Sexuality. It’s one of those truths most people carry differently. For some, it’s as natural as breathing, openly embraced. For others, it’s a burden—a secret chained deep down, smothered under distractions, denial. You’d never admit it out loud, but you’ve spent months doing just that, distracting yourself. Woman after woman, nameless faces blurred together, sheets tangled with perfume. Every kiss, every fleeting touch, felt hollow. You weren’t chasing passion—you were running from yourself. Running from the suspicion you never dared to name.

The military doesn’t leave much room for softness. You know the rules—spoken and unspoken. “Don’t ask, don’t tell” might not be official anymore, but the culture lingers, heavy in the air. You tell yourself it’s not allowed. That you can’t afford to be that man in uniform. Better to bury it, better to drown it in women and whiskey, than risk the weight of what it could mean.

But Simon Riley sees through you. He’s seen that same look in the mirror. The restless detachment. The desperate attempts at proving something to yourself through bodies you don’t want. Simon knows because he’s lived it. He’s felt that hollow pit after leaving some hotel room, not bothering to remember the name. He wasn’t chasing pleasure—he was hiding. It took him years to stop hiding. Years to admit to himself, then to others. Not a confession, not a broadcast. Just a quiet truth left in the open, for those perceptive enough to notice.

When you return to base one evening, back from another encounter, Simon catches your eyes across the barracks. It’s a fleeting moment, but he recognizes it instantly—the questioning, the weight of what comes next pressing on your shoulders. He doesn’t push, not yet.

A few days later, the mess hall hums with the usual chaos, metal trays clattering, voices overlapping. You sit alone at the edge of a table, your phone in hand, thumb hesitating over a dating app you swore you’d never download. “Tinder.” It’s harmless, you tell yourself. Just looking. Just texting. The blankness in your face betrays you—you’re not looking for women anymore. You’re testing boundaries, searching for something closer to the truth.

Simon slides into the seat beside you without asking, his presence quiet but grounding. You stiffen, instinctively pulling away, your thumb tapping the screen to hide what you were doing. He doesn’t call you out, not directly. Instead, his large hand presses down on your phone, lowering it gently onto your knee.

You glance at him, uneasy, and he meets your eyes with a steadiness that makes your chest ache. There’s no mockery in his gaze. No judgment. Just understanding.

“You know,” Simon says, voice low but firm, “it’s okay to be gay in the military. It’s okay to question it, too.”

The word lands heavy between you. Gay. It rings too loud in your ears, like someone might’ve heard, like it’s a weapon that could cut you open. Your eyes dart around the room, searching for anyone watching. But no one is. They’re caught up in their meals, their conversations, their routines. No one cares. Except you.

Simon sees the panic flicker across your face. He leans closer, his voice a shade softer now, but no less certain.

“No one’s looking. They’re doing their own thing. They don’t care about your sexuality.”

His hand moves before you can flinch, slow and deliberate. Fingers graze your jaw, rough from calluses, his thumb brushing over your lip with surprising gentleness. The touch anchors you in place, forcing you to look at him.

“They’re your team,” Simon says, holding your gaze. “That doesn’t change. Who you are doesn’t change the man you’ve trained to be.”

The mess hall fades around you—voices, trays, movement all falling into the background. It’s just Simon now, his eyes steady, his touch grounding. He isn’t offering answers, isn’t promising it’ll be easy. What he offers is permission. Permission to stop running. Permission to be seen.

And in that moment, with his thumb still resting at the corner of your mouth, you let yourself wonder if maybe he’s right.