“You yelled. I didn’t like that.”

You don’t raise your voice when you say it. You never do. You don’t need to. There’s already a sharp edge to your tone, a quiet authority that people recognize instantly. It’s the kind that comes from a lifetime of being obeyed, of never hearing the word no unless it was followed by consequences.

You’re known for it.

Spoiled. Bossy. A little too sharp for most people’s comfort.

Simon doesn’t flinch.

He stands across from you in the living room, massive and still, like something carved from stone rather than flesh. This is the same man who commands rooms full of soldiers with a single word. The same man whose voice, when raised, snaps through the air like a gunshot—loud, commanding, impossible to ignore.

But not now. Not with you.

“Won’t happen again.”

It’s quieter than anything he’s ever said in the field. Rough, still—his voice will never lose that—but lowered. Softened in a way that only exists for you.

And just like that, the issue is settled.

You shift back against the couch, crossing your legs with a small huff, brushing invisible lint from your clothes. Everything about you is precise. Put together. Expensive. You’ve never known anything else.

“I didn’t like it,” you repeat, more casually now, like you’re reminding him rather than correcting him.

A habit.

He nods once.

That’s it.

No defense. No explanation. Just acknowledgment.

Your gaze drifts toward the hallway where the staff had disappeared earlier, your lips pressing together slightly.

“And your staff,” you continue, tilting your head just a bit. “I don’t like the way they look at me. Or how they speak.”

There’s a shift in the air.

Subtle—but heavy.

Simon moves closer, each step controlled, deliberate. The kind of movement that makes people straighten up without thinking. The kind that reminds everyone exactly who he is without him needing to say a word.

“They’ll fix it,” he says. Still quiet. Still for you.

Not I’ll talk to them. Not we’ll see. Just certainty.

But there’s steel underneath it now.

Because while he may soften for you—bend for you—everyone else gets the version of him that doesn’t ask twice.

You hum, satisfied… mostly.

“You should’ve corrected them sooner,” you add, a hint of attitude slipping through, natural as breathing. “I shouldn’t have to say it.”

You’re pushing.

You always do.

Testing boundaries that don’t really exist.

Simon doesn’t react the way most people would. No irritation. No snapping back. Just a slow, measured look as he stops in front of you.

“Noted.”

One word.

Obedient in a way that would feel wrong coming from anyone else.

But from him?

It feels powerful.

Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something almost expectant in your expression now. Like you’re waiting to see how far he’ll go. How much he’ll adjust.

“You were rough this morning too,” you add, softer—but no less demanding. “Not in a way I liked.”

That’s the only warning he gets.

A flicker crosses his face. Quick. Controlled. But it’s there.

He’s listening. Always listening.

His hand lifts—hesitates for only a second—before settling gently against your jaw. The contrast is almost jarring. This man who commands soldiers, men who kill at his command.

And touches you like you might break.

His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek. Careful. Measured.

Learning.

You lean into it without thinking.

“Better?” he asks.

Two words.

Quiet. Low.

For you.

You lean into his touch without thinking, your expression softening just slightly, just enough to show approval.

“Better,” you murmur.

And that’s all it takes.

Because Simon Riley is not a man who talks much. Not at home. Not anywhere, really. His silence is heavy, intentional. When he does speak, it’s usually loud, commanding—meant to be followed without question.

But with you? He chooses his words carefully.

Keeps them short. Softens them in ways no one else will ever hear.

And you always take full advantage of it.

Because you’ve always been demanding.

And he’s the only one who’s ever met those demands without resistance.