The first thing Simon Riley noticed about Lexie was not her skill with a rifle or the way she carried herself in the field.

It was her voice.

It was calm, steady, and unyielding, the kind of voice that didn’t ask for permission to be heard. During her first briefing with Task Force 141, she stood at the edge of the room with her arms crossed, listening more than she spoke. When she did speak, it was precise, direct, and unapologetic.

Simon told himself he was only paying attention because it was his job to evaluate new recruits.

But weeks passed, then months, and he found himself noticing things that had nothing to do with duty.

The way she didn’t flinch when Price raised his voice. The way she argued back when something didn’t make sense. The way she didn’t soften herself to make anyone else comfortable.

She was thirty-four—closer to Simon’s age, closer to his world. She had seen enough to understand him without explanation. When missions ended and the rest of the team joked around, Lexie often stayed behind, cleaning her gear in silence. Sometimes Simon would sit beside her, neither of them speaking much, the quiet between them feeling strangely familiar.

He didn’t realize when admiration turned into something else.

At home, things were different.

You had been married for three years, but sometimes Simon felt like he had known you his entire life. You were twenty-three, younger than him by more than a decade, but you carried a kind of maturity that had nothing to do with age. You moved through life gently, as if every sound and every feeling mattered.

You woke up before him most mornings, quietly padding into the kitchen so you wouldn’t disturb him. By the time he came downstairs, there was usually coffee waiting for him, sometimes breakfast if you had time. You always asked about his day, even when he gave you the same vague answers.

“How was work?”

“Same as always.”

You never pushed him to say more.

Simon had once loved that about you. The way you didn’t demand explanations. The way you didn’t try to pry open the parts of him that were locked away.

But as Lexie became more present in his life, he began to notice the contrast.

Lexie asked questions. Lexie challenged him. Lexie refused to let him retreat into silence.

And slowly, unfairly, Simon began to see you through a lens you didn’t deserve.

You were too quiet. Too gentle. Too willing to accommodate him.

He hated himself for thinking it.

He hated himself even more for not stopping.

The night everything changed was painfully ordinary.

You were sitting on the couch beside him, legs tucked beneath you, scrolling through your phone while some forgettable show played in the background. Simon sat with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, his gaze fixed on the television though he wasn’t really watching it.

He had rehearsed the words in his head for days.

They still felt wrong in his mouth.

“Love,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him, a small smile forming on your lips. “Yeah?”

For a moment, he almost backed out. Almost told you it was nothing. Almost chose the easier path.

But he didn’t.

“I think we need to talk.”

Your smile faded, replaced by a hint of concern. “Okay… about what?”

Simon swallowed, his jaw tightening. “About us.”

The air in the room seemed to shift.

You put your phone down slowly. “What about us?”

He stared at the TV again, as if the screen might save him from having to look at you. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About what I feel. About what I want.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of the blanket in your lap. “Simon, you’re scaring me. Just say it.”

He exhaled slowly, forcing the words out. “I think we should open the marriage.”

For a second, you thought you had misheard him.

“Open…?” Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “What does that even mean?”

He finally turned his head to look at you. Your eyes were wide, confused, already beginning to shine with unshed tears.

“It means,” he said carefully, “that we don’t limit ourselves to just each other anymore.”