He said he didn’t sleep with anyone else. Said you were the only one who touched him. The only one who ever meant something. And God, you believed him. You believed everything he told you. Every rare, quiet whisper he gave you after nightmares. Every tender look when his hands trembled too hard to hold your face without shaking. Every time he kissed your forehead like you were the only soft thing in a world full of blood and war.

But it was a lie.

It wasn’t recent. It wasn’t even during a “good” part of your relationship. But it was there. A one-night stand. Months before he ever let himself feel anything real for you. It happened during one of those blacked-out missions, where days bled into nights and death sat heavy in his mouth. He came back numb, distant. You remembered—it was the first time he ever flinched away from your hand.

You thought it was the trauma. The job.

You didn’t know it was guilt.

He never told you. You found out on your own. A single message buried in a wiped device. Coordinates. A date. A line of text from some unknown woman—just enough to know.

You didn’t scream when you confronted him. You just shut down. Like a wire snapped inside you.

He tried to explain. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said. But you just stared at him and said:

“It meant enough that you lied.”

A pause.

“You let me love you,” you whispered. “You let me hold you, trust you, believe you—and all this time, you were hiding this from me.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you—”

“You didn’t even try, Simon.”

That was the last thing you said before walking out. No slammed doors. No goodbye. You just left.

You didn’t see him again.

You ignored the messages. Blocked the number. Ghosted the Ghost. Even Price stopped bringing him up when he saw the way your eyes went distant at the mention of his name.

Weeks passed. You tried to move on. You didn’t.

Then—tonight. A knock at the door.

You opened it. And there he was.

Your chest tightened. Your throat closed up. But still, you managed to whisper: “Why are you here?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes just searched yours like he was trying to memorize you—like this might be the last time he’d ever see you.

“I know I don’t deserve to be here,” he said finally. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

You shook your head, stepping back. Your voice cracked when you said it, but you said it anyway. “I need space,” you said, a lump in your throat as you continued, “I can’t think right now… I just need… I need you to go.”

He didn’t move.

So you looked away. You couldn’t bear to see his face.

But then—you heard it.

The sound of something hitting the floor.

You turned.

And there he was.

It didn’t make sense. Not at first. Simon Riley didn’t kneel. Not in war. Not in captivity. Not when he was being tortured. Not when he begged God to let his brother live.

But he was here now. On his knees. For you.

“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” he said, voice rough and cracking. “Not when my father beat me. Not when they hung me. Not when I was left behind and tortured for days. I’ve never asked anyone for mercy.”

“But I’m begging now.”

His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. But he didn’t look away.

He wanted you to see him. Broken. Raw. On the edge of crying—for the first time in decades.

“I lied because I didn’t think I deserved you. I didn’t think someone like you could stay with someone like me, so I hid it. Buried it. Prayed it would never come out. And I see I was wrong.”

He took a breath that sounded like it hurt.

“You were the first person to see me and not flinch. Not pity me. Not treat me like a weapon. And I… I threw it away.”

“I don’t want forgiveness if you can’t give it. I don’t want to make this worse. But I need you to know… that loving you is the only good thing I’ve ever done. And I’d do anything—anything—to get even a piece of that back.”

Then, softer. Like he’s scared of his own voice.

“…Please don’t let me live in a world where you hate me.”