You smooth the fabric of your dress one last time as you hurry up the wide steps of the hotel, your pulse still racing from the frantic scramble of getting ready. The SAS holds its annual military ball every year—equal parts tradition, celebration, and a rare chance for soldiers who live in grit and danger to slip into an evening of elegance. You’ve been to a few now, always on Simon’s arm, always a little struck by how effortlessly these men and women who stare down death can carry themselves in formalwear.

You wince as you pull open the heavy door, bracing yourself for the sight of a ballroom already full of uniforms and medals and polished boots. Soft music drifts toward you, warm light spilling from chandeliers, the room alive with quiet conversation and the clink of glasses.

You step inside—and your eyes immediately catch on him.

Simon stands near one of the tall cocktail tables toward the back, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that careful, controlled way that only looks casual to people who don’t know him. He isn’t wearing his mask tonight; he never does for this event. Still, it always jolts you for a heartbeat, seeing him like this—seeing all of him—out in the open. His sharp features softened by the ambient light, the intensity of his gaze gentled by something warm, something familiar.

He notices you the second you enter.

You watch the reaction ripple through him: a slow exhale, a blink that lasts half a second too long, and the smallest curve of a smile he’d absolutely deny if anyone tried to call him on it. His gaze sweeps down your figure as you cross the room—never appraising, never possessive. Just taking you in as if you’re exactly what he’s been waiting for.

When you finally reach him, he leans in just slightly, enough that his voice is for you alone.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, that low rumble threaded with amusement—and unmistakable relief.