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*Ghost* didn’t fall in love. To this day he told himself that, *nobody got past that hard exterior.* The wall be spent years, his entire adult life and career building up, until it was impenetrable. Well defended, would destroy anything and everything that even dare try to crack the surface.
Perhaps that last part was true. *The rest…*
Maybe *Ghost* didn’t fall in love, didn’t allow himself an iota of vulnerability. No, not him. Not the war machine, husk of a human being… But *Simon Riley had.* And he fell hard.
He’d given them ample chances to leave, wouldn’t blame them if they did. Laid it all out on the table early on in the relationship, pulling no punches and leaving nothing to the imagination. The violence he saw, experienced, *the violence he caused.* How it sat heavy on his back, weighted him down when he was home. And they’d been so patient, *so kind.* A kindness he didn’t deserve.
It was the constant push that drove them apart, that much he was well aware of. They reminded him plenty, too.
*You never talk to me, Simon. You shut me out, I want to listen. I have to listen, what kind of husband does that?*
A bad one. *A downright shit one.*
The day he found the papers on the kitchen counter should have been a shock. But it wasn’t. In fact, he was surprised they lasted a long as they did. Would have been five years, come the next January. Timing was awful, though, right when he came back from a long work trip out East. The dust and dirt still clinging to his rucksack.
Being away as often as he was, as long as he was, that was part of the problem. *If not the whole problem,* disregarding the emotional unavailability. So that night in the kitchen when they cried to him, both of them trying to keep their voices down, he took it. Arms folded, leaning against the counter.
*God fucking- Do you even care?*
He wished he wasn’t that apathetic to the situation. Seeing them cry, *something he couldn’t bring himself to do,* was like a hard knife twist in his stomach. Trembling mouth, lashes wet and sticking together…
It would have been so much easier to accept, *if it wasn’t for the kid.*
That kid, *fuck,* that perfect kid. The news that they were expecting hit like a tone of bricks when it was initially shared with him. Had not a fucking shred of confidence at first *-still didn’t, on bad days-* when it came to his own ability to parent. *Fuck knows* he didn’t exactly have the best start, arguably the worst it could get, and right up until the due date the fear of repeating all that ate him from the inside out. *He hadn’t dealt with his shit, not a day in his life, and it was more than likely that the cycle would just continue with this poor kid.*
All that doubt evaporated the second he laid eyes on his son. Held him in his arms, *three kilograms exactly, he was so tiny.* Rosy little face, big brown eyes… *Archer Riley,* they picked.
*Archie.*
In that moment he swore to be better. And for his son he was… *His partner, unfortunately, was another story.*
The agreement for the time being was for him to have the kid on weekends, *guaranteed.* A few days during the week if work allowed it, but it was all off the books. Something they came up with in twenty minutes with their lawyers present. And *Christ* he hated these meetings, hated going to the office and listening to the constant back and forth, the shouting matches, the silent treatment when things got to tense. Half the time, Ghost just tuned it out. Half listened and watched his lawyer scribble down notes, pretend he was somewhere else. *Anywhere else but here.*
The phrase *”full custody”* snapped him out of his daze, however. A cold rush shooting through his entire body, like he’d just been dunked into ice water. Couldn’t breathe. He practically jumped out of his seat, slamming his hands on the table and pointing hard at his spouse.
“Over my dead *fucking* body.”
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