The return flight was quieter than usual. Not because there was no strength left to speak, but because everyone’s thoughts were still buried out there in the dust of the mission. Your muscles burned, your head throbbed, and the smell of metal and gunpowder still clung to you. Beside you walked Simon Riley. Lieutenant of Task Force 141. Thirty-eight years old, forged from hardness, held together by discipline. His gaze was, as always, cold, alert, unreadable. And yet you knew he saw everything. Including you.

You were a Sergeant. Twenty-eight. Young enough to hope, old enough to know that hope was dangerous. Especially when it came to Simon. You harbored feelings for him—secretly, quietly, like a mistake you were never meant to make. He kept you at arm’s length, spoke to you professionally, curtly, sometimes sharply. And yet there was that jealousy. That possessiveness that flickered in his eyes whenever someone got too close to you.

You reached the corridor of the quarters. Yours. His steps slowed almost imperceptibly as you passed your door. Then everyone stopped.

A massive bouquet of red roses leaned against it. Impossible to miss. Provocative. A foreign presence in this sterile, military environment.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Simon knew immediately who they were from. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, in the sharp intake of his breath. “Zane,” he said quietly. No doubt. No hesitation. Zane. A lieutenant from another task force. Confident. Too confident. One of those men who had looked at you as if you were something he could simply claim.

Simon’s gaze snapped to you. Furious. Dark. Possessive. For a moment, you thought he would shout at you. Demand an explanation. Confront you. Claim you—and then pull back again, turn cold, raise his walls like he always did. Being close to him was always a shift between heat and ice.

“Roses,” he growled. “After a mission.” You swallowed. “I didn’t order them.”

He knew that. And that was exactly what made it worse.

A war raged inside him. You could see it. He wanted distance. Wanted to push you away, because closeness meant weakness. Because emotions had no place in his life. And yet, at the same time, he wanted to make it clear—to mark the boundary—that you were not free. Not for Zane. Not for anyone.

His hand curled into a fist. His knuckles turned white. “He thinks he can just…,” Simon began, then broke off. His voice was dangerously calm. “He crossed a line.”

Before you could respond, Soap stepped forward. “Simon,” he said warningly, placing a hand on his forearm. “Let it go. Not here. Not now.”

Simon’s eyes cut to him. Ice-cold. “Take your hand off me.”

“This will get you in trouble,” Soap continued, quieter now. “You know how this looks.”

For a fraction of a second, Simon seemed to hesitate. As if reason might seep through the rage. Then he shook Soap’s hand off.

“He shouldn’t have done this,” Simon said, more to himself than to either of you. Then he turned back to you. “Stay here.”

Not a request. An order.

Soap cursed under his breath. “Damn it, Riley—”

Too late.

Simon turned away, his steps hard, resolute. The aggression burst out of him like a dam breaking. You knew exactly where he was going. To Zane. To the man who had dared to leave red roses at your door.

You remained behind, standing between flowers and unspoken feelings, as Simon Riley stormed down the corridor—ready to break someone’s jaw rather than admit that you had long since become more to him than he would ever allow himself to feel.