20. Wake-up call

Ghost's Flat, North London – 18:08 GMT

The sky was bruised, the last light of day painting the rooftops orange and blue. The city outside the window felt far away, muffled by rain and distance. Inside, the flat was still—too still, like it already knew the peace wouldn't last.

My suitcase was open on the bed, half-packed, clothes folded and re-folded until every edge was too sharp. The text from Price was still sitting at the top of my phone, brief and brutal as always:

"Home leave's over. Both of you pack up. Barracks at 0800. Debrief 0900. – P"

Just like that, the world shifted: no more borrowed mornings, no more hiding from the storm.

Ghost was in the kitchen, moving quietly—just the scrape of a spoon against a mug, the low rattle of the kettle. I heard him mutter something about the sodding tap—always leaking—and the way he said it made me want to laugh and cry at once.

I zipped the suitcase, hands lingering on the handle. It felt wrong, like I was packing away the only proof I'd ever been here. I almost wanted to leave something behind on purpose.

He appeared in the doorway, mask in place, arms crossed. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up, and there was a faded black smudge of oil on his forearm—proof of his earlier battle with the pipes. He nodded at the case.

"That ready, then?" Manchester thick and flat in his voice, that lazy way he had of letting syllables roll.

"Mostly," I said. "You'd think I was moving out for good."

He made a low sound, not quite a laugh. "You never did know how to pack light, dove."

I snorted, zipping the case all the way. "Coming from you, that's rich. I've seen your kit, Simon. There's enough gear in there to survive a siege."

He tipped his head, one shoulder leaning against the frame. "Different kind of packin'. Yours smells better."

I let the air settle, soft. He didn't fill the silences, but tonight it felt like every pause was crowded with things we couldn't say. I wanted to tell him thank you, but it felt too thin. I wanted to say, "Don't make me go," but it felt selfish, and I'd spent too long learning not to ask.

Instead, I reached for my jacket and found my toothbrush in the cup by the sink—a stupid, domestic detail that nearly undid me.

He caught the look and grunted. "Leave it, if you want. I'll keep it here. Never know when you'll be back to wreck my plumbing."

I managed a smile, setting it back with shaking fingers. "Wouldn't want you getting too tidy in here."

He snorted, crossing to the couch, dropping down with a thud. "You say that like I'm the one makes the mess. Takes a proper wanker to break a sink just by rinsin' a mug."

I rolled my eyes, laughter a balm. "You're calling me a wanker now?"

He shrugged, broad shoulders loose. "If the shoe fits, love."

I flopped onto the arm of the couch, letting my head tip back. The room smelled like rain, tea, and him—something clean, edged with smoke.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, steam curling in the stillness. He made no move to get it.

"You gonna miss this dump?" he asked, voice quiet now.

I looked up at the water-stained ceiling, the crack in the plaster above the lamp. "Yeah. I really am."

He nodded, picking at a loose thread in his sleeve. "It'll be here. Spare key's in the plant pot, unless you forget again and I have to buzz you in."

A smile twitched at my lips. "That only happened twice."

He grunted. "Three times. Don't make me write it down."

I let the silence stretch, eyes half-closed. I could feel the minutes slipping away—every one a little sharper than the last.

18:37 GMT

I got up before I could think better of it, moved into the kitchen on bare feet, letting the cold tile bite through my socks. The kettle had cooled. I poured us both mugs anyway—builders' tea for him, black and strong; mine milky, sweet, and embarrassingly soft. I brought them over, setting his by his knee.

He took it without looking, but the thanks was there in the set of his shoulders.

I sat on the other end of the couch, knees pulled up, staring at the mug. "So," I said, "what's the plan for our last night of civilization?"

He shrugged, taking a long swallow, then set the cup on the floor with a heavy clink. "Could do a film. Or chess. Or just sit here and count the cracks in the ceiling. You pick."

I considered it. I didn't want noise, not really. I wanted this: the hush, the way our words filled the space, the possibility of more hanging in the air.

"Chess," I decided, because it felt safe. "But you're not allowed to cheat."

He snorted, voice all northern pride. "You just don't like losin', dove. But if it'll make you feel better, I'll play with my eyes closed."

I grinned. "Then you might finally stand a chance."

He rose, gathering the battered chess set from the shelf, thumbing the lid open with the care of a man diffusing a bomb. He always touched things like that—like they might bite if you weren't careful.

I set up the pieces, white and black, pawns nicked and battered from a hundred games before. We played, hands moving in easy silence, Ghost's gaze sharp and steady above the mask. Every so often, he'd mutter under his breath about my "reckless playin'" or "Moscow tricks."

The room was thick with unspoken words, every move a question: will you stay, will you leave, is this all there is?

At one point, he looked up, caught me staring, and tilted his head. "What?"

I shrugged, feigning innocence. "Just thinking. About how you never blink."

He rolled his eyes. "That so? Maybe you're just not quick enough to catch me."

I smiled, but it faded. "Maybe."

We played on. I lost, of course, but it wasn't about the game. It never was.

As he packed away the pieces, his hands lingered on the board a little longer than necessary.

"You alright, Nina?" he asked, voice soft, his accent heavier than usual.

I looked at him, found something fragile in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers tapped restlessly. "Yeah. Just... wish this didn't have to end."

He grunted, but there was no bite to it. "S'not endin'. Just changin'. You're not gettin' rid of me that easy."

My laugh was quiet, almost a sigh. "Is that a threat?"

He finally looked at me—really looked, dark eyes steady through the mask. "Promise."

Something caught in my chest. I let it settle, warm and real.

19:20 GMT

The clock ticked toward dinner, and I lingered in the kitchen longer than I needed, hunting for something simple. I found eggs and the end of a loaf—decided on the classic: eggs on toast. The eggs came out rubbery, toast a bit burnt, but I made a plate for each of us and carried them out, embarrassed but stubborn.

Ghost was still at the window, checking the sky like he half-expected to see gunships on the horizon. He turned as I set his plate beside him.

"Bloody hell, you tryin' to poison me?" His tone was dry, teasing, but his eyes softened as he took the fork.

"I could do worse," I said, sliding onto the arm of the couch. "Don't expect a Michelin star."

He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. "Had worse. Trust me. You ever had Gaz's cooking?"

I snorted. "You ever had Chistilishe rations?"

He gave a rare, quiet laugh—a rumble through the mask. "Fair. Maybe you should do all the cookin' from now on. Make the rest of the squad suffer."

I made a face. "You're a cruel man, Simon Riley."

"Damn right." He gestured at my plate. "Eat up, you wanker. Big day tomorrow."

The word—wanker—made me laugh out loud, cutting the tension. I'd heard him say it to Soap and Gaz, but only two times to me. Somehow, it felt like a gift.

We ate in silence, knees nearly touching, the city pressing in at the edges of the glass. I tried to memorize every detail: the scrape of his fork, the sound of his swallow, the way he never quite relaxed but let the world slow, just for this.

After, I cleared the plates, ran the tap too hot, let the steam fog the window above the sink. Ghost hovered in the doorway, mug in hand, watching me the way you watch something you're afraid might disappear.

"You packin' the rest tonight, or waitin' for sunrise?" he asked.

I glanced at him over my shoulder, hair falling into my eyes. "Haven't decided. Feels like... if I pack, it's over. If I don't, maybe we get one more day."

He stepped closer, the soft creak of boots on linoleum. "Don't work like that, dove. Wish it did."

I let the water run a moment longer, then dried my hands on a tea towel, turning to face him. He was close—closer than I'd realized.

There was a long beat, neither of us moving. Then, as if by silent agreement, we both gravitated back to the living room—him with his mug, me with nerves fizzing beneath my skin.

He sat, elbows on knees, mask shadowed in the lamplight. I curled into the other end of the sofa, pulling my knees up, arms wrapped around them.

"Last night, huh," I murmured, voice soft, uncertain.

He nodded, looking at the mug as if it held answers. "Aye. Tomorrow it's all kit bags and orders. Back to the grind."

I studied him—broad shoulders hunched, every inch the soldier except for the way his hand tapped restlessly on his thigh.

I wanted to ask.

Do you want me here?

Will you miss me?

Am I more than just a teammate in the quiet hours?

But the words jammed up, unspoken.

He looked over suddenly, eyes catching mine. The air crackled—electric, trembling on the edge of something.

I hesitated, heart in my throat. "Simon—"

He leaned in, just a fraction—enough that if I closed the gap, my lips would meet fabric, not skin. The mask was all hard lines and stitched edges, a barrier and a shelter at once. I stared at it, feeling a ridiculous ache: wanting to kiss him anyway, wanting to show him it didn't matter.

It was strange, maybe, to long for something so small—a kiss pressed to cloth, not flesh. But for us, nothing was small. The mask wasn't just something he hid behind; it was something he'd trusted me with, let me close to, even when he let no one else near. And I wanted him, all of him—walls, scars, secrets and all.  I wanted to kiss him anyway, to press my mouth to the only piece of him he let the world see, to say: I know you. I want you, as you are. I don't care about scars, or secrets, or all the things you hide. I don't care if I ever see your real face. This—right here, right now—is enough.

I wondered what it would mean if I did it. If I leaned in, pressed my lips to the balaclava. Would he flinch? Would it be too much, or just enough? Maybe I'd never get to see his real face. Maybe I'd never need to. What mattered was here, the quiet pull between us, the knowledge that sometimes wanting is enough.

Maybe that's what intimacy was, in the end. Not stripping every armor away, but learning to reach for someone through all of it. Letting them know you see what's underneath, and you want them anyway.

He didn't move away.

I almost did it.

He inhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Careful, Nina," he murmured, accent rough, words soft. "You're playin' with fire."

My hand dropped. My voice was just a whisper.

"Maybe I want to burn."

He stared at me for a long, endless second. Then he leaned back—barely—just enough to let the moment cool. "Not tonight, love. Got enough scars."

His tone was gentle, not a rejection but a line drawn in care. The ache of wanting, not quite met, shimmered between us.

I looked away, cheeks hot, but found myself smiling—because he hadn't said never, only not yet.

"Alright," I whispered. "Not tonight."

He let out a breath, like he'd been holding it for hours. "Get some rest, dove. I'll make sure we don't sleep through the call."

But he didn't move from the sofa, and I didn't move from my corner. The silence was safe, charged, sacred.

For a while, we just sat—two soldiers in the calm before another storm, the city holding its breath outside.

01:54

We didn't sleep much. Not really.

He stretched out on the sofa, as always, but I lay awake in the bedroom, every sound amplified. The ticking of the radiator, the soft groan of pipes, the far-off wail of a siren somewhere in the city

I kept thinking about the almost-kiss—the heat in my cheeks, the warmth in my chest, the ache that wasn't quite pain.

At some point, I gave up on pretending. I padded out to the living room, quiet as a ghost, blanket around my shoulders. Ghost sat upright, not even pretending to doze, mask glinting in the blue wash of the streetlight.

He glanced up, eyes soft. "Can't sleep?"

"Didn't want to waste it," I said, sitting on the floor by the sofa, blanket wrapped tight. "Last night and all."

He nodded, a line between his brows. "Yeah. Never lasts, does it?"

I shook my head, and for a second, let myself lean against his knee, head turned toward the window. The city looked peaceful from here—safe, for once.

We talked about nothing and everything. Soap's taste in music ("Worse than his hair, and that's sayin' something," Ghost muttered). Gaz's secret stash of Cadbury bars in the barracks. Price's lectures. Little things.

Then the conversation slowed, drifting into silence, comfortable and heavy.

"Hey," I said, not looking up, voice nearly a whisper. "If you get tired of the army—of all this—you could always open a bakery. Or a plumbing business. I'd hire you."

He huffed. "You want me to be your handyman, dove?"

"Someone's got to keep the place from flooding."

A beat.

His hand found the top of my head, just resting there, careful and sure. "You're trouble. Proper wanker."

A small, tired laugh bubbled out of me. "You're stuck with me, then."

He squeezed, gentle. "Could do worse."

I wanted to say so much more. But the quiet won out, the soft hush of a city letting us have our last hours in peace.

When I finally stood, rubbing sleep from my eyes, he walked me back to the bedroom door, not letting go until the last possible moment.

"Get some kip, Nina," he said, voice gentle. "Big day tomorrow."

"You too, Simon."

For the first time, it was easy to believe I'd be here with him again, even if the world tried its best to pull us apart.