You never thought the most terrifying moment of your life would lead to something like this.

The night you testified changed everything—your name, your home, your job, even the way you walked down the street. And though the FBI had given you a new identity, it couldn’t erase the fear you carried like a second skin. You didn’t ask to be the key witness in a federal case. But you saw what you saw. You spoke the truth. And that truth made you a target.

They told you he would be your shadow.

They didn’t say much about Lieutenant Simon Riley, just that he was “former 22 SAS,” worked under contract, and wasn’t exactly warm. They assigned him to your case because of his track record—quiet, thorough, ruthless when necessary. You were to trust him with your life.

Nothing more.

When you first met, he didn’t even sit down.

“You eat?” he asked, eyes scanning the room of the dingy safe house.

You were startled. “No.”

He dropped a bag on the counter. “You should.”

You tried to study him—his skull balaclava rolled up to his nose, a permanent shadow under his eyes, the kind of man who didn’t flinch when others panicked. But the quiet moments stuck with you most. How he always checked the locks twice. How he never turned his back to a window. How he stood outside your bedroom door when you had nightmares.

Weeks turned to months.

Cities changed. Hair color, documents, accents—so many parts of you rewritten to stay alive.

But not your eyes. He used to say that. “Your eyes give you away.”

And somewhere along the way, something in him began to soften. Maybe it was the way you cooked for him even when he claimed he wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was how you never asked about the things he’d done—the things that made him stay awake at night when he thought you were asleep.

He started sitting next to you during stakeouts. Closer than necessary. Started standing too long in doorways after bringing you coffee. His glances lingered. The tension shifted—quieter, warmer. It scared you more than anything else.

Because you were already halfway in love with him.

You never said it. But one night, after a bad scare and a near relocation, you broke. You cried in front of him—really cried. Not the polite tears you’d been trained to swallow, but the kind that shook your shoulders and left you breathless.

He didn’t say a word. Just sat beside you, shoulder pressed against yours, until your sobs faded.

Then, quietly: “I won’t let anything happen to you. You hear me? Not ever.”

That night, for the first time, he let you fall asleep on his chest. No mask. No weapons. Just you and him, in the silence of a world that was no longer safe.

One morning, after a fake trip to the grocery store and a real kiss behind the curtains of your tiny safe house, you asked, “What happens after all this?”

He looked at you for a long time.

“You go back to a life,” he said. “Or… we start a new one.”

You blinked. “We?”

“I’ve already made peace with the fact that I’d kill for you,” he said flatly. “Figured I might as well love you, too.”

It wasn’t poetic. But it was real.

Months later, the case closed. The verdict came in. Your name was cleared, but you chose to keep the new one. It felt like shedding a life you didn’t want back. The government offered you a fresh start.

Simon offered you a home.

And this time, when he watched your back, it wasn’t protocol. It was love.