yunyuu

[yunyuu]

.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀leon s. kennedy x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀yandere leon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀leon⠀being obsessed with you⠀ ⋮

It starts slowly. Like a bruise.

A bloom beneath the skin, rich and purple, touched first by something so soft it couldn't have been malice. Couldn’t have meant harm. You don't feel it at first—not really. Just a press of eyes on your back when you're not looking, the quiet ache of someone remembering you far too deeply. Like bone remembering breaks. Like scars whispering in the dark.

Leon notices before you do.

It starts with your voice—how it curls at the end of sentences, how it coats the inside of his ears like honey left too long in the sun. Your laugh plays on loop in his memory, a scratched record, skipping and repeating, skipping and repeating until it drills something into the meat of his thoughts. Something soft, and pink, and wrong.

It itches.

He scratches.

Blood under his nails becomes normal, eventually. Skin under them, too.

It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.

He loves you in the way the sea loves a corpse. Gently. Reclaiming.

Again and again, like it’s your right to float. Like it’s his right to pull you under.

He used to be normal once. A good man. A hero, even. A dog sent on missions to fetch the impossible and come back wagging his bloodied tail.

But then came you.

You, with your dumb jokes and bad coffee.

You, who pressed gauze to his wounds and said, “You look like shit,” like you cared.

You, who touched him like he wasn’t already rotting inside.

And something inside him moved.

Something shifted.

There’s a horror in love when you’ve lived through what he has. When your nights are stitched together with screams and the smell of iron and burning teeth. When every person you’ve ever let in has been torn from you like flesh from bone.

So this time—this one time—he digs his fingers in. Hard.

He won’t let go. He can’t.

It’s not the kind of obsession that sings.

It gurgles. It twitches. It weeps.

It leaks through the cracks in him like a black oil slick, slow and steady, coating everything it touches. He begins to think in you. He dreams in you. Even when he looks in the mirror, it’s your eyes he sees staring back—soft and wide and terrified.

He changes in ways you don’t notice.

He starts standing closer. Listening harder. His pupils don’t dilate right anymore; they stretch, ripple, like something inhuman underneath is blinking.

You brush your fingers against his arm once, and he swears he hears a chorus of wings inside his skull. White feathers. Wet feathers. Broken feathers.

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper and dreams of you tasting it too.

It gets worse.

(For him. For you. For both.)

You start dating someone.

It’s nothing serious—some guy, some smile. You’re allowed to live.

But Leon… Leon rots.

Jealousy is not a fire in him. It’s a sickness. A fungus. A bloom of spores in the hollows of his ribs, clogging his lungs with thoughts of him touching you. Of you laughing for someone else. Of him stealing what should've never been his to begin with.

Leon dreams of peeling the man's skin back like wrapping paper, slow and deliberate, just to see if you’ll still kiss what's underneath.

He doesn’t act on it.

He’s still a good man.

(He thinks.)

You cry in front of him once. Small tears. About nothing. Life.

And he breaks.

He reaches out and cups your face like you’re made of glass—and maybe you are. Maybe that’s why he loves you. You’re so fragile. So human. So mortal.

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, shaking. “I could make you happy,” he says, voice torn from something too deep to be a throat. “I wouldn’t let anything hurt you. Not again. Not ever.”

You pull back. Smile. You think he’s being sweet.

He isn't.

He’s desperate.

You leave. The door closes. The air is empty again.

He screams, but only on the inside.

It festers.

Like meat left out in the sun. Like a heartbeat with no body.

He starts collecting things.

Your used coffee cup. Your grocery receipts.

A strand of your hair he finds on his jacket.

He wraps it around his finger like a ring.

Sometimes he holds it to his nose and breathes so deep his ribs creak.

Sometimes he puts it in his mouth.

Just to know what it’s like to be one with you.

If you’re inside him, maybe he won’t be so alone anymore.

One night, you call him crying. Your boyfriend left.

Leon doesn't smile.

He doesn't move.

He just watches the ceiling and whispers, “Finally,” like a prayer.

He visits you the next day. Brings you soup. Holds you while you sob. Tells you that you’re okay. That you’re better than okay. That you're everything.

That it kills him to see you hurt.

And in that moment, you believe him.

Because the monster doesn't wear fangs around you.

He doesn't have claws.

He has tired eyes, and gentle hands, and a voice like a lullaby.

He’s Leon.

Your friend.

You hug him tight.

You whisper thank you.

And he holds you like the grave.

Like something sacred.

Like he’ll never, ever let you go.

And deep in his gut, where the rot blooms and the hunger grows and the love festers like a wound, he thinks—

Maybe if he keeps holding you… you’ll never leave.

Maybe if he holds you tight enough… you’ll become part of him.

Skin to skin. Muscle to muscle.

Bone to bone.

Forever.

It doesn’t happen in a burst of passion.

It doesn’t need to.

When you tell him you love him, your voice is hoarse. Raw.

You say it like you’re afraid of it, like it’s a creature with too many teeth.

But you say it.

You still say it.

And Leon—Leon doesn’t breathe for ten whole seconds.

Not because he’s surprised.

But because this is the moment the thing inside his chest finally hatches.

It unfurls like wet wings, veined and trembling, inside the hollow of his ribs. It was always there. Nesting. Waiting. And now it knows. You love him. You chose him.

He smiles. Quietly. Softly. A little too wide.

And when he pulls you into his arms, he thinks, this is it.

This is the moment he stops being a man and becomes a body built to hold you.

Living with him is easy.

Too easy.

You barely remember how it happened. It was slow. Like ivy climbing the sides of a house. One overnight bag turned into drawers, drawers into closets, closets into keys. His apartment began to smell like your shampoo. His bed started to hold the shape of your body.

You cook sometimes. He mostly just watches.

You sleep in. He never does.

You cry in the shower once—he hears, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just presses his forehead to the door, and whispers, “I’m here,” over and over, until you stop.

He starts keeping odd hours. Coming home later, with blood on his knuckles and not much to say. You assume it’s work. You don’t ask. Not really.

He doesn’t need you to.

Because you're his now. And the truth doesn't matter when the lie is beautiful.

There are rules in this home.

Unspoken, but enforced by the weight of his gaze:

Don’t leave without telling him.

Always answer your phone.

Don’t worry about the basement. It’s locked for a reason.

You listen. Of course you do. You love him.

And he? He worships you.

He memorizes your body in ways no one else ever could. The way your lashes clump when you cry. The vein behind your knee. The birthmark on your hip. He kisses them like a sinner at the altar. He whispers prayers into your skin, low and fervent and broken.

You think it’s love.

(And it is. Just not the kind that leaves people whole.)

Sometimes, he holds you at night and you can feel it.

The tension beneath the surface. The thing straining in his bones.

Like his body isn’t enough to contain his devotion.

Like his flesh wants to crawl into yours.

His nails dig too deep.

His breath comes too fast.

He says your name like it’s the only thing that’s real in the world.

Like he’s drowning in it.

“Leon,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “I’m right here. It’s okay.”

And he nods.

He nods, but he doesn’t blink.

Because he can still hear it—the heartbeat in your throat. The sound of your blood. The way your warmth bleeds into his chest like you're trying to become part of him, too.

He dreams of it.

Of melting into you like wax.

Of crawling under your skin, curling up beside your heart, and never leaving again.

He buys you flowers one day.

Not roses. No—he knows you hate clichés.

He buys lilies.

White.

Silken.

Lovely.

You laugh and say they’re beautiful.

You don’t know why he smiles so deeply at that.

You don’t know that he imagines them clutched in your hands on a wedding day

—sacred, his.

There are days he watches you sleep.

Not because you look peaceful (though you do).

Not because he’s worried (though he always is).

But because he needs to memorize you. Every line. Every breath.

In case something happens.

In case the world tries to take you away from him.

In case he has to build you again from memory, from scratch, from bone.

You never question how safe you feel in his arms.

Even when he shakes.

Even when he mumbles things in his sleep that don’t make sense.

Even when you catch him staring at your reflection in the mirror and not at you.

You don’t ask.

You love him.

And love means trust, doesn’t it?

Even when the thing loving you is not entirely man anymore.

Even when it claws at the inside of his skin, begging to break out and drag you inside with it.

One night, as you lay curled against him, you whisper:

“Do you think this is forever?”

And Leon—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile.

He just leans in, presses his lips to your temple, and breathes in like your scent is the last thing tethering him to this plane.

He whispers:

“It always was.”

And beneath his chest, the thing that used to be his heart—

bloated with want,

cracked with need,

pulsing with a love so heavy it warps the ribs around it—

finally stops rotting.

Because it has you.

And in Leon’s mind, that means it can rot in peace.

With your name in its mouth.

Forever.

you can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[yunyuu]

　　 　.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘'𝐒 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀leon s. kennedy x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with Leon pt2. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ leon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Your daughter is growing and Leon have a hard time let her go...

She’s thirteen now.

Thirteen going on fire.

She slams doors. Talks too fast. Leaves her shoes everywhere.

Her music is loud. Her laughter louder.

And when she cries, it’s like watching the moon crack.

You’re learning to give her space.

Leon—he doesn’t know how to let go. Not when it comes to her.

He watches her like she’s made of glass in a world full of hammers.

Follows her to the kitchen just to check the locks on the windows.

Drives her to school but circles the block three times after dropping her off—just to be sure.

You told him once:

“Leon. You can’t save her from everything.”

He looked at you and said, quietly,

“I have to try.”

She wants to go to a sleepover.

Just a simple one. Four girls. One big living room. Pizza, movies, laughter.

She begs. Pleads. Gives you the eyes. Gives him the eyes.

“Please, Dad? I’ll call every hour. I swear. I’ll send pictures. I’ll send a video of me being alive. Please?”

He stares at her a long moment.

Then turns to you.

Then back to her.

And he says: “...I’ll park outside.”

She screams. Falls to the floor. Clutches her heart like he’s killed her.

“YOU ARE ACTUALLY THE WORST FATHER EVER—”

He smiles. “Still alive, though.”

You finally talk him into letting go a little.

Not because he’s ready. But because Lily is.

She’s braver than both of you. Fiercer, too.

And it kills Leon a little—how fast she’s growing, how much of her life he can’t protect.

You catch him one night sitting on her bed after she’s gone.

He’s holding a stuffed lion she used to sleep with.

His fingers trail the frayed fabric like it’s a relic.

“She doesn’t need me like she used to,” he says.

You kneel behind him, wrap your arms around his back.

“She does. Just… in different ways.”

He leans into you. The lion falls into his lap.

“You think I’ll know what to do when she’s twenty?”

“I think you’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t want her to turn out like me.”

You kiss his shoulder. “She won’t. She’s turning out like us.”

Then comes the boy.

Sixteen years old. Soft voice. Soft hands.

Too pretty. Too polite.

Smells like overpriced body spray and nerves.

Leon’s smile when he opens the door is cold.

You are so close to dragging him to the kitchen when he says,

“Have you ever fired a weapon?”

The poor boy blinks. “Uh—no?”

Leon’s voice is deadpan. “Wanna learn?”

Lily nearly tackles him down the stairs.

“Dad, stop! I like him!”

Leon doesn’t respond. Just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flat and unreadable.

But that night, when you’re lying in bed, he turns toward you and murmurs,

“I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

He shrugs. “Exactly.”

Then she comes home crying.

It’s late. Almost midnight.

She stumbles through the front door—face blotchy, mascara smeared.

You’re on your feet in a second. Leon’s already behind you.

“What happened?” you breathe.

Lily just shakes her head, wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Leon’s voice is quiet. Too quiet.

“Did he touch you?”

Her lip trembles. “No. He just… he kissed another girl. At a party. Said it was a mistake.”

You exhale.

Leon doesn’t.

He walks past you. Grabs his keys.

“Leon,” you say. Firm. Sharp. “Stop.”

“He hurt her.”

“He’s a kid.”

“So?”

The room goes silent.

You move to him, place your hand on his chest.

“She needs you here. Not out there being the monster in her memory.”

He looks down at you, jaw tight.

Then at Lily, who’s curled on the couch, crying into a pillow.

Small. Shaking. Still his whole world.

Leon drops the keys.

Sits beside her.

Pulls her into his arms.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

He teaches her how to shoot a gun when she turns seventeen.

He doesn’t want to. He swore he never would.

But she asks. Really asks.

Not out of rebellion. Not for fun.

Because she wants to feel safe the way he always made her feel.

Leon takes her to a private range.

Shows her how to hold it. Breathe. Fire.

Her hands shake. He’s steady as stone beside her.

“You’re strong,” he tells her, watching her hit the target dead center.

“You made me strong,” she says.

He doesn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, when she’s asleep upstairs,

you find him sitting in the dark, eyes red, hands still smelling of gunpowder.

“She’s gonna leave one day,” he whispers. “And I won’t be there to protect her.”

You kneel in front of him. Take his face in your hands.

“She’s gonna be okay. Because you raised her to be.”

She’s gone.

Not in the way he once feared—not stolen, not taken, not lost in blood and smoke and fire.

No.

Just gone the way all daughters go.

Gone the way time demands.

Moved into a new apartment. Far from home. Far from him.

Not too far. She visits every week. Calls every other day.

But Leon wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night,

thinking he hears her door creak open,

thinking he hears that sweet little voice saying:

“Dad? Can I sleep with you?”

It’s not her voice anymore.

She’s grown. A woman now.

And God, she’s beautiful.

She’s got your smile. His eyes.

Her own fire.

She’s working at an NGO now—organizing recovery for trauma victims.

Says she wants to help people the way he helped her.

It makes him proud.

It makes him ache.

“You’re everything I couldn’t be,” he tells her once.

And she just frowns.

“Don’t say that. I am who I am because of you.”

You notice it first.

The way Leon breathes heavier when he kneels.

The way his hands tremble a little when he buttons his shirt.

The growing silence in him. A deeper one than before.

You ask if he’s okay.

He lies like he always has.

He doesn’t want Lily to worry.

She’s busy. Living. Healing.

So you sit with him, in the dark, and you hold his hand while he says nothing.

She gets engaged.

You cry when she tells you. She glows with happiness.

Leon… doesn’t speak at first.

He nods. Smiles a little. Says, “That’s great, sweetheart.”

But that night, he sits alone in the garage. On the old workbench.

You find him there with an unopened beer and your wedding photo in his hands.

“She was just learning how to ride a bike,” he says. “I turned around and now she’s… marrying some guy.”

You kneel beside him. Take his face in your hands.

“She’s still your little girl.”

He laughs. Bitter. Soft.

“She was never mine to keep.”

He walks her down the aisle.

The music swells. Everyone stands.

Leon’s wearing a dark suit. The one that still fits.

Hair silver at the temples now. Face worn and carved from years of living too hard.

But his hands are steady when he holds her arm.

His voice steady when he whispers in her ear:

“You don’t owe me anything. But thank you… for letting me be your dad.”

She turns to him, tears in her lashes, and kisses his cheek.

“I’ll always be your girl.”

He walks her to the altar, places her hand in the groom’s.

Smiles. Steps back.

His jaw clenches so tight it aches.

He does not cry. Not here. Not yet.

But his whole world shifts.

He realizes—for the first time—

his job is done.

Years pass.

Photos fill the walls now.

Pictures of Lily at the beach. Holding a newborn. Laughing with her husband.

Smiling beside Leon. Always smiling beside him.

You’re older now too. He helps you with the stairs. Still brings you tea in the morning. Still calls you "honey" and "baby" and sometimes, just "you."

Sometimes Lily comes by with her children.

Little feet on hardwood. High-pitched voices calling:

“Grandpa! Grandpa!”

And Leon picks them up even when his back protests.

Hugs them close. Breathes them in like oxygen.

But sometimes he stares at them too long.

Goes too quiet.

You find him on the porch later, staring into the trees.

“Did I do okay?” he asks. “Was I a good dad?”

You sit beside him. Lean your head on his shoulder.

“You were the best. You are.”

He looks up at the sky.

Whispers, “I wanted to give her a world better than the one I knew.”

And you smile.

“You did. She lives in it.”

Sometimes at night, he dreams of Raccoon City.

He wakes in a sweat. Heart pounding. Hands clenched.

He sees Lily at seven years old.

In a burning street. Screaming his name.

He reaches for her. But the ground splits. The fire takes her.

You find him in the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face.

“She’s safe,” you whisper. “She’s alive. She’s okay.”

He nods.

But sometimes, he still needs to hear her voice to believe it.

So he calls her.

It’s past midnight. But she answers. Always.

“Dad?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no—it’s okay. I’m up. What’s wrong?”

“…Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

She’s quiet for a beat.

Then she says, “I love you.”

And he breathes. Finally.

“I love you too, baby.”

The house is quiet now.

It used to echo with laughter, footsteps, arguments, the sound of your daughter slamming doors and your husband muttering under his breath.

But the years passed. And life kept moving.

The kids are grown. Lily’s a mother of two now. She visits every week—always with flowers, always with warm hands and tired eyes that still look like Leon’s.

She tries not to cry when she sees him now.

You notice.

Because Leon is fading.

Not in the dramatic way he used to fear—no virus, no explosion, no chaos. Just… slow.

Quiet. Like dusk.

His hair is silver now. His body aches. His knees are wrecked from years of fieldwork.

But it’s not pain that’s stealing him.

It’s time.

The one thing he couldn’t outshoot, outrun, or outsmart.

You sit with him most days.

Out on the porch, where the wind is kind and the sun warms the wood under your bare feet.

He holds your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Thumb brushing your knuckles. Palm still calloused. Still strong.

But softer now. Tired.

“Remember when Lily broke her arm?” he asks one morning, voice a little slow, memory drifting in and out like smoke.

You smile. “She told us she was climbing the fence to prove to the neighbor kid she wasn’t afraid of tetanus.”

He chuckles. Then coughs.

You rub his back gently until it passes.

“She’s just like you,” he murmurs.

“She’s just like you,” you reply.

He looks at you then. Really looks.

Eyes cloudy with age, but still blue. Still his.

The doctors told you not to expect miracles.

They didn’t know who they were talking to.

Leon was a miracle.

He should’ve died a hundred times.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Long enough to love.

Long enough to live.

Long enough to see his daughter grow up, and his grandchildren run barefoot through the grass he planted with his own hands.

But even miracles have an end.

He asks you one night if you’re afraid.

Lying in bed beside him, his body warm but weaker, curled slightly toward you like always.

You blink in the soft light. “Afraid of what?”

“Of me… not being here.”

You stare at him. Then slowly, deliberately, bring his hand to your chest.

“I carry you with me,” you whisper. “In every breath. Every step. You’ll never really go.”

His eyes fill. Just a little. He doesn’t blink them away.

“I wanted to give you more,” he says. “You deserved… the whole world.”

“You gave me you, Leon,” you say. “That was all I ever wanted.”

The last days are soft.

He sleeps more. Talks less.

Sometimes, he forgets things.

But never you.

Never your name.

Never your voice.

Never your hand.

And when the time comes, it’s not with violence.

It’s with peace.

He’s lying in your arms. Breathing slow.

Sunlight through the window, warm on his skin.

Lily is beside you, holding his other hand, weeping silently but bravely.

Leon smiles. Barely. Just enough.

His voice is faint. But clear:

“You made everything worth it.”

You kiss his forehead, just under the line of his hair.

He used to hate his grays. You always loved them.

“Go rest, baby,” you whisper. “You did so good. We’re okay now.”

And when he goes—

It’s like a breath.

A sigh.

Like someone finally laying down a burden they’ve carried too long.

No pain.

No monsters.

No regrets.

Just love.

And silence.

And you.

The house is quiet. But not empty.

Photos. Laughter in the walls. His boots still by the door.

Lily plants sunflowers in the yard.

His grandson carries his name.

And you sit on the porch with a cup of tea, wind in your hair, hand resting on your chest.

You can still feel him there.

In the way the light hits the trees.

In the soft creak of the swing.

In the warmth of your daughter’s arms when she hugs you.

Leon saved the world a hundred times.

But in the end—

he saved you most of all.

And that…

That was the miracle.

you can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[yunyuu]

　　　　.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with simon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ simon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Simon didn’t think he could be a father. Not because he didn’t want to be—he did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed he’d live long enough for it. He didn’t think there’d be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world. But then you came. And then… she did.⠀𓆉

He was terrified.

When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, still—the kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.

He didn’t say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered so quietly, it could’ve been a prayer.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. He’d torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anything—cursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.

But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her… saw her pink and alive and real in your arms…

He broke.

He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his past—something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you replied.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.

Simon was awkward at first.

He held her like she might detonate—arms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.

He wouldn’t say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldn’t stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.

He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought you’d see.

She follows him everywhere.

Like a little ghost of her own.

He doesn’t let many people see her. Doesn’t post pictures. Doesn’t talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.

She’s curious. Smart. A little quiet—like him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like she’s decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.

He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when she’s bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:

“She wanted to. Didn’t wanna say no.”

He teaches her how to be strong—not cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, he’s there before she can even call for him.

And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That it’s okay to be soft, but it’s also okay to be careful.

And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.

“Look, Daddy. I’m just like you!”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, and this time, he does smile—small, but real. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Simon is a man full of ghosts.

But when he’s with her, they quiet.

You’ve seen it.

The way his shoulders relax when she’s in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, “You be good for Mum, yeah? I’ll be back.”

He hates going.

Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.

But every return—when she runs to him screaming “Daddy!” and tackles his legs with her little arms—that’s what mends it.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s always afraid he’s too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him he’s the safest place she knows.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and she’s asleep in the next room, he’ll hold you close and whisper,

“Thank you.”

She’s eight now.

She tells people her dad is a superhero.

Simon doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t know what version of him she’s seeing—what stories she’s crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. To her, he’s just… strong. Invincible. Safe.

He doesn’t deserve it. But he lives for it.

There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and she’s tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.

And he’ll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.

He listens to her breathe.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like that—why he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams she’s long since outgrown. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he’s waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.

He’ll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.

Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like there’s a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap he’s too smart to fall for.

She was never supposed to see it.

An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. She’d plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.

She didn’t say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.

“Daddy… you hurt bad people, right?”

He froze.

“…What’d you see, love?”

“Some men. You hurt them. But… you were saving someone, weren’t you?”

There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.

Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

“Yes,” he said. “I hurt bad people. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d never want you to see. But I’ve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.”

She nodded slowly. And then—God, kids are strange—she just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said softly. “You’re my hero.”

And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.

He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him too—arms around his neck like an anchor, like she’d never let go.

She gets more clever every year.

She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous places—like the freezer, or under her bed—just to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims it’s to “keep him home longer.”

He pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re a little brat,” he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.

“I'm baby!” she giggles back, kicking her legs.

They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When she’s nervous at school, she touches her wrist twice—it means “I wish you were here.” When he’s home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen table—it means “I waited.”

She tells him she wants to be like him.

A protector. A fighter.

He tells her she already is.

But inside, the thought terrifies him.

You’re the one who packs his bag now. She won’t help anymore. Not since last time.

She’d cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised he’d stay longer. That “longer” shouldn’t mean “only six days.” She was angry in that way only children can be—grief-stricken and pure.

“I hate the army,” she said, clutching the edge of his vest.

He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.

“You don’t have to understand, love. But I hope one day… you’ll forgive me for missing things.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran to her room.

He left anyway. And it broke him.

He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.

It’s still there.

And when he comes back, It’s always late.

You’ll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. She’ll fly out of bed before you can stop her—barefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.

He drops everything to catch her.

She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesn’t even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and she’s whispering “I missed you I missed you I missed you” like a spell.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

He holds her like she’s the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.

Teenage girls are loud in their silence.

Simon learned that the hard way.

She doesn’t slam doors or scream. She doesn’t yell “You don’t understand!” or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.

She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesn’t even look up from her phone.

She’s fifteen.

And sometimes, Simon thinks she’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s got nothing left but shadows and memory.

It started small.

She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.

He knew it wasn’t personal.

It was growing up.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“Give her space,” you told him gently. “She’s figuring herself out.”

He tried. He really did.

But he couldn’t help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldn’t sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.

Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.

It came up one night, out of nowhere.

She was setting the table. He’d been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:

“Do you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?”

He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.

He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “I wear it because I used to think I was already dead.”

She blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He almost regretted being honest.

“But then…” His voice caught. “Then I had you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.

And then she whispered:

“You’re not dead.”

He cleared his throat, chest aching. “No. Not anymore.”

She set down a fork.

Walked over.

And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isn’t leaving. It’s letting her live.

She’s starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesn’t know.

He doesn��t sleep well on those nights.

You can see it—the way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.

“She’s not a target,” you remind him. “She’s a kid.”

But in his world, innocence doesn’t mean safety.

And light doesn’t mean there’s no danger.

When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:

One look over her face.

A glance at her hands.

Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.

A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesn’t even notice.

But he does.

Only when he’s sure she’s safe does he let himself exhale.

The first time she really breaks—it’s quiet.

She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: “I don’t think anyone really likes me.”

Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.

But he puts it down immediately.

And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesn’t cry. He doesn’t pry. Eventually, she says, “I feel like I’m too much for people. Too weird.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:

“You’re not too much. The world’s just too loud.”

She leans into him.

He lets her.

She’s taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.

“I don’t know how to be normal.”

He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good. Normal’s overrated.”

She laughs, watery and real.

It’s the sound of his heart stitching back together.

Simon isn’t great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.

But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.

In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.

In the way he gives her his old hoodie when she’s sick and lets her keep it.

In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t say “I love you” as often as she used to.

But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles “Dad” like it’s home…

He knows.

He knows.

She’s not a child anymore.

But she’ll always be his little girl.

And he’ll always be the ghost at her back—quiet, watchful, loyal.

Not haunting her.

Protecting her.

Always.

He never taught her how to drive.

You did.

She insisted.

He didn’t mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.

So he let you take her.

Watched from the window.

She waved at him once from the driver’s seat, grinning like she owned the road.

And he waved back. Small, barely-there.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

The house is quieter now.

She’s twenty-three.

Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.

She comes home when she can, which isn’t often. You say that’s normal. That’s what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesn’t come.

He still sets her place at the table when you aren’t looking.

You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You don’t ask.

She doesn’t call him "daddy" anymore.

That’s what time does.

It sands things down.

She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if she’s feeling playful.

He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you don’t remember the moment it captured.

There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesn’t cling to him anymore. Doesn’t bury her face in his neck. Doesn’t fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.

Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.

She’s brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.

And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to be—cheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.

Then the moment fades.

And she’s grown again.

He doesn’t go on missions anymore.

Retired now. Officially.

He didn’t tell her right away. Wasn’t sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.

But when he finally said it over dinner—softly, plainly: “I’m done. Hung it up.”—she looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You were always more than that.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and realized she hadn’t seen him as a soldier in years.

She’d seen the man.

The father.

The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.

He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.

But she’d been watching him—all this time.

Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.

One night he got sick.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Just a flu.

But he hadn’t been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.

She came home that weekend without asking.

Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, “You look like shit.”

He coughed. “Nice to see you too.”

But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.

She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.

He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.

And for a second—just a flicker—he wished she were small again.

Not because he didn’t love who she’d become.

But because that time was so brief.

So unbearably sweet.

And it was gone.

It was raining.

She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was his brother’s grave. The one he used to visit alone.

“I wish I’d met him,” she said quietly.

“He would’ve loved you,” Simon replied. “You’ve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.”

She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss being young?”

He didn’t answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.

“I miss you being young,” he finally said.

And she didn’t speak again. Just held his arm tighter.

One day, it happens.

She calls him—voice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who else to call.

And Simon?

He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.

He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didn’t ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.

Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.

And he just held her.

Kept one hand on the back of her head.

The other over her heart.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,

“I didn’t want to call you. Thought I was too old.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll never be too old to be my girl.”

And one day…

One day, it’s just the two of them on the porch.

You’re inside baking. The sun’s going down. Her eyes are softer now.

She says, “Do you ever think you could’ve had a normal life?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just watches the wind move through the trees.

Then:

“This is normal. For me.”

She leans her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.

“You were always enough, you know,” she says.

He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.

And then she adds, quieter, “You saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed saving.”

He closes his eyes.

Because in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done.

Who he’s killed.

What haunts him.

Because this is what remains.

This girl. This woman. This life they made.

And that… is enough.

He never thought he’d grow old.

Never imagined it.

He used to think men like him didn’t make it past 40 — not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it — like his bones expected to be abandoned.

But now?

Now his body aches in new ways.

His knees click when he gets up too fast.

The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.

But you’re still here.

Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.

And it guts him. Every single time.

That you stayed.

That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.

Your love has changed.

It’s not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.

It’s quieter. But deeper. Warmer.

It’s how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.

It’s how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet don’t touch the cold floor in the morning.

It’s how you never ask where he’s going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though you’ve seen them a hundred times.

There’s a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.

A knowing.

A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.

You’ll brush past him in the kitchen, and he’ll place a hand on the small of your back — not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself you’re real. Here.

Still his.

Sometimes he just watches you.

He won’t say it out loud. He’s too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when you’re reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just right—

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought he’d never understand.

He’ll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whatever’s in his hands — but he’s watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.

Because he knows.

He knows time takes things.

He’s lost too many people to pretend otherwise.

So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.

You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

He shrugs. “I always do.”

He still has the mask.

It’s in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.

You told him he didn’t need it anymore, and he agreed.

But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

“I wore this to keep the world out,” he said. “But somehow, you still found your way in.”

And you leaned against him.

And he let you.

And neither of you moved for a long time.

He loves you differently now.

Not less. Not softer.

But heavier.

There’s a weight to it now. A depth.

He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay — what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets he’s safe even now.

And he sees what it cost you, too.

He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasn’t home.

Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why “daddy” missed her school recital.

Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.

He never said thank you. Not enough.

So now he shows it.

In every slow dance in the kitchen.

In every cup of tea made before you ask.

In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.

He asks you one night.

“Do you regret it?”

It’s late. The moonlight’s dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. You’re half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.

You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.

“All of it,” he says, quietly.

And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.

“I’d do it all over again,” you say.

And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.

You fall asleep like that — your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.

And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...

Simon smiles.

Because in the end, despite everything he’s done, everything he’s lost—

You stayed.

And that made all the difference.

It starts with small things.

Keys. Names.

What day it is.

Where he left his book.

At first, you joke about it. Call it “old man brain,” and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.

But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.

Asks where your daughter is — even though she just called.

He forgets the kettle is on.

Leaves the tap running.

Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.

And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.

“She used to chew on this,” he says, quiet, “didn’t she?”

You nod.

“She’s twenty-seven now, Simon.”

He blinks at the toy.

“Oh.”

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t like loud noises anymore.

Doesn’t like too many people in the house.

Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.

But he’s still him.

He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what they’re called — even if he doesn’t.

“Is that one the… the purple one?” he asks.

You smile. “Lavender.”

“Right. Right, I knew that.”

He didn’t.

But he likes when you pretend he did.

Sometimes he has bad days.

Days where he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is.

Days when he looks at you and his face folds — not in anger, but in heartbreak.

“I’m supposed to know you,” he says once, voice shaking. “Aren’t I?”

You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.

“You do. You always have.”

He breathes in, trembling.

“I’m scared, love.”

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

But there are still good days.

Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.

When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.

When he tells you a story from the army — one he swore he’d forgotten.

And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with the wrinkles?” you tease.

“Especially with them,” he grins.

You cry in the kitchen after that one.

Quietly.

Not because you’re sad.

But because you still get to have this.

And then one morning, he doesn’t know your name.

He wakes with a start. Looks at you.

And doesn’t say anything.

Not confusion. Not fear. Just… blankness.

You speak gently. Smile.

Tell him your name like it’s the first time.

Tell him you’re safe. That he is too.

And he nods.

“Alright. If you say so.”

But later — later that same day — when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

“Do you know who I am?”

He blinks. Thinks.

“No. But I know I love you.”

The days stretch longer now.

He’s quieter, softer — not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesn’t speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and he’s just floating now.

He forgets more often than he remembers.

But he still holds your hand.

Even when he doesn’t know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man who’s known only one comfort in his entire life.

And he has.

You.

He sleeps more now.

Sometimes all day.

You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them aren’t — he wouldn’t correct you now even if he knew.

But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.

Like part of him — the part too deep to lose — still knows you.

And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:

“You’re still here?”

And you always answer, soft and warm:

“I’ve always been here.”

It happens on a rainy morning.

There’s nothing dramatic about it.

No gasp. No panic. No final words.

Just a stillness.

You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed — like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.

He doesn’t look afraid.

He looks young.

Somehow.

Like the weight finally left him.

And for a long, long time, you don’t move.

You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:

“You made it, Simon. You’re safe now.”

You bury him beside the lavender.

The spot he always loved — where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.

Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.

There’s no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.

Just:

Simon Riley

Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.

And you keep living.

Not out of duty.

Not out of guilt.

But because he would want you to.

You still drink your tea the way he made it.

Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.

Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.

Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes — and you swear you feel it:

His hand on your shoulder.

The breath of him.

The warmth.

You speak into the dark like he’s still beside you.

“I’ll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.”

Because real love never ends.

And the life you built together — the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years — it doesn’t vanish when he goes.

It lives in you.

In your daughter.

In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.

Simon made it home.

And home was always you.

do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[yunyuu]

　　　　.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with simon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ simon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Simon didn’t think he could be a father. Not because he didn’t want to be—he did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed he’d live long enough for it. He didn’t think there’d be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world. But then you came. And then… she did.⠀𓆉

He was terrified.

When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, still—the kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.

He didn’t say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered so quietly, it could’ve been a prayer.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. He’d torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anything—cursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.

But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her… saw her pink and alive and real in your arms…

He broke.

He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his past—something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you replied.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.

Simon was awkward at first.

He held her like she might detonate—arms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.

He wouldn’t say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldn’t stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.

He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought you’d see.

She follows him everywhere.

Like a little ghost of her own.

He doesn’t let many people see her. Doesn’t post pictures. Doesn’t talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.

She’s curious. Smart. A little quiet—like him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like she’s decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.

He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when she’s bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:

“She wanted to. Didn’t wanna say no.”

He teaches her how to be strong—not cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, he’s there before she can even call for him.

And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That it’s okay to be soft, but it’s also okay to be careful.

And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.

“Look, Daddy. I’m just like you!”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, and this time, he does smile—small, but real. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Simon is a man full of ghosts.

But when he’s with her, they quiet.

You’ve seen it.

The way his shoulders relax when she’s in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, “You be good for Mum, yeah? I’ll be back.”

He hates going.

Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.

But every return—when she runs to him screaming “Daddy!” and tackles his legs with her little arms—that’s what mends it.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s always afraid he’s too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him he’s the safest place she knows.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and she’s asleep in the next room, he’ll hold you close and whisper,

“Thank you.”

She’s eight now.

She tells people her dad is a superhero.

Simon doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t know what version of him she’s seeing—what stories she’s crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. To her, he’s just… strong. Invincible. Safe.

He doesn’t deserve it. But he lives for it.

There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and she’s tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.

And he’ll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.

He listens to her breathe.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like that—why he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams she’s long since outgrown. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he’s waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.

He’ll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.

Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like there’s a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap he’s too smart to fall for.

She was never supposed to see it.

An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. She’d plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.

She didn’t say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.

“Daddy… you hurt bad people, right?”

He froze.

“…What’d you see, love?”

“Some men. You hurt them. But… you were saving someone, weren’t you?”

There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.

Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

“Yes,” he said. “I hurt bad people. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d never want you to see. But I’ve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.”

She nodded slowly. And then—God, kids are strange—she just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said softly. “You’re my hero.”

And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.

He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him too—arms around his neck like an anchor, like she’d never let go.

She gets more clever every year.

She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous places—like the freezer, or under her bed—just to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims it’s to “keep him home longer.”

He pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re a little brat,” he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.

“I'm baby!” she giggles back, kicking her legs.

They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When she’s nervous at school, she touches her wrist twice—it means “I wish you were here.” When he’s home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen table—it means “I waited.”

She tells him she wants to be like him.

A protector. A fighter.

He tells her she already is.

But inside, the thought terrifies him.

You’re the one who packs his bag now. She won’t help anymore. Not since last time.

She’d cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised he’d stay longer. That “longer” shouldn’t mean “only six days.” She was angry in that way only children can be—grief-stricken and pure.

“I hate the army,” she said, clutching the edge of his vest.

He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.

“You don’t have to understand, love. But I hope one day… you’ll forgive me for missing things.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran to her room.

He left anyway. And it broke him.

He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.

It’s still there.

And when he comes back, It’s always late.

You’ll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. She’ll fly out of bed before you can stop her—barefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.

He drops everything to catch her.

She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesn’t even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and she’s whispering “I missed you I missed you I missed you” like a spell.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

He holds her like she’s the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.

Teenage girls are loud in their silence.

Simon learned that the hard way.

She doesn’t slam doors or scream. She doesn’t yell “You don’t understand!” or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.

She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesn’t even look up from her phone.

She’s fifteen.

And sometimes, Simon thinks she’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s got nothing left but shadows and memory.

It started small.

She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.

He knew it wasn’t personal.

It was growing up.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“Give her space,” you told him gently. “She’s figuring herself out.”

He tried. He really did.

But he couldn’t help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldn’t sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.

Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.

It came up one night, out of nowhere.

She was setting the table. He’d been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:

“Do you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?”

He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.

He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “I wear it because I used to think I was already dead.”

She blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He almost regretted being honest.

“But then…” His voice caught. “Then I had you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.

And then she whispered:

“You’re not dead.”

He cleared his throat, chest aching. “No. Not anymore.”

She set down a fork.

Walked over.

And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isn’t leaving. It’s letting her live.

She’s starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t sleep well on those nights.

You can see it—the way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.

“She’s not a target,” you remind him. “She’s a kid.”

But in his world, innocence doesn’t mean safety.

And light doesn’t mean there’s no danger.

When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:

One look over her face.

A glance at her hands.

Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.

A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesn’t even notice.

But he does.

Only when he’s sure she’s safe does he let himself exhale.

The first time she really breaks—it’s quiet.

She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: “I don’t think anyone really likes me.”

Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.

But he puts it down immediately.

And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesn’t cry. He doesn’t pry. Eventually, she says, “I feel like I’m too much for people. Too weird.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:

“You’re not too much. The world’s just too loud.”

She leans into him.

He lets her.

She’s taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.

“I don’t know how to be normal.”

He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good. Normal’s overrated.”

She laughs, watery and real.

It’s the sound of his heart stitching back together.

Simon isn’t great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.

But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.

In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.

In the way he gives her his old hoodie when she’s sick and lets her keep it.

In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t say “I love you” as often as she used to.

But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles “Dad” like it’s home…

He knows.

He knows.

She’s not a child anymore.

But she’ll always be his little girl.

And he’ll always be the ghost at her back—quiet, watchful, loyal.

Not haunting her.

Protecting her.

Always.

He never taught her how to drive.

You did.

She insisted.

He didn’t mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.

So he let you take her.

Watched from the window.

She waved at him once from the driver’s seat, grinning like she owned the road.

And he waved back. Small, barely-there.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

The house is quieter now.

She’s twenty-three.

Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.

She comes home when she can, which isn’t often. You say that’s normal. That’s what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesn’t come.

He still sets her place at the table when you aren’t looking.

You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You don’t ask.

She doesn’t call him "daddy" anymore.

That’s what time does.

It sands things down.

She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if she’s feeling playful.

He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you don’t remember the moment it captured.

There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesn’t cling to him anymore. Doesn’t bury her face in his neck. Doesn’t fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.

Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.

She’s brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.

And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to be—cheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.

Then the moment fades.

And she’s grown again.

He doesn’t go on missions anymore.

Retired now. Officially.

He didn’t tell her right away. Wasn’t sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.

But when he finally said it over dinner—softly, plainly: “I’m done. Hung it up.”—she looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You were always more than that.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and realized she hadn’t seen him as a soldier in years.

She’d seen the man.

The father.

The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.

He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.

But she’d been watching him—all this time.

Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.

One night he got sick.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Just a flu.

But he hadn’t been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.

She came home that weekend without asking.

Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, “You look like shit.”

He coughed. “Nice to see you too.”

But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.

She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.

He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.

And for a second—just a flicker—he wished she were small again.

Not because he didn’t love who she’d become.

But because that time was so brief.

So unbearably sweet.

And it was gone.

It was raining.

She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was his brother’s grave. The one he used to visit alone.

“I wish I’d met him,” she said quietly.

“He would’ve loved you,” Simon replied. “You’ve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.”

She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss being young?”

He didn’t answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.

“I miss you being young,” he finally said.

And she didn’t speak again. Just held his arm tighter.

One day, it happens.

She calls him—voice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who else to call.

And Simon?

He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.

He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didn’t ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.

Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.

And he just held her.

Kept one hand on the back of her head.

The other over her heart.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,

“I didn’t want to call you. Thought I was too old.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll never be too old to be my girl.”

And one day…

One day, it’s just the two of them on the porch.

You’re inside baking. The sun’s going down. Her eyes are softer now.

She says, “Do you ever think you could’ve had a normal life?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just watches the wind move through the trees.

Then:

“This is normal. For me.”

She leans her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.

“You were always enough, you know,” she says.

He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.

And then she adds, quieter, “You saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed saving.”

He closes his eyes.

Because in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done.

Who he’s killed.

What haunts him.

Because this is what remains.

This girl. This woman. This life they made.

And that… is enough.

He never thought he’d grow old.

Never imagined it.

He used to think men like him didn’t make it past 40 — not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it — like his bones expected to be abandoned.

But now?

Now his body aches in new ways.

His knees click when he gets up too fast.

The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.

But you’re still here.

Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.

And it guts him. Every single time.

That you stayed.

That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.

Your love has changed.

It’s not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.

It’s quieter. But deeper. Warmer.

It’s how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.

It’s how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet don’t touch the cold floor in the morning.

It’s how you never ask where he’s going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though you’ve seen them a hundred times.

There’s a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.

A knowing.

A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.

You’ll brush past him in the kitchen, and he’ll place a hand on the small of your back — not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself you’re real. Here.

Still his.

Sometimes he just watches you.

He won’t say it out loud. He’s too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when you’re reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just right—

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought he’d never understand.

He’ll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whatever’s in his hands — but he’s watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.

Because he knows.

He knows time takes things.

He’s lost too many people to pretend otherwise.

So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.

You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

He shrugs. “I always do.”

He still has the mask.

It’s in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.

You told him he didn’t need it anymore, and he agreed.

But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

“I wore this to keep the world out,” he said. “But somehow, you still found your way in.”

And you leaned against him.

And he let you.

And neither of you moved for a long time.

He loves you differently now.

Not less. Not softer.

But heavier.

There’s a weight to it now. A depth.

He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay — what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets he’s safe even now.

And he sees what it cost you, too.

He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasn’t home.

Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why “daddy” missed her school recital.

Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.

He never said thank you. Not enough.

So now he shows it.

In every slow dance in the kitchen.

In every cup of tea made before you ask.

In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.

He asks you one night.

“Do you regret it?”

It’s late. The moonlight’s dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. You’re half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.

You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.

“All of it,” he says, quietly.

And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.

“I’d do it all over again,” you say.

And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.

You fall asleep like that — your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.

And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...

Simon smiles.

Because in the end, despite everything he’s done, everything he’s lost—

You stayed.

And that made all the difference.

It starts with small things.

Keys. Names.

What day it is.

Where he left his book.

At first, you joke about it. Call it “old man brain,” and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.

But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.

Asks where your daughter is — even though she just called.

He forgets the kettle is on.

Leaves the tap running.

Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.

And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.

“She used to chew on this,” he says, quiet, “didn’t she?”

You nod.

“She’s twenty-seven now, Simon.”

He blinks at the toy.

“Oh.”

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t like loud noises anymore.

Doesn’t like too many people in the house.

Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.

But he’s still him.

He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what they’re called — even if he doesn’t.

“Is that one the… the purple one?” he asks.

You smile. “Lavender.”

“Right. Right, I knew that.”

He didn’t.

But he likes when you pretend he did.

Sometimes he has bad days.

Days where he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is.

Days when he looks at you and his face folds — not in anger, but in heartbreak.

“I’m supposed to know you,” he says once, voice shaking. “Aren’t I?”

You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.

“You do. You always have.”

He breathes in, trembling.

“I’m scared, love.”

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

But there are still good days.

Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.

When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.

When he tells you a story from the army — one he swore he’d forgotten.

And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with the wrinkles?” you tease.

“Especially with them,” he grins.

You cry in the kitchen after that one.

Quietly.

Not because you’re sad.

But because you still get to have this.

And then one morning, he doesn’t know your name.

He wakes with a start. Looks at you.

And doesn’t say anything.

Not confusion. Not fear. Just… blankness.

You speak gently. Smile.

Tell him your name like it’s the first time.

Tell him you’re safe. That he is too.

And he nods.

“Alright. If you say so.”

But later — later that same day — when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

“Do you know who I am?”

He blinks. Thinks.

“No. But I know I love you.”

The days stretch longer now.

He’s quieter, softer — not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesn’t speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and he’s just floating now.

He forgets more often than he remembers.

But he still holds your hand.

Even when he doesn’t know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man who’s known only one comfort in his entire life.

And he has.

You.

He sleeps more now.

Sometimes all day.

You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them aren’t — he wouldn’t correct you now even if he knew.

But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.

Like part of him — the part too deep to lose — still knows you.

And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:

“You’re still here?”

And you always answer, soft and warm:

“I’ve always been here.”

It happens on a rainy morning.

There’s nothing dramatic about it.

No gasp. No panic. No final words.

Just a stillness.

You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed — like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.

He doesn’t look afraid.

He looks young.

Somehow.

Like the weight finally left him.

And for a long, long time, you don’t move.

You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:

“You made it, Simon. You’re safe now.”

You bury him beside the lavender.

The spot he always loved — where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.

Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.

There’s no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.

Just:

Simon Riley

Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.

And you keep living.

Not out of duty.

Not out of guilt.

But because he would want you to.

You still drink your tea the way he made it.

Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.

Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.

Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes — and you swear you feel it:

His hand on your shoulder.

The breath of him.

The warmth.

You speak into the dark like he’s still beside you.

“I’ll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.”

Because real love never ends.

And the life you built together — the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years — it doesn’t vanish when he goes.

It lives in you.

In your daughter.

In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.

Simon made it home.

And home was always you.

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[yunyuu]

　　　　.⠀⠀⠀ ू❀𝆬　𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑　．　∔

⠀ ⠀❜❀⠀˙⠀simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader⠀(❁ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈)⠀˚

░⌦⠀ synopsis.⠀ ⠀domestic life with simon. 𖧷⠀⁺⠀

⠀. ⏝ི𓏶. ゜ imagine ⠀　being⠀ simon's　⠀wife⠀ ⋮

Simon didn’t think he could be a father. Not because he didn’t want to be—he did. Quietly, painfully. But he never believed he’d live long enough for it. He didn’t think there’d be a version of life where he could sit still, trade gunpowder for cradle songs, or let something so fragile as a child curl up on his chest and fall asleep without fear in the world. But then you came. And then… she did.⠀𓆉

He was terrified.

When you told him, his first reaction was silence. Heavy, still—the kind that made your skin crawl even though you knew he would never hurt you. He stared at the floor for a long time. Not out of anger. Not even shock. Just a weight pressing down on every piece of him, trying to make sense of a life where he could deserve something this soft.

He didn’t say anything for hours. But that night, while you lay in bed pretending to sleep, you felt his callused hand over your stomach. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought he might break both of you.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered so quietly, it could’ve been a prayer.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

Mission delays. A storm grounded his transport. He’d torn through his comms trying to reach anyone, anything—cursing the universe for making him a soldier first, father second.

But when he walked into that hospital room with dirt still on his boots and shadows under his eyes, and saw you holding her… saw her pink and alive and real in your arms…

He broke.

He didn't cry, not really. But his shoulders shook as he sat by your side and pressed his forehead to your temple. He stared at her like she was a ghost haunting his past—something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you replied.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just watched her chest rise and fall, afraid to blink.

Simon was awkward at first.

He held her like she might detonate—arms stiff, movements cautious. Changing diapers felt like defusing bombs. And baby talk? Forget it. He read her the back of his cereal box in a low, gravelly voice, and she cooed like he was reciting poetry.

He wouldn’t say much, but he did. Morning bottles already warmed before you woke. Midnight pacing when she wouldn’t stop crying. One hand rubbing small circles on her back, the other gripping the baby monitor like a lifeline when he had to leave.

He taught her to crawl by laying on the floor with her, inching backward like it was a stealth op. When she took her first steps toward him, he froze. It felt like watching a sunrise you never thought you’d see.

She follows him everywhere.

Like a little ghost of her own.

He doesn’t let many people see her. Doesn’t post pictures. Doesn’t talk about her on base. But he keeps a small photo tucked behind his dog tags. If anyone catches a glimpse, they know not to ask.

She’s curious. Smart. A little quiet—like him. She watches everything. Studies the way he moves, tilts her head when he speaks like she’s decoding him. When she starts copying his dry, deadpan jokes, you swear Simon almost smiles.

He lets her paint his face with glitter and stars when she’s bored. He sits there stone-faced, letting her stick pink butterfly clips into his blond hair. If you ask why, he just shrugs:

“She wanted to. Didn’t wanna say no.”

He teaches her how to be strong—not cruel, not hardened, just aware. He teaches her to pay attention to exits, to trust her gut. When she has nightmares, he’s there before she can even call for him.

And when she asks him why he wears a mask sometimes, he kneels down and explains it gently. That some things are meant to protect, not hide. That it’s okay to be soft, but it’s also okay to be careful.

And then he lets her try it on. It drapes over her face like a cape. She laughs.

“Look, Daddy. I’m just like you!”

“No, sweetheart,” he says, and this time, he does smile—small, but real. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”

Simon is a man full of ghosts.

But when he’s with her, they quiet.

You’ve seen it.

The way his shoulders relax when she’s in the room. The way his voice drops softer when he reads to her. The way he presses his forehead to hers before he leaves, and whispers, “You be good for Mum, yeah? I’ll be back.”

He hates going.

Every goodbye leaves a crack in him.

But every return—when she runs to him screaming “Daddy!” and tackles his legs with her little arms—that’s what mends it.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s always afraid he’s too broken, too cold, too late. But you tell him he’s the safest place she knows.

And sometimes, when the house is quiet and she’s asleep in the next room, he’ll hold you close and whisper,

“Thank you.”

She’s eight now.

She tells people her dad is a superhero.

Simon doesn’t correct her.

He doesn’t know what version of him she’s seeing—what stories she’s crafted in her head to explain his scars or the way he flinches when doors slam too hard. She doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of. To her, he’s just… strong. Invincible. Safe.

He doesn’t deserve it. But he lives for it.

There are nights when the house is quiet and warm and she’s tucked beneath her galaxy-print bedsheets, one arm flung off the mattress and glitter nail polish chipped from the day.

And he’ll sit outside her room. In the hallway. Hands clenched between his knees.

He listens to her breathe.

He doesn't know why he tortures himself like that—why he waits for nightmares that never come, or for screams she’s long since outgrown. Maybe he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe he’s waiting to fail her. Like he failed his family. His brother. Himself.

He’ll sit there until his knees ache. Until the silence starts to feel like mercy again.

Then he goes to bed, lays next to you, and stares at the ceiling like there’s a sniper on the roof. Like peace is a trap he’s too smart to fall for.

She was never supposed to see it.

An old flash drive. Left in a drawer he thought was too high. She’d plugged it into her school laptop, probably looking for cartoons.

She didn’t say anything until hours later. She was quiet. Paler than usual.

“Daddy… you hurt bad people, right?”

He froze.

“…What’d you see, love?”

“Some men. You hurt them. But… you were saving someone, weren’t you?”

There was no panic in her voice. No fear. Just a question, small and sincere, wrapped in child-logic and trust.

Simon knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in his. Looked her in the eye like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever done.

“Yes,” he said. “I hurt bad people. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’d never want you to see. But I’ve never hurt someone innocent. Never would.”

She nodded slowly. And then—God, kids are strange—she just reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, the one beneath the corner of his eye.

“I’m not scared of you,” she said softly. “You’re my hero.”

And that was the first time in his life Simon wanted to cry in front of someone.

He held her so tight that night, you thought she might get smothered. But she clung to him too—arms around his neck like an anchor, like she’d never let go.

She gets more clever every year.

She steals his hoodies. Starts hiding his mask in ridiculous places—like the freezer, or under her bed—just to see how long it takes him to find it. She claims it’s to “keep him home longer.”

He pretends to be annoyed.

“You’re a little brat,” he mutters, tossing her over his shoulder.

“I'm baby!” she giggles back, kicking her legs.

They have their own games. Their own signals. A whole silent language between them. When she’s nervous at school, she touches her wrist twice—it means “I wish you were here.” When he’s home late from a mission, she leaves a plastic dinosaur on the kitchen table—it means “I waited.”

She tells him she wants to be like him.

A protector. A fighter.

He tells her she already is.

But inside, the thought terrifies him.

You’re the one who packs his bag now. She won’t help anymore. Not since last time.

She’d cried so hard she threw up. Told him he promised he’d stay longer. That “longer” shouldn’t mean “only six days.” She was angry in that way only children can be—grief-stricken and pure.

“I hate the army,” she said, clutching the edge of his vest.

He knelt again. Always kneeling, always trying to shrink himself to meet her where she is.

“You don’t have to understand, love. But I hope one day… you’ll forgive me for missing things.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran to her room.

He left anyway. And it broke him.

He kept her crayon drawing in his vest pocket the whole mission. Folded and faded. A stick figure version of him holding hands with her beneath a smiling sun.

It’s still there.

And when he comes back, It’s always late.

You’ll hear the gate creak. The boots on the gravel. She’ll fly out of bed before you can stop her—barefoot and wild-haired, running down the stairs.

He drops everything to catch her.

She wraps herself around him like a vine. He doesn’t even get the mask off before her little arms are around his neck and she’s whispering “I missed you I missed you I missed you” like a spell.

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

He holds her like she’s the only thing tying him to earth. And maybe she is.

Teenage girls are loud in their silence.

Simon learned that the hard way.

She doesn’t slam doors or scream. She doesn’t yell “You don’t understand!” or throw things across the room. She just gets quiet. Withdraws. Answers in clipped syllables, disappears into her hoodie, headphones in, eyes distant.

She used to run to him the second he came home. Now she doesn’t even look up from her phone.

She’s fifteen.

And sometimes, Simon thinks she’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s got nothing left but shadows and memory.

It started small.

She stopped asking him to braid her hair before bed. Said she could do it herself. She stopped leaving dinosaurs on the kitchen table. Stopped leaving notes in his rucksack.

He knew it wasn’t personal.

It was growing up.

But that didn’t make it easier.

“Give her space,” you told him gently. “She’s figuring herself out.”

He tried. He really did.

But he couldn’t help hovering near her doorway some nights, watching her back hunched over a laptop, music playing softly. Wondering if she still remembered how he used to sing to her in a voice barely above a whisper when she couldn’t sleep. Wondering if she remembered why he was gone so often.

Wondering if she still thought he was her hero.

It came up one night, out of nowhere.

She was setting the table. He’d been home for five days. The air was calm, the routine safe. And then:

“Do you wear the skull mask because you want to scare people?”

He looked up from the sink, heart stalling for a second.

He turned off the water. Dried his hands slowly. Looked her in the eye.

“No,” he said after a long pause. “I wear it because I used to think I was already dead.”

She blinked.

Didn’t say anything.

He almost regretted being honest.

“But then…” His voice caught. “Then I had you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Fragile.

And then she whispered:

“You’re not dead.”

He cleared his throat, chest aching. “No. Not anymore.”

She set down a fork.

Walked over.

And, for the first time in months, hugged him without needing a reason.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

The hardest part of fatherhood for Simon isn’t leaving. It’s letting her live.

She’s starting to go out more now. With friends. Late bus rides. Music festivals. Sleepovers at houses he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t sleep well on those nights.

You can see it—the way his leg bounces, the way he checks the time every fifteen minutes, the way he keeps his phone unlocked, her tracker app open on the screen.

“She’s not a target,” you remind him. “She’s a kid.”

But in his world, innocence doesn’t mean safety.

And light doesn’t mean there’s no danger.

When she comes home, he does the same ritual every time:

One look over her face.

A glance at her hands.

Eyes flicking to her shoes, her wrists, her neck.

A checklist of survival. It takes seconds. She doesn’t even notice.

But he does.

Only when he’s sure she’s safe does he let himself exhale.

The first time she really breaks—it’s quiet.

She comes home from school, bags under her eyes, and says: “I don’t think anyone really likes me.”

Simon is at the table cleaning a rifle.

But he puts it down immediately.

And for a long time, they just sit on the couch. Side by side. She doesn’t cry. He doesn’t pry. Eventually, she says, “I feel like I’m too much for people. Too weird.”

He looks at her then. Really looks.

And in the softest voice he can manage, he says:

“You’re not too much. The world’s just too loud.”

She leans into him.

He lets her.

She’s taller now, but somehow still fits under his arm.

“I don’t know how to be normal.”

He smiles, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

“Good. Normal’s overrated.”

She laughs, watery and real.

It’s the sound of his heart stitching back together.

Simon isn’t great with words. Not the soft ones, anyway.

But he shows her love in the way he always waits up.

In the way he replaces the lightbulb in her lamp before it burns out.

In the way he gives her his old hoodie when she’s sick and lets her keep it.

In the way he memorizes the names of her friends. Learns their schedules. Watches over them from a distance like a silent guardian.

She doesn’t say “I love you” as often as she used to.

But when she falls asleep in the car and mumbles “Dad” like it’s home…

He knows.

He knows.

She’s not a child anymore.

But she’ll always be his little girl.

And he’ll always be the ghost at her back—quiet, watchful, loyal.

Not haunting her.

Protecting her.

Always.

He never taught her how to drive.

You did.

She insisted.

He didn’t mind. Truthfully, the thought of her behind the wheel made his pulse spike. Not because he didn’t trust her, but because he knew the world. Knew how quickly things turned. He could pull a man out of a wrecked Humvee, but the idea of her skidding into a light pole because of wet asphalt made his vision go white.

So he let you take her.

Watched from the window.

She waved at him once from the driver’s seat, grinning like she owned the road.

And he waved back. Small, barely-there.

But it was enough.

It was always enough.

The house is quieter now.

She’s twenty-three.

Lives two cities over. Has a dog. A job. A life.

She comes home when she can, which isn’t often. You say that’s normal. That’s what kids do. But he still checks the front window around five every evening. Still listens for the sound of a key turning in the lock that doesn’t come.

He still sets her place at the table when you aren’t looking.

You find the folded napkins sometimes. The extra fork. He never explains. You don’t ask.

She doesn’t call him "daddy" anymore.

That’s what time does.

It sands things down.

She calls him Dad now. Or Old Man if she’s feeling playful.

He likes it. But it stings in a quiet way. Like finding an old picture and realizing you don’t remember the moment it captured.

There are still hugs. Still warmth. But she doesn’t cling to him anymore. Doesn’t bury her face in his neck. Doesn’t fall asleep on his chest while he reads boring manuals aloud to lull her.

Instead, she brings over wine. Talks about work. Politics. The rent.

She’s brilliant. Composed. Fierce in a way that reminds him of a younger you.

And sometimes, when she laughs, he sees the little girl she used to be—cheeks round, eyes bright, hands sticky from jam.

Then the moment fades.

And she’s grown again.

He doesn’t go on missions anymore.

Retired now. Officially.

He didn’t tell her right away. Wasn’t sure how. He expected a celebration, or at least a toast.

But when he finally said it over dinner—softly, plainly: “I’m done. Hung it up.”—she looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded.

“Good,” she said. “You were always more than that.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and realized she hadn’t seen him as a soldier in years.

She’d seen the man.

The father.

The one who tucked her in and stitched her broken toys and waited outside ballet recitals with bloodied knuckles he never explained.

He had been trying so hard to protect her from the world.

But she’d been watching him—all this time.

Learning how to survive by the way he loved her.

One night he got sick.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Just a flu.

But he hadn’t been sick in years, and it hit him harder than expected.

She came home that weekend without asking.

Let herself in. Took one look at him bundled in blankets on the couch and said, “You look like shit.”

He coughed. “Nice to see you too.”

But her hands were gentle. She made him tea. Sat on the armrest of the couch, fingers brushing over his forehead like she was checking for fever the way he used to when she was small.

She stayed the night. Slept on the floor beside him like a sentry.

He woke at 3 a.m. and saw her curled up in an old hoodie of his, her phone clutched in one hand, screen still lit with some half-written message.

And for a second—just a flicker—he wished she were small again.

Not because he didn’t love who she’d become.

But because that time was so brief.

So unbearably sweet.

And it was gone.

It was raining.

She stood beside him under a grey sky, both in black, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

It was his brother’s grave. The one he used to visit alone.

“I wish I’d met him,” she said quietly.

“He would’ve loved you,” Simon replied. “You’ve got his mouth. Same sarcasm.”

She smiled through the tears. Leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever miss being young?”

He didn’t answer right away. Rain hit the stone like fingers drumming.

“I miss you being young,” he finally said.

And she didn’t speak again. Just held his arm tighter.

One day, it happens.

She calls him—voice shaking, words rushed. Something about a near-accident. Someone ran a red light. Her hands were shaking. She didn’t know who else to call.

And Simon?

He was already in the car before she finished the sentence.

He found her on a curb, hands trembling around a coffee cup someone had handed her. He didn’t ask questions. Just crouched in front of her and pulled her into his arms.

She broke. Sobbed into his coat like she was twelve again.

Like she was small and scared and needed her dad.

And he just held her.

Kept one hand on the back of her head.

The other over her heart.

“You’re safe,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Later that night, she curled up on his old couch, wrapped in his blanket, and whispered,

“I didn’t want to call you. Thought I was too old.”

He shook his head.

“You’ll never be too old to be my girl.”

And one day…

One day, it’s just the two of them on the porch.

You’re inside baking. The sun’s going down. Her eyes are softer now.

She says, “Do you ever think you could’ve had a normal life?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just watches the wind move through the trees.

Then:

“This is normal. For me.”

She leans her head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t flinch anymore when touched. Not by her.

“You were always enough, you know,” she says.

He swallows. Tries to look away. Fails.

And then she adds, quieter, “You saved me. Even when I didn’t know I needed saving.”

He closes his eyes.

Because in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s done.

Who he’s killed.

What haunts him.

Because this is what remains.

This girl. This woman. This life they made.

And that… is enough.

He never thought he’d grow old.

Never imagined it.

He used to think men like him didn’t make it past 40 — not without a bullet or a blaze or a quiet disappearance somewhere no one would bother looking. There was always something inside him waiting for it — like his bones expected to be abandoned.

But now?

Now his body aches in new ways.

His knees click when he gets up too fast.

The hair at his temples has gone silver, and his hands have lost their steady, deadly stillness.

But you’re still here.

Still brushing your teeth beside him. Still humming while folding sheets. Still asking if he wants tea or if his shoulder hurts when it rains.

And it guts him. Every single time.

That you stayed.

That you chose to grow old next to a man who never expected to live long enough to deserve it.

Your love has changed.

It’s not fireworks now. Not firelight and breathless kissing in hotel rooms after too-long deployments.

It’s quieter. But deeper. Warmer.

It’s how you always leave the light on for him, even when he forgets to ask.

It’s how he sets out your slippers without thinking, so your feet don’t touch the cold floor in the morning.

It’s how you never ask where he’s going when he disappears into the garage, and how he never questions the way you cry at old home videos, even though you’ve seen them a hundred times.

There’s a kind of intimacy now that goes deeper than touch.

A knowing.

A weightless ease, like your hearts have learned how to lean on each other without needing to speak.

You’ll brush past him in the kitchen, and he’ll place a hand on the small of your back — not to move you, not to guide you, but just to feel you. To remind himself you’re real. Here.

Still his.

Sometimes he just watches you.

He won’t say it out loud. He’s too old for poetry, and too hardened for flowery things. But sometimes, when you’re reading by the window, your glasses slipping down your nose and the light touching your cheek just right—

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

Like you're the last beautiful thing left in a world he once thought he’d never understand.

He’ll pretend to be half-asleep on the couch, or too focused on whatever’s in his hands — but he’s watching you. Memorizing you again and again, like a man trying to hold onto something too big to keep.

Because he knows.

He knows time takes things.

He’s lost too many people to pretend otherwise.

So he watches. And he commits you to memory. Every wrinkle near your eyes. Every gray strand of hair. Every sigh. Every smile.

You catch him sometimes. And he always looks away like a boy caught daydreaming.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

He shrugs. “I always do.”

He still has the mask.

It’s in a box now. Top of the closet. Buried under old jumpers and Christmas decorations.

You told him he didn’t need it anymore, and he agreed.

But he kept it. Quietly. Respectfully.

You found him once, years ago, just sitting with it in his lap. The house was silent. The air still.

You didn’t say anything. Just sat beside him.

He looked at you, eyes far away, voice quieter than you’d ever heard.

“I wore this to keep the world out,” he said. “But somehow, you still found your way in.”

And you leaned against him.

And he let you.

And neither of you moved for a long time.

He loves you differently now.

Not less. Not softer.

But heavier.

There’s a weight to it now. A depth.

He knows what it means to have someone for a lifetime. He knows what it costs to stay — what it takes to love a man who wakes from nightmares, who still pauses at loud noises, who forgets he’s safe even now.

And he sees what it cost you, too.

He saw it in your eyes when the baby was crying and he wasn’t home.

Saw it when you had to explain to your daughter why “daddy” missed her school recital.

Saw it in the way you smiled through the loneliness, always so patient, always so good.

He never said thank you. Not enough.

So now he shows it.

In every slow dance in the kitchen.

In every cup of tea made before you ask.

In every time he reaches for your hand during a movie, just to feel your fingers between his.

He asks you one night.

“Do you regret it?”

It’s late. The moonlight’s dripping through the window, and the sheets are tangled between your legs. You’re half-asleep, but his voice pulls you back.

You turn toward him. Find him already watching you.

“All of it,” he says, quietly.

And you reach for him, tuck your fingers beneath his chin like you did when you were younger. His beard is whiter now. His eyes softer.

“I’d do it all over again,” you say.

And he believes you. With every beat of his scarred, stubborn heart.

You fall asleep like that — your fingers in his, your breath slow against his skin.

And somewhere in the dark, in a house full of years and silence and everything you've both endured...

Simon smiles.

Because in the end, despite everything he’s done, everything he’s lost—

You stayed.

And that made all the difference.

It starts with small things.

Keys. Names.

What day it is.

Where he left his book.

At first, you joke about it. Call it “old man brain,” and he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering something about brain damage and too many concussions.

But then he starts calling the dog by the wrong name.

Asks where your daughter is — even though she just called.

He forgets the kettle is on.

Leaves the tap running.

Stares at the cupboard, confused, trying to remember why he opened it.

And one day, you find him standing in the hallway, still as stone, holding one of her baby toys in his hand.

“She used to chew on this,” he says, quiet, “didn’t she?”

You nod.

“She’s twenty-seven now, Simon.”

He blinks at the toy.

“Oh.”

You learn his patterns.

He doesn’t like loud noises anymore.

Doesn’t like too many people in the house.

Gets tired easily. Confused quickly. Frustrated at himself more than anything.

But he’s still him.

He still drinks his tea the same way. Still looks for your hand under the blanket when you watch old movies. Still walks beside you in the garden, pointing at flowers like he remembers what they’re called — even if he doesn’t.

“Is that one the… the purple one?” he asks.

You smile. “Lavender.”

“Right. Right, I knew that.”

He didn’t.

But he likes when you pretend he did.

Sometimes he has bad days.

Days where he wakes up and doesn’t know where he is.

Days when he looks at you and his face folds — not in anger, but in heartbreak.

“I’m supposed to know you,” he says once, voice shaking. “Aren’t I?”

You take his hands. Place them on your cheeks. Let him feel the shape of your face.

“You do. You always have.”

He breathes in, trembling.

“I’m scared, love.”

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

But there are still good days.

Days when he laughs at your terrible jokes.

When he remembers how to make your tea before you do.

When he tells you a story from the army — one he swore he’d forgotten.

And there are still evenings where he pulls you in, slow and careful, kisses the corner of your mouth and says,

“Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Even with the wrinkles?” you tease.

“Especially with them,” he grins.

You cry in the kitchen after that one.

Quietly.

Not because you’re sad.

But because you still get to have this.

And then one morning, he doesn’t know your name.

He wakes with a start. Looks at you.

And doesn’t say anything.

Not confusion. Not fear. Just… blankness.

You speak gently. Smile.

Tell him your name like it’s the first time.

Tell him you’re safe. That he is too.

And he nods.

“Alright. If you say so.”

But later — later that same day — when you bring him tea, he takes your hand and murmurs:

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

“Do you know who I am?”

He blinks. Thinks.

“No. But I know I love you.”

The days stretch longer now.

He’s quieter, softer — not from peace, but from the slow unraveling of time. There are whole mornings where he doesn’t speak at all. Just watches the trees, the clouds, your hands in the garden. Like his soul has moved somewhere deep inside, and he’s just floating now.

He forgets more often than he remembers.

But he still holds your hand.

Even when he doesn’t know who you are, he finds your fingers. Rubs his thumb over your knuckle. Leans into your shoulder like a man who’s known only one comfort in his entire life.

And he has.

You.

He sleeps more now.

Sometimes all day.

You sit with him. Read aloud. Tell stories he once told you. Some of them are true, some of them aren’t — he wouldn’t correct you now even if he knew.

But he smiles sometimes. At the sound of your voice.

Like part of him — the part too deep to lose — still knows you.

And when he wakes, slow and blinking, he always asks:

“You’re still here?”

And you always answer, soft and warm:

“I’ve always been here.”

It happens on a rainy morning.

There’s nothing dramatic about it.

No gasp. No panic. No final words.

Just a stillness.

You wake first. His hand is still wrapped around yours. His chest still, his face soft, relaxed — like he simply drifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere gentler.

He doesn’t look afraid.

He looks young.

Somehow.

Like the weight finally left him.

And for a long, long time, you don’t move.

You just rest your head on his chest, where his heartbeat used to be, and whisper the only thing that ever mattered:

“You made it, Simon. You’re safe now.”

You bury him beside the lavender.

The spot he always loved — where the bees hummed and the light hit just right in spring.

Your daughter helps. The grandkids each place a flower on the earth. You keep your hand on the stone long after everyone else has gone.

There’s no mask on it. No rank. No war stories.

Just:

Simon Riley

Beloved Husband. Father. Safe, at last.

And you keep living.

Not out of duty.

Not out of guilt.

But because he would want you to.

You still drink your tea the way he made it.

Still hum old songs while folding the laundry.

Still leave the porch light on, out of habit.

Some nights, you sit alone with the rain on the window and close your eyes — and you swear you feel it:

His hand on your shoulder.

The breath of him.

The warmth.

You speak into the dark like he’s still beside you.

“I’ll be there soon. Not yet. But soon.”

Because real love never ends.

And the life you built together — the quiet, the pain, the laughter, the child, the years — it doesn’t vanish when he goes.

It lives in you.

In your daughter.

In every soft, ordinary, beautiful thing he once thought he could never have.

Simon made it home.

And home was always you.

You can help me by reblogging my works with the tags and please do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[yunyuu]

A kid just called me pretty... I'm so happy rn :))))))

[yunyuu]

. . . RUN, RABBIT RUN! ࣪ ✰◌ ۪

⧣₊˚﹒SYNOPSIS ★ you know it wasn't easy escaping him. but you tried anyway. was it adrenaline? was it stupidity? probably both...

☆. PAIRINGS … Yandere Dante x Fem!reader, Yandere Vergil x Fem!reader, Yandere Nero x Fem!reader

☆. GENRE … obsessive romance, yandere, toxic relationship.

☆. WORD COUNT … 1.4k

☆. A/N … this song always creep me out wtf—

⋆ DANTE – “You’re Not Going Anywhere, Sweetheart”

You thought he was asleep.

The apartment was quiet—just the soft buzz of the neon sign outside bleeding red into the dusty hallway. Your bag was already packed, hidden beneath the couch for weeks, just in case. You were careful. You didn’t even breathe too loud as you crept past him.

But Dante wasn’t asleep.

“You always this sneaky, babe?”

His voice, husky from fake slumber, echoed from the couch behind you. You froze. You knew that voice—smooth, lazy, dangerous. The way he said it sent a chill down your spine.

You didn’t even turn. “I just needed some air.”

He laughed.

“You have a bag. Your 'air' sounds a lot like you're trying to run away from me.”

You ran anyway.

Your fingers barely grazed the doorknob before his hand slammed against it, pinning the door shut. The other curled around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, warm and unyielding. You felt his smile against your neck, wolfish and amused.

“I get it, I really do,” he murmured. “I'm not exactly the poster boy for mental health, huh?”

You swallowed. “Let me go.”

He didn’t.

“I’ve been good, haven’t I?” His voice dropped lower. “I feed you, talk to you, don’t lock you up. I gave you freedom because I trusted you, baby.”

His grip tightened, and he finally turned you to face him. There it was—those blood-red eyes flashing with something feral. Not rage. Not sadness.

Possession.

“You try to leave me again,” he whispered, “and I’ll put chains on that pretty little neck of yours. And I’ll still kiss your bruises after. Still call you my girl.”

He cupped your cheek. “You’re mine. You got that?”

And the worst part?

He kissed you so sweetly after, it almost made you believe it was love.

⋆ VERGIL – “You Belong to Me”

There was no warning. No shout. No loud footstep behind you.

Just him—Vergil.

He appeared in front of the exit like a shadow. One moment, the door was in reach. The next, he was there, standing with Yamato sheathed at his side and fury in his eyes so cold, it felt like winter had crawled into your lungs.

“You disappoint me,” he said, quiet but lethal. “After everything I’ve given you.”

You felt cornered, like prey. But you stood your ground.

“You didn’t give me anything,” you hissed. “You took me.”

His gaze flickered, lips thinning. “I saved you from a meaningless life. You are not meant to live in chaos. You are meant to serve a purpose. My purpose.”

You moved, hoping to duck past him, but Yamato was unsheathed before you even blinked. Its edge stopped inches from your throat.

“I won’t harm you,” he said coldly. “But I will stop you.”

Tears welled up. Not from fear. From exhaustion. From the feeling that maybe no one would come. Not even Dante.

“You can’t keep doing this forever,” you whispered.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened into something worse than anger.

“I don’t need forever. I only need you to understand that you are mine.”

He took a step forward, blade lowering, and pressed his forehead to yours. A rare, intimate gesture that felt more like a cage than comfort.

“You will stay,” he whispered. “Even if I must strip away your will to make you do so.”

And you knew—he meant it.

⋆ NERO – “Why Would You Leave Me?”

Nero hadn’t stopped calling your name.

You could hear him down the street, heavy boots pounding pavement like a man possessed. And maybe he was. His voice cracked between anger and desperation.

“Where are you?! Come on! You think I won’t find you?!”

You ran faster.

But you weren’t fast enough.

His Devil Bringer snatched your waist like a steel trap, yanking you back into his arms. You screamed, kicked, clawed—but he didn’t flinch.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” he yelled, spinning you to face him.

His eyes were wild. Hurt. Furious. Panicked. Like you’d taken a knife to his heart.

“I was scared!” you shouted. “You—Nero, you don’t let me breathe anymore!”

He staggered back, just slightly. Like your words punched him in the chest.

“I’m just… I’m trying to protect you,” he said, voice cracking. “You don’t get it. The world out there—it’ll chew you up and spit you out. And I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

You shook your head, tears in your eyes. “You’re suffocating me…”

He didn’t let go. If anything, he held you tighter. His mechanical arm trembled.

“I’m not the bad guy,” he whispered. “I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

You stayed silent.

And that broke him.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “You want space? I’ll give you space. But I’m keeping you close where I know you’re safe.”

He pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead. “Even if you hate me for it.”

And with that, he lifted you into his arms—bridal-style—like nothing had happened.

Like your attempted escape was just a bad dream.

do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms.

[yunyuu]

. . . DADDY'S GIRL – L.S.K ࣪ ✿◌ ۪

⧣₊˚﹒SYNOPSIS ✿゙ you always knew Leon would be a good father. but you didn’t expect this. not the way his entire soul would fold around a tiny heartbeat. not the way he would look at your child like she hung the goddamn moon.

✿゙. PAIRING … Leon S. Kennedy x Fem Reader pt 1

✿゙. GENRE … soft, emotional, a little angsty, domestic life with Leon.

✿゙. WORD COUNT … +4k

✿゙. A/N … sorry y'all I just love girl dad leon sm (✿ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)⁾⁾

He’s quiet, at first.

When she’s born, Leon holds her like she’s made of glass. The world has broken too many things he cared about, and he refuses—refuses—to let her be one of them.

You see him pacing the nursery at night, bare-chested, cradling her against his shoulder. He's tired, always tired, but there's a strange sort of peace in his eyes when she falls asleep to the beat of his heart.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs to her. “You’ll never see what I’ve seen.”

Protective doesn’t even cover it.

Leon triple-checks every lock on the house. Security system, cameras, motion sensors—you name it, he’s installed it. You swear he’s got a backup plan for the backup plan.

The first time she gets a fever, you have to physically stop him from calling a med-evac.

“She’s just teething, Leon.”

“She’s sweating. She’s shaking.”

“She’s a baby.”

He sits up all night anyway, holding her upright against his chest so she can breathe easier. He doesn’t blink. You find him at dawn, still rocking her, muttering about pathogens and emergency routes to the hospital.

He’s scared of messing up.

That’s the part he doesn’t say. Not out loud. But it shows.

It’s in the way he watches you change diapers like it’s a combat maneuver.

The way he double-sterilizes her bottles.

The way he checks on her three, four, five times a night.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he admits once, sitting on the edge of the bed with your daughter curled up between you both.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper, hand brushing through his hair.

“She deserves better than me.”

“No,” you say. “She deserves you.”

You’re not sure if he believes you, but you catch him smiling into her hair after she burps against his shirt.

And the little girl adores him.

When she starts walking, it’s to wobble toward him.

She clutches his pants leg, yells when he tries to leave for a supply run, climbs up his legs like he’s a jungle gym.

She likes to sleep with her head on his chest. It’s the only way she’ll stay down through the night. She even pulls at his dog tags when she’s sleepy, fingers curling around the cold metal until she dozes off.

“Already got her trained,” he jokes softly, but there’s something glassy in his voice.

He tells her stories.

Never the real ones. Not yet.

But he makes up fairy tales in that deep, slow voice of his. He gives her imaginary castles, dragon-fighting princesses, heroes with big hearts and messy hair who always win in the end.

You lie in bed some nights and listen from the door.

“And then the knight kissed his daughter on the forehead and told her there’s nothing in this world that could ever take him away.”

Leon never thought he’d live this long.

But now he’s here.

With you. With her. With the quiet.

And for once, the nightmares stay away.

Because when your daughter climbs into bed in the middle of the night, curls between you both, and sighs out his name like it’s a lullaby—

“Daddy…”

He holds her close, lets his eyes fall shut, and believes—maybe for the first time—

That he’s finally safe, too.

Your daughter’s name is Lily.

Short for nothing. Just Lily.

Because it’s soft. Because Leon said it reminded him of something gentle—something he didn’t want the world to ruin.

She’s five now. And she’s got his eyes.

Blue like a storm that’s trying to behave.

You see it every time she narrows them in suspicion—tilts her little chin up just like him when she thinks someone’s lying.

“You sure the tooth fairy really took my tooth and not just you?”

Leon raises a brow. “What are you implying?”

“You look like a thief.”

You try not to laugh. He tries not to cry.

Leon ages like a photograph kept in a wallet.

Worn at the corners. A little faded.

Still beautiful. Still there.

His hair is touched with gray now, at the temples and behind his ears. You catch him staring into the mirror sometimes, tracing the lines around his eyes like he’s trying to count the things that made them.

She climbs onto his lap while he’s sitting on the porch one evening, beer untouched beside him.

“You’re gonna die before mommy,” she says suddenly, matter-of-fact, as kids do.

He stills.

You freeze at the door, watching from the shadows.

Leon exhales through his nose, then pulls her close.

“Yeah, maybe. But I'm not die for a long time.”

“How long?”

He kisses the top of her head. “Long enough to scare away your boyfriends.”

“Ew, boys are gross.”

He smiles.

But the nightmares still come.

Some nights he wakes up gasping.

Sweat-soaked. Shoulders trembling.

You hold him until the shaking stops, rub circles into his back, whisper you’re here.

He doesn’t talk about it.

But you’ve learned his silences by now.

When he’s quiet too long. When he stares too hard at nothing.

When he doesn’t kiss Lily goodnight because he’s afraid he’ll bring something dark into the room with him.

You find her curled up outside your bedroom door once.

A little blanket. A stuffed lion. A frown on her face.

“Daddy’s sad,” she says.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “He’s trying.”

He never lets his guard down in public.

Lily never notices, but you do.

Leon always sits with his back to the wall.

Always knows the exits.

Always checks the people walking in and out.

Even at the ice cream shop.

He’s holding a triple scoop of strawberry for Lily and still tracking a man in a black coat by the window.

“She’s got sprinkles in her hair, honey,” you murmur, nudging his arm.

He glances down. She’s smiling up at him, pink all over her lips and chin.

He breathes out and kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you a napkin, baby.”

Then one day, something happens.

A car.

A scream.

A man trying to snatch a child near the park.

It’s not your daughter, but she’s close—too close.

Leon moves like instinct.

Gun drawn, voice sharp, posture coiled like a soldier.

He subdues the man before you even realize what’s happening.

The cops thank him. People whisper.

Lily just tugs on your hand and whispers, “Daddy’s mad.”

When you get home, she draws him a picture.

It’s him with a cape. And glowing eyes. Holding her hand.

“You’re a superhero,” she tells him, pushing the crayon paper into his lap.

Leon stares at it like it hurts.

Like she’s giving him something he doesn’t know how to deserve.

Then he folds her into his arms and whispers, “Only for you.”

Sometimes you wonder if she understands.

That he’s not normal. That most dads don’t clean their guns with surgical precision at 2 a.m.

That most dads don’t flinch when a balloon pops.

But then you see her tuck a tiny toy gun into her backpack.

“Just in case, like Daddy.”

And Leon kneels in front of her, adjusting the straps, voice soft:

“Remember what I taught you. You don’t run toward danger. You get safe, then you tell someone.”

“Like you?”

He smiles. “Like me.”

And then—there’s the quiet moments.

When she’s asleep between you both, limbs everywhere.

When Leon’s hand is tangled in her hair and yours is wrapped around his chest.

When the TV glows in the background and your living room smells like popcorn and baby shampoo.

He turns to you sometimes, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You gave me a life,” he says quietly.

You blink at him. “What?”

“This. You. Her. It’s more than I ever thought I’d have.”

And maybe he’s not whole. Maybe he never will be.

But he’s yours.

And he’s hers.

And for once in a long, long time—

Leon is alive.

Not just surviving.

Living.

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