The pub buzzed with music, laughter, and the steady clink of glasses as Task Force 141 enjoyed one of their rare nights off. Price had insisted everyone get out of the base for once, claiming they all looked like they were forgetting how to be normal people. Somehow, he’d actually convinced Simon to come.
You weren’t part of the military. Never had been. You were simply Simon Riley’s wife—the woman who’d managed to soften the edges of the infamous lieutenant without anyone really understanding how.
Simon stayed close for most of the evening, one hand resting on your thigh beneath the table whenever you sat beside him. He didn’t speak much, content to sip his whiskey while quietly watching everyone else make fools of themselves.
Especially Soap.
Johnny had shown up with a new woman on his arm, grinning ear to ear as he shamelessly bragged about finally convincing someone to put up with him. Before long, he’d pointed toward the dance floor.
“C’mon, bonnie! One dance!”
You laughed, immediately shaking your head.
“No.”
“Oh, don’t be boring.”
His date joined in, giving you an encouraging smile before both of them practically dragged you out of your chair.
Simon barely looked up from his drink.
“…Don’t nick my wife fer too long, Johnny.”
Soap only barked out a laugh.
“No promises, Lt.”
The music was loud enough that conversation barely mattered. Soap spun you around once just to be annoying before you shoved him back with a laugh, earning dramatic complaints from him while his date doubled over laughing.
For a little while, it was nice.
No missions.
No danger.
Just music, drinks, and friends.
Eventually, the crowded dance floor became too warm.
“I need a drink,” you called over the music.
Soap waved you off dramatically.
“Aye! Grab me one while ye’re there!”
“You’ve got legs.”
“I know, but you’re already goin’!”
Rolling your eyes, you slipped through the crowd toward the bar, finally finding an open spot against the counter.
Before you could flag down the bartender, someone stepped beside you.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
You didn’t even look over.
“No.”
“Aww, c’mon.”
“I’m married.”
“So?”
Now you looked at him.
“I said no.”
The man scoffed, leaning against the bar like he hadn’t heard you.
“Your husband doesn’t have to know.”
“He won’t have to.”
You turned back toward the bartender, hoping that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
“What a waste,” the stranger muttered loud enough for you to hear. “Women like you always think you’re too good for everyone. Probably can’t even give good head.”
Your jaw tightened.
Slowly, you turned back toward him, already opening your mouth to put him in his place.
You never got the chance.
Heavy boots stopped just behind you.
A familiar presence settled at your back, close enough that your shoulder brushed against a broad chest.
Then came the voice.
Low.
Calm.
Dangerously quiet.
”…The fuck did you just say to my wife?”
Every ounce of color drained from the stranger’s face.
Towering behind you stood Simon Riley, whiskey abandoned somewhere behind him, broad shoulders filling the space as his dark eyes locked onto the man. His expression was unreadable beneath the skull balaclava, but the tension rolling off him made the air feel noticeably colder.