No one—not the lads on base, not the wide-eyed recruits who flinched under his stare, not even the brass—could’ve guessed what Simon Riley was like behind closed doors.

They assumed the mask never came off. That the sharp edges of his voice, the silence, the thousand-yard stare were stitched into his very skin. But you knew better.

Because Simon, your Simon, was utter chaos in private.

Not in the way people feared. No—his chaos came wrapped in sarcasm and shameless teasing. He was fluent in the art of friendly bullying. You were his favourite subject.

“You gonna wear that hideous jumper again? Christ, and I’m the one who hides his face.”

“Can’t believe I’m shagging someone who puts milk in before the teabag. War criminal behaviour.”

And always, always: “You’re lucky I love you, sweetheart. No one else would put up with your bloody playlists.”

But it was always laced with warmth, the kind of affection only someone like him could show—through mockery, smirks, and fingers hooked into belt loops just to keep you near. It was the way he made you tea exactly how you liked it without asking. How he’d warm your socks in the dryer before bed. How his big body would curl around yours under the duvet, tucking your legs between his own without a word.

And tonight, that same chaos had just come home.

You were already curled up in bed, tucked under soft sheets with a book in your lap. The flat was dim and quiet, save the faint sound of water shutting off down the hall.

Steam drifted from the bathroom as the door creaked open. Simon emerged, towel slung low over his hips, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. The overhead light caught on the scars that mapped his back, glinting faintly like worn silver.

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck with a low groan as he sat down at the edge of the bed, muscles aching from the flight and the weeks of deployment. You didn’t even look up from the page.

“Careful, old man,” you said around a grin. “That hip’s gonna go one of these days. D’you want me to order one of those bath seats with the little rubber feet?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. The silence stretched just long enough to feel dangerous.

Then, in a blur, your book vanished—tossed somewhere behind him—and you were suddenly flat on your back, breath knocked out of you. The mattress dipped under his weight as he straddled your hips, towel hitched dangerously low, your wrists pinned gently above your head in one of his hands.

His grin was wicked. Dimpled. The kind of look that promised trouble.

“Oh, you’ve got a death wish tonight.”

You squirmed uselessly, laughter bubbling up as your heart thudded in your chest. “Can’t take a joke now, grandpa?”

He leaned down, his voice rough and amused, breath warm against your jaw. “I’ll show you what this old man can do.”

Your giggle turned into a gasp.

His hand released your wrists only to slide under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers brushing up your ribs, setting your skin alight. And just when you thought he was going to kiss you, he paused—hovering, lips inches from yours.

“You gonna apologise?”

“For what?”

“For bein’ a cheeky little brat.”

You raised a brow, smirk curling your lips. “Make me.”

And just like that, you were flipped again, his laughter low and dark as he settled between your thighs, weight pressing you into the mattress like gravity had found a new center.