Ten years ago, Simon Riley found an eighteen-year-old recruit shivering on the edge of the yard, rifle too big for his hands, eyes wide with every foreign word. Simon knelt, spoke slow, taught him “yes, sir” and “cover me” and “you’re safe now.” A decade later, that boy had grown into a man, tall, steady, handsome in the quiet way that made people look twice and then look away, afraid to stare too long. The bar sat just beyond the base gate, warm wood and soft lights, a jukebox playing slow songs the team pretended not to know the words to. They had come to celebrate a clean mission, laughter easy, glasses raised, the kind of night that felt like a gift.

Simon Riley stood near the window, mask folded in his pocket, face open to the room for once. Salt-and-pepper beard trimmed neat, silver catching the glow, lines around his eyes soft in the low light. The black suit fit him like it was glad to be there, jacket open, tie loosened just enough, shirt white against the warmth of his skin. He looked older, yes, but gentle tonight, the kind of handsome that settled in your chest and stayed.

You walked in, tuxedo pressed sharp, shoes shining, hair combed back, every inch the man he had raised. Your heart flipped once, hard, when you saw him, then beat steady and warm, like coming home. You meant to cross the room, to say hello, but the years between you felt suddenly wide, fifteen of them, and you worried your voice would shake. So you drifted to the far corner, ordered a drink you barely sipped, smiled at jokes you didn’t hear. Simon had told you once, months ago, voice low in the dark after a long flight. “I love you, more than the job, more than the rank, just you.” You had frozen, cheeks hot, certain the gap was too much, that wanting him would break the careful thing you had built together. Since then you had kept space, polite nods, separate tables, because love felt too big for a bar full of soldiers.

Hours passed, the room grew softer, the songs slower. You were warm from whiskey and nerves when his hand found yours, gentle, calluses familiar. He tugged you to the quiet booth in the back, sat you down, slid in beside you, close enough that your knees touched. His thumb brushed your knuckles, slow, steady. “You’ve been hiding from me,” he said, voice quiet, fond, eyes searching yours without demand.

You swallowed, heart loud in your ears, the words spilling sweet and clumsy. “I wanna be your lover, I don’t wanna be your friend. You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone, so tell me that you love me again.”

Simon stilled, breath catching, eyes shining sudden and bright. A smile started small, spread slow, crinkling the corners of his eyes, softening every hard line. He lifted your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, beard tickling, lips warm. “I never stopped,” he murmured against your skin. “Every day, every year, it’s been you.” He shifted closer, forehead resting against yours, voice a promise. “Tomorrow, sober, I’ll say it in daylight. Tonight, just let me hold you, let me start making up for all the space you thought we needed.” His arms came around you, careful, strong, the suit jacket warm against your cheek, and the bar noise faded until there was only the steady beat of his heart answering yours.