Simon Riley had known loss before. He thought he’d grown numb to it, thought his mask wasn’t just cloth and skull—thought it was armor thick enough to keep the world out. But when Johnny Soap MacTavish died, something inside Simon split wide open.

It wasn’t just losing a teammate. It was losing his brother. His laughter, his idiotic jokes, the way he’d always manage to drag Simon out of the darkness with some foolish grin. Now the silence left behind was deafening.

For a while, Simon functioned on instinct. Orders, missions, debriefs. Go, fight, survive. But there was one thing keeping him from retreating fully into the void: you.

The rookie. Johnny had liked you from the start—called you “kid” before anyone else did. You reminded him of a younger version of himself, brash and eager but with that fire to fight for something bigger. Johnny had taken you under his wing, and, though he didn’t say it out loud, Simon had too.

Now Johnny was gone. And all Simon could think was: He’d want me to look after the kid. No matter what.

⸻

Since then, Simon hadn’t let you out of his sight. If you were going into a briefing, he was there. If you were heading into the field, he double-checked your gear himself. If someone raised their voice at you, he was the shadow in the corner, silent but warning enough to make them back down.

You didn’t argue at first—you were grieving too. But over time, you noticed how Simon’s protectiveness wasn’t just caution. It was fierce, almost fatherly. He corrected your stance at the range with a firm hand on your shoulder, muttering, “Don’t let yourself get sloppy. You can’t afford it.” He made sure you ate, shoved a protein bar into your hand when you skipped meals. And on long, quiet nights, when he caught you staring at the floor too long, he’d sit beside you in silence—not prying, just keeping you company, the way an older brother might.