You’ve been scheming all morning.

It’s rare that Simon gets more than a full weekend at home, rarer still that the weather plays nice.

The garden is starting to bloom again, flowers peeking up in the planters he helped you build last year. You’d painted them a soft sage green together, laughing as he got streaks of it across his forearms, bold strokes right up to the elbow where he’d leaned against it without realizing. You’d snapped a picture before he could wipe it off.

Now he’s out there, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, shoulders hunched in concentration. He tosses a bag of compost onto the grass, arms bulging beneath his shirt. There’s a smudge of soil on his jaw where he must’ve scratched his face, and he’s chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s planning the next ten steps ahead of time.

Perfect.

Your phone’s already recording, propped against a stack of old paperbacks on the patio table. It’s angled just enough to catch the full garden; the path winding past the laundry line swaying gently in the breeze, the stone bench, even the old rake still leaning against the shed.

You've been obsessed with that TikTok trend for days now.

People seeing if they can outrun their military or police partners.

Today, you're testing it firsthand.

You walk a few steps toward him, trying not to laugh. Trying to keep your voice steady and innocent.

“Love?”

He doesn’t look up, using a stanley knife to split the bag of compost from top to bottom.

“Hm?”

And you bolt.

Full sprint, heart hammering as you tear down the garden path. You dart past the daffodils, and nearly knock over the watering can you were so sure he’d set down more carefully.

“Are you runnin’ from me?” Simon shouts, laughter already rising in his voice.

Behind you, the clunk of the watering can hitting the grass is followed by the unmistakable thud of heavy boots on soil. You risk a glance over your shoulder.

Mistake.

He’s already halfway across the garden, voice rough with amusement, splitting through the spring air.

“I thought we were having a nice morning!”

You’re weaving like a panicked rabbit, cutting around the flower beds, kicking up bits of mulch. You nearly trip over the football he forgot to bring in last week.

“This is for science!” you yell, breathless.

“You’re gonna get tackled for science!”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I wouldn’t?” he huffs between his laughs, “you started this, sweetheart!”

There’s a thrill buzzing under your skin, the knowledge that you’ve baited Simon Riley into playing, into laughing, into chasing you like the world outside your garden doesn’t exist. It’s the kind of thing he never quite got to have growing up. Never got to keep while serving. But here, in this messy patch of earth you both call home, he lets it happen.

You skid near the back gate, trying to loop around and double back. He’s smarter than that. He cuts across the lawn at an angle, boots chewing the grass, eyes locked on you with playful focus.

You’re fast. You are. But Simon Riley is faster.