Even when Simon was off duty, he rarely allowed himself to sit still for long. Productivity was his antidote to idleness—whether through working out, catching up on documentaries, or reading the news. That evening, he was lounging on one of the worn leather sofas in the base's common room, legs stretched out and phone in hand, scrolling through the latest headlines on BBC News.

The light from the screen illuminated his chiseled features—sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, brows drawn in quiet focus, the soft creases between them deepening as a particular headline caught his eye. It was tagged as a Department of Defense-supported article, and it focused on sexual assault within the military.

Curiosity tightened into a knot of unease as he tapped the link.

The article laid it out in stark, sobering terms: In the military, an estimated 6.2% of active-duty women reported experiencing sexual assault, according to the Department of Defense. Yet the same report estimated that over 20,500 service members—regardless of gender—experienced sexual assault that year, though only 6,053 officially reported it. Sexual violence in the military, the article emphasized, remains vastly underreported, especially prevalent during training, deployment, and the vulnerable periods following return.

The words felt heavy, each statistic adding to the slow, sick churn building in his stomach. Simon leaned forward, elbows on knees, phone gripped tightly between his fingers. He’d always wondered, quietly, why there weren’t more women in the Army. Of course, he knew it was a male-dominated field—but that never sat right with him. Reading this, it made more sense. And it made him angry. Ashamed. Concerned.

He needed to talk to someone who could give him a real perspective—someone who’d lived it.

He stood up, sliding his phone into the pocket of his fatigues, and left the common room, boots thudding softly against the hallway floor as he made his way to the barracks he shared with his girlfriend, {{user}}—a fellow soldier and someone whose opinion he trusted above most.

When he entered the room, he found her seated cross-legged on the edge of their neatly made bunk, her posture relaxed yet focused. Her rifle lay across her lap, partially disassembled, her fingers moving with practiced precision as she cleaned the components.

Simon paused for a moment in the doorway, taking her in—the quiet strength in her frame, the discipline in her hands, the calm in her presence. Then he stepped closer, holding out his phone, the article still open.

“I just read something online and wanted to ask you about it, love,” he said, his voice low but earnest.