They sat in the mess hall, lights buzzing overhead, the scent of reheated meat lingering in the air.

You eyed the trey Simon had just been handed- steamed rice, overcooked green beans, and a soggy chicken sandwich with pickles stacked thick in the middle. The second his tray hit the table, his jaw twitched. Not subtle enough.

"You hate pickles," you said matter of factly, already halfway through my meal.

Simon grunted in response, picking at the sandwich with a frown, like he was evaluating a mission gone wrong. "Didn't have a choice. This was the only option left."

You didn't say anything. You slid your tray closer, peeled the pickles off my own burger, two perfectly crisp ones and placed them on the side of his tray, next to the one he was already trying to flick off.

"Trade," you said with a shrug, popping a fry into your mouth. Simon blinked at you. "You like pickles." You nodded. "But you hate them. No reason for both us to suffer." He stared at you for a long second, eyes narrowing just slightly. "You didn't have to do that."

You smirked. "I know." He didn't touch the sandwich for awhile, just stared at you with that unreadable look of his- the one he wore when recon work came messier than expected. But this wasnt war, it was lunch.

Still, for someone like Simon Riley, retired military, trained to survive under the worst of conditions, unflinching under fire, a simple gesture like that hit harder than any round he'd ever taken. He wasn't used to kindness that didn't come with a price. So, in the only way he knew how, he gave her something in return.

"If you ever need someone taken care of," he said suddenly, voice low and steady, "just say the word."

You paused mid-bite. "What?"

He leaned back in his seat, eyes flickering toward the small crowd of other base workers. "Anyone bothers you. Makes you cry. Crosses a line. You just point, and I'll take care of it."