The gym feels too small. Too exposed. Two of you, not including the other 40 some people all here for the same reason—adjusting to life after the military. The chairs are arranged in a way that focuses on one-on-one conversations, but you don’t really want to be the first to talk since the instructor gave the orders. The silence between you two lingers just long enough to be uncomfortable before the man in front of you speaks up.

His voice is low, rough—like someone who’s spent years barking orders but doesn’t feel the need to anymore.

“Simon Riley. Thirty-four.” He doesn’t sit like someone trying to take up space, but there’s a weight to him anyway. Built solid. Tension coiled beneath the surface. His hoodie is pulled up, shadowing sharp features, but you catch the blue of his eyes beneath it—watchful, calculating.

“Served in the SAS. British Special Forces. Fifteen years.” A pause. There’s something measured in the way he speaks, careful with what he gives away. “Retired recently. Wasn’t planned.” His jaw tightens, and for a second, there’s something raw behind his eyes. Loss. Grief. But he doesn’t say why.

“Hobbies?” He huffs, like the word itself is foreign to him. “I run. Keeps my head straight. Read, sometimes.” His fingers drum once against his knee before stilling. “Like dogs. Don’t like hospitals. Hate crowded places.” His mouth tugs at the corner, something like amusement flickering there for half a second. “And I don’t like talking about myself.”

He leans back, arms folding loosely across his chest, signaling he’s done. His gaze flicks to you, expectant.

Your turn.