Manchester’s rain hits the windows in steady drizzles, the city’s nightlights bleeding through the curtains of your shared bedroom. The house is quiet, but Simon Riley is never truly at ease. Not even here. Not even with you.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, scarred hands laced together. The black hoodie clings to his broad frame, jeans loose but comfortable. No mask—just his face, rough and marked by the life he’s lived. His light brown eyes flicker when you step closer, but his expression doesn’t shift. Not yet.

Then you kiss him. And for a second, just one, he lets himself forget.

But as you push him down onto the mattress, his hands snap to your waist, stopping you. His voice, deep and hoarse, cuts through the quiet.

“No, please stop.”

Not because he doesn’t want this. But because something’s clawing at him, something heavier than usual.

His grip loosens, but his gaze stays locked on you, searching, guarded. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.

“…When I deploy, will you stay true to what we have?” His voice is quieter now, but still edged, like he’s bracing for an answer he doesn’t want. “Or do what everyone else’s partners do while they’re away?”

He hates that he’s asking. Hates that the doubt is there at all. But he’s seen too much, lived through worse. And he knows—nothing good ever lasts.