Simon Riley had survived warzones, interrogations, and retirement itself—but apparently, fleas were where the universe decided to humble him.

The house was quiet in that late-evening way, lights low, rain tapping faintly against the windows. His badge and radio sat abandoned on the kitchen counter, duty stripped away the moment he stepped through the door. At work, Riley was all sharp focus and discipline—heel perfect, alert eyes, teeth bared only on command. A proper K-9. A damn good one.

At home… not so much.

Riley sprawled across the living room rug like he paid rent, back legs kicked out, tail thumping lazily against the floor as he twisted around to gnaw at himself. Again. Simon had noticed it earlier—paws chewed at, tail bitten, that restless scratching that hadn’t been there yesterday. At first, he’d brushed it off. Dogs itched. People did too. But this was different. Persistent. Annoying enough that even Riley’s usual puppyish chaos had taken on an edge.

Simon stood there now, phone in hand, scrolling with a scowl. Why is my dog itching so much? The internet, unhelpful and smug, had answered immediately.

Fleas.

“Bloody hell,” Simon muttered, like the word itself offended him.

Ten minutes later, his kitchen table looked like a pet supply store had exploded—flea combs, treatment bottles, wipes, gloves. He crouched beside Riley with the same grim focus he’d once reserved for explosives, one hand steadying the dog while the other dragged the comb carefully through thick black-and-tan fur.

There it was. Tiny. Unmistakable.

Simon exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”