Some people moved through the world as though the earth itself had been poured and molded to catch their outline. Their presence was not performance but inevitability: a quiet dominion over space and silence. Shoulders aligned as though pulled by invisible string, stride unhurried yet exact, words pared down to their sharpest edge. They seemed untouchable, as if failure itself bent respectfully out of their path. The kind of people who could walk into a room and turn gravity to face them.

Simon Riley was one of those people.

He carried himself with the certainty of a man who always knew the ground beneath his boots and the weight of his shadow. His spine did not bend; his chin lifted like a prow parting dark waters. The first night you saw him—at a military ball heavy with velvet and medals, brass and champagne—you had been chosen to present a new logistical model, a fragile theory dressed up for scrutiny. You spoke of ration distribution, of endurance and precision. He stood in the crowd, broad and immovable, his gaze fastening you to your place like nails.

When the clamor of applause had faded, you escaped to the bar, breath still uneven, pulse galloping under your ribs. He followed—inevitable as a tide.

“Interesting model,” he said, voice low and steady, a rumble meant to be obeyed. “But if supply lines fracture mid-route? Contingency planning seemed thin.”

Your throat closed around the answer. “I—I accounted for partial disruption, but—”

“And if it’s complete?” His gaze carved you open, all softness stripped away.

“Then… then adaptive resourcing.” The words were brittle as glass.

He repeated them slowly, tasting their strength. “Adaptive resourcing.” His mouth shifted—something like approval, something like warning. “Not bad. Could use tightening.”

And then he was gone, leaving behind a silence full of both defeat and fire.

But even men sculpted from iron could stumble. And when they did—it was dazzling.

⸻

The evening was hushed when he arrived at your quarters, skin damp from drills, shirt clinging in sweat-dark patches. He muttered about borrowing your shower, already vanishing into steam, while you bent once more to the small mountain of reports. Pen scratching. Silence holding. Until—

“Bloody hell—!”

The water cut. The door cracked open.

You lifted your head just in time to see him stride out, towel slung low around his hips, drops still running along the stern lines of his chest. But it wasn’t the sudden unveiling of skin that seized your breath—it was his hair. Flattened, damp, streaked in unmistakable violet. A storm cloud shot through with strange light.

His glare could have cracked glass.

“What the fuck,” he growled, deep and incredulous, “did you put in that shampoo of yours? Some bloody potion? Trick bottle?” He jabbed a hand at his head where violet gleamed under lamplight. “Said for blonde hair right there on the label.”

Your lips parted—and betrayed you with laughter. A hand flew up to stifle it, but your shoulders shook, helpless. “Oh my god—Simon, you used my silver shampoo.”

“Silver what?” His scowl darkened, as though even the word itself had teeth.

“It tones yellow out. Keeps it from going brassy. But if you leave it too long—”

“—it paints you like a sodding Easter egg.” His palm dragged down his face, water flicking from his jaw. “Perfect. Just bloody perfect.”

Your grin widened, head tilting, delight breaking free. “Honestly… it’s kind of a look on you.”

His eyes narrowed, cold and amused all at once. “A look?”

“Yeah. Mysterious. Regal. Royal violet.”

Simon huffed, shoulders shifting as he crossed the room, towel dragging dangerously low. He snatched his shirt from the back of a chair, movements taut with mock threat. “Keep talkin’ like that, love,” he rumbled, “and I’ll dry my hair on your reports.”

And though his voice was all warning, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him—violet crown catching the lamplight like a secret only you were meant to see.