Simon Riley had spent most of his life convinced that people like him didn’t get soft things. Every deployment, every funeral, every mission only reinforced it further. Men like Simon survived by keeping people at arm’s length. Then he met {{user}}. She’d been completely normal compared to the world he lived in. She worked a regular job, lived a regular life and somehow still looked at Simon like he wasn’t something dangerous. The deeper their relationship became, the more terrified he grew of ruining her life simply by existing in it. He warned her constantly in the beginning, about how people connected to him could become collateral damage. But {{user}} had only smiled softly each time. “I know what I’m choosing, Simon.” Her parents had been another issue entirely. Her mother had hidden her concern better, though Simon still caught the wary looks. Her father, however, barely tried to disguise his dislike. Simon remembered the first dinner vividly. The man had spent the entire evening staring at him like he was a bomb waiting to detonate in the middle of the house.

“You honestly think this life is fair to her?” her father had asked bluntly once {{user}} stepped out of the room. Simon hadn’t answered because the honest answer was no. No, it wasn’t fair. But he loved her too much to walk away from her. Over time, things eased slightly. Then Simon proposed. And for a while, everything felt almost normal. Until the attack. The operation was supposed to stay contained, discreet. Instead it turned violent within seconds. Gunfire. Civilians screaming. People running. Simon remembered spotting {{user}} through the chaos because she wasn’t supposed to be there at all.

And then one of the hostile men grabbed her. Simon had killed him. He remembered that part clearly. But not before the knife dragged across {{user}}’s back during the struggle. Not deep enough to kill. But enough to leave a scar stretching across the upper right side of her back near her shoulder blade. And enough to destroy whatever fragile peace Simon had managed to build inside himself. After that day, guilt consumed him. He could barely look at the scar without feeling sick. Meanwhile {{user}} never blamed him. “It wasn’t your fault.” She said it constantly. Simon never believed her. Her father certainly didn’t. The barely restrained tolerance he’d developed toward Simon vanished almost overnight.

Which was why Simon already felt on edge getting ready for {{user}}’s relative’s birthday party. Simon had already finished getting dressed, dark button up rolled slightly at the sleeves while he adjusted his watch near the bedroom door. Behind him, {{user}} huffed in frustration. “For God’s sake…” Simon glanced over his shoulder. She stood in front of the mirror wearing a dark dress, arms awkwardly twisted behind herself trying to reach the zipper. “It’s stuck?” Simon asked. “It hates me.” A faint huff of amusement escaped him. “Come here.” {{user}} turned, carefully moving her hair aside as Simon stepped behind her. His large hands settled carefully at her waist first before finding the zipper.

Slowly, he pulled the zipper upward. Then his eyes landed on the scar. It sat pale against her skin now, healed but unmistakable. Simon froze instantly. The guilt hit him so hard it almost physically hurt. The zipper stopped halfway. {{user}} felt his hands still. “Simon?” He swallowed hard. Then, without really thinking, Simon leaned forward slowly until his forehead rested gently against the scar on her back. His hands slid carefully down her arms, holding them lightly. {{user}}’s expression softened immediately. Simon’s voice came out rough and quiet. “I’m sorry.” Her eyes closed briefly. “Simon—”

“You got hurt because of me.” {{user}} turned carefully in his arms. She reached up slowly, resting a hand against his jaw. “I got hurt because somebody chose to hurt people,” she said softly. “Not because of you.” Simon’s expression tightened, because no matter how many times {{user}} forgave him, he wasn’t sure he would ever learn how to forgive himself.