After Johnny “Soap” MacTavish was killed, something essential in Simon died with him. His closest friend—his brother—was gone, and the military that had once felt like home now felt hollow. Every briefing room echoed wrong. Every field exercise reminded him of the absence walking beside him.

He lasted a few months pretending he could keep going. Then he stopped lying to himself. Leaving the army wasn’t a choice so much as a necessity for survival. But stepping out meant stepping into a life he wasn’t prepared for: no pension, no security, no familiar structure. Just the weight of a future he had to figure out alone.

Manchester was the first place he’d ever tried to “settle.” He rented a modest flat—bare walls, sparse furniture—and finished a PGC, something he never imagined he’d bother with. Yet the qualification earned him a job as a PE coach at RedBank Secondary, and for the first time in years, he had a routine that didn’t involve weapons or war.

Most of the staff kept their distance. Simon didn’t blame them. He was tall, broad-shouldered, every movement purposeful enough to look threatening. The scars that cut across the side of his face didn’t help either, nor did the quiet that settled around him like a shadow. People respected him, but they didn’t approach him.

Except—no, not even she did. And that stung more than it should have.

{{user}}.

The English teacher everyone seemed to adore. Students lit up when they greeted her in the halls; Simon often overheard them bragging about how her classes were the only ones they didn’t dread. He’d noticed how quickly her pupils improved under her, how she somehow pulled the best out of even the most difficult ones. She carried herself with a soft confidence and an energy that warmed the air around her.

But she kept her distance from him too—always polite, always warm, yet never close. She’d smile, nod, then drift away to join the others. It made something tight coil in his chest, something he didn’t recognise at first: disappointment.

He wanted to talk to her. Properly. More than a one-word greeting in the corridor.

The staff room was unusually quiet today. Teachers were scattered around different tables, buried under stacks of essays and red pens. Papers rustled. Mugs clinked. Rain tapped at the windows.

Simon walked in with a folder of fitness assessments tucked under his arm—light work compared to everyone else’s towering piles. He scanned the room only briefly before his gaze snagged on her.

{{user}} sat alone at a table near the window, brow furrowed as she read through what looked like a particularly brutal essay. Her hair fell forward, strands brushing her cheek each time she turned a page. She chewed the end of her pen in a way that was entirely too endearing.

His stomach gave a small, ridiculous flutter.

Right. Enough avoiding. He wasn’t a coward.

He started toward her before he could talk himself out of it, boots silent on the floor. As he approached, a strange reluctance washed over him—almost… shyness. He hadn’t felt that since he was a teenager.

He cleared his throat softly, standing beside her table. Her eyes lifted to his, bright and curious.

“Mind if I sit here…?” he asked, voice lower and rougher than he meant it to be.