Simon Riley once regarded his periods of mandatory leave with a contempt for idleness that masked a far deeper terror. To be pulled from the structure of routine, from the noise and necessity of duty, was to be returned to the silence of his Manchester flat. A place which, though lawfully his, never embraced him as its inhabitant. It stood mute and impersonal, with its bare walls and dust-heavy corners, like the cell of a man awaiting sentence. There was no comfort in it, no memory to warm the bones.

He had pleaded with Price in those early years in his own quiet way—to be kept on, to be allowed some menial task, even paperwork, as if repetition could dull the ache that always returned when he crossed that threshold and remembered that no one waited for him.

It was a dog that changed this. Of course it would be.

The mission had been unremarkable. But there had been a K-9 unit, and one of the shepherds—had taken a round to the leg. It healed, but not where it mattered. They said the dog had become unpredictable, that fear lingered in its blood like an infection. Useless, they called it.

Simon did not protest aloud, but something in him revolted. Perhaps it was the clarity of recognition, like glimpsing oneself in the cracked mirror of a dream. So he took the dog—Riley—and brought him home.

Thereafter, his flat began to change—not suddenly, but in the quiet manner of ice thawing under sunlight. The silence became bearable. The rooms grew soft around the edges. A rug was bought, ugly as sin, and yet the dog adored it. Bowls appeared in corners. Lamps cast amber halos across the walls. In Riley's careful solitude, a new rhythm was born, tender and fragile.

This summer, for the first time, he extended that fragile rhythm to another—{{user}}, who stood now beneath the sun, watching the scene unfold. The presence of another man in this sacred, reclaimed space would have once filled Simon with dread. But now... now it felt natural. Not painless, but real.

In the backyard, the sun hung low and golden, drawing long shadows on the grass. Simon stood barefoot, clad in black swim trunks adorned with foolish little ghosts and an old, oversized hoodie bearing the name Lt. Riley across the chest. He held a garden hose like a weapon. The dog danced before him, all tooth and tongue and boundless joy.

There was a look on Simon's face—small, fleeting. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. More telling was the crinkle around his eyes, the way they softened, as if even in his broken heart there remained some untouched reserve of affection.

"Awright, Riley," he murmured, voice low like an old confession, "let's see what mode ya fancy. Straight one, to start."

He glanced at {{user}}, checking that he was watching. Not out of pride. More like… reassurance. This is what I am, when no one's watching. But I want you to see it.

He pulled the trigger, and a sharp jet of water struck the dog square in the face. Riley yelped, snapped at the stream with glee. Simon chuckled.

He adjusted the nozzle to a gentler stream and tried again. This time the dog leapt upward, tail a blur, splashing into Simon's chest with all the grace of a falling star. The hose clattered to the ground. Simon caught the animal, fingers raking through soaked fur. He was laughing now—heartily. A sound both strange and deeply human coming from a man who, for so long, had spoken mostly in silence and gunfire.

He glanced again at {{user}}, lips parted in a grin that made him look younger, unburdened—if only for this singular hour.

"This dog," he said, breathless. "Right menace, he is."

But he didn't put the dog down. Not yet. His arms remained around that sodden body, not with restraint, but with a need. And beneath the laughter, there was something else. A question unspoken, a gratitude unexpressed.

And in that moment, as the sun caught in the strands of wet fur and the weight of another summer afternoon pressed gently on the shoulders of two men and one dog—Simon Riley felt, however briefly, that he had not been put down after all.

He had been saved.