an escape route, “that’s fine. No pressure.”
She studied him for a second, the way he stood like he always did, grounded, contained, but with something unmistakably different beneath it now. Vulnerable, in his own guarded way.
“…Is this,” she asked carefully, “you asking me out?”
Ghost huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “If you need it spelled out, I’m doin’ a shite job.”
That made her smile despite herself.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”
He nodded once, sharp and decisive, like the answer locked something into place. “Right,” he said. “Good.”
He slung his jacket over his shoulder and turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back at her.
“And for the record,” he added, voice low, almost dry, “that’s not exactly standard training procedure.”
Her face heated all over again. “I’m really sorry about that.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Then he opened the door and held it for her, his voice softening just enough to matter.
“C’mon,” he said.
And as they stepped out together, the night air cool against flushed skin, one thing was painfully clear.
That kiss might’ve been an accident.
What came next very much wasn’t.