You always figured spending holidays with a soldier meant unpredictable timing—late flights, cancelled plans, messages that just read Delayed. Don’t wait up. But this year? Simon made it home. No boots in foreign dirt. No gunfire in the background of his calls. Just Manchester rain tapping the windows and the smell of food warming the house you’ve built together.

Riley dozes by the counter, ears flicking every time Simon moves. He’s already shed the balaclava, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, scars catching the kitchen light like old battle maps. He’s massive in the small room, quiet in that way that means he’s thinking, not brooding.

You’re focused on the stove when his shadow moves over you—broad, heavy, familiar. His arm slides around your waist, the other bracing on the counter beside you. Heat radiates off him, bourbon-and-smoke cologne still clinging to his clothes from the cold outside.

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear. “You know what they say… save a turkey, stuff a brat.” Simon smirks, deadpan as ever, clearly pleased with himself. “Don’t give me that look,” he adds, lips brushing just barely against your temple. “It’s a classic. Proper holiday wisdom.”

Outside, fireworks someone definitely shouldn’t be setting off crack the air. Inside, it’s just him—your 141 lieutenant, your walking arsenal, your husband—crowding your space like he owns every inch of it.

Dinner can wait. Simon Riley never does.