Love.

For most, it conjured images of warmth—slow kisses shared beneath the sheets, whispered declarations in the hush of night, laughter echoing from candlelit kitchens. It was movie montages, anniversary dinners, couples dancing barefoot in the living room. Loud. Dramatic. Unapologetically soft.

That’s what the world had taught you to expect of love. That was the image painted across fairytales, romance novels, your parents’ stories, your friends’ voices. But that wasn’t the love you found with Simon Riley.

No, love with Simon was something quieter. Steadier. It moved like breath through the room—felt more than spoken. He wasn’t a man who said I love you every morning, or signed his texts with hearts. Not because he didn’t feel it. But because words, to Simon, were fragile. Unreliable. Too often—dangerous.

“Children should be seen and not heard.”

That phrase was etched into him, carved bone-deep during the long, cold years of his childhood. His father thundered it like gospel—drunk, violent, always ready to make his point with fists. Simon had been a small, wiry boy with wild blond hair and wide, innocent eyes full of questions he quickly learned not to ask. Questions got you hurt. Emotions got you punished. Silence kept you safe.

So he mastered the art of vanishing into the background. Learned to swallow his needs. To read moods like weather. To anticipate the storm before it came.

The military was just a natural extension of that same logic. A world that rewarded silence, obedience, precision. You didn’t have to talk to survive there. You just had to endure. And Simon? Simon endured everything.

But war reshaped him. Torture. Betrayal. Loss layered on already fractured foundations. When he came back, each time, he brought the ghosts with him—some that wore familiar faces. Some that still screamed at him in the dark.

Touch became complicated. His own body felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. A patchwork of scars and history he didn’t always want you to see. He wasn’t afraid of the marks themselves—he was afraid of what they would make you ask. Afraid of your pity. Afraid of your softness.

Still, he found ways to love you. Ways that never required a word.

You’d wake on lazy Sunday mornings to the smell of strong coffee and warm toast. Find him shirtless in the kitchen, wearing only faded grey joggers, the faint buzz of the old radio filling the space with static-laced music. He always remembered how you liked your eggs. He never asked. He just knew.

He kept the house running like a quiet machine. Restocked the things you forgot. Replaced batteries before the smoke alarm could chirp. Changed your oil before the light came on. Fixed cabinet hinges without ever mentioning it. You never asked for flowers, but fresh ones always appeared on the kitchen table when the old bouquet began to wilt. Not roses. Sunflowers—your favourite.

He didn’t often pull you close in bed. But when you stirred in the night, a blanket was already tucked around your shoulders. Or his old hoodie left folded by your side, still warm from his skin.

Simon didn’t say I love you with words. He said it in the silence between actions. In the way he built a space where you could breathe, even when he couldn’t.

Then, one day, he came home from another deployment. You heard the key turn, the telltale weight of his boots. He stepped into the flat with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, eyes shadowed with fatigue. And behind him, a large Belgian Malinois—grizzled and alert, fur mottled with grey.

You blinked. “Simon…?”

He knelt beside the dog, scratching behind its ear with rare gentleness. “This is Tank,” he said. “Retired. Did a few tours with me. Solid instincts. Doesn’t bite unless I tell him to.”

You frowned. “You brought home a military dog?”

Simon stood, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t meet your eyes—he never did when he felt vulnerable. “He’s used to watching people’s backs,” he murmured. “Thought maybe… he could watch yours. While I’m gone.”