It started with a coffee mug.

A plain, ceramic thing with a crack on the handle. One morning on base, Indiana had grumbled about missing hers. The next day, it was there waiting for her at the mess hall, sitting to the right of her tray. No one claimed it. She didn’t ask.

But she knew.

Simon Riley didn’t say much—he never had. Lieutenant Riley was silent steel and shadow, all black gloves and quiet presence, a ghost behind the mask even when he wasn’t wearing it. But {{user}} learned early that Simon’s silence wasn’t absence. It was attention.

A flick of his eyes when she walked in a room. A shift in stance when she was too close to danger. A pause in his breath when she laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious. But it was constant.

On missions, he always ended up on her six. Not assigned—never assigned—but always there. Covering her without being asked. His knife in her hand when her ammo ran low. His voice in her earpiece, low and steady, when panic scraped at her lungs.

“Breathe, Gold.” “I’ve got you.” “You’re not alone.”

Months passed. Then years.

And Simon never said love.

But {{user}} felt it.

In how he always knew when her knees ached after too much crouching and would leave tiger balm outside her bunk. In how he’d swap his ration bar if he knew she liked the flavor of his better. In how he memorized her schedule, without needing to. In how he always knew when she needed quiet and when she needed someone to fight beside.

Once, she caught a bullet in her side. He carried her back to the evac point. Carried—not helped. Not hauled. He cradled her like something sacred, hands bloody but careful, whispering, “Stay with me,” even though she was more annoyed than dying.

“I’m not dying, Ghost,” she muttered.

“You better not,” was all he said, but his jaw clenched so tight it made her ache.

The first time she saw his love was a stormy night in some forgotten safe house. Rain poured like fury, and Indiana stood at the window, eyes hollow from the last op.

“You okay?” she asked him.

He said nothing.

But he moved to stand behind her, close enough that their shoulders touched. His hand—gloved, cold—brushed hers, then stilled. He didn’t try to hold her.

Just let her know she wasn’t standing there alone.

That was the night she realized: To Simon, love wasn’t a confession. It was presence. It was consistency.

It was a mug waiting. A knife when you needed it. A steady hand at your back.

The note she scribbled to him always pressed in the chest pocket of his vest. Her dog tags around his neck on solo missions.

She never told him she knew. Not for a long time.

Until one night, post-mission, post-rain, she found him shirtless in the medbay, stitching his own shoulder with his usual stubborn silence.

“You let everyone see you,” she whispered, angry and trembling. “Except me.”

He paused mid-stitch, head bowing like he’d just heard a confession.

And in the quiet, he finally spoke.

“I don’t know how to be soft with you, {{user}},” he said, voice low. “But I love you more than I know how to speak.”

Her heart cracked.

Because of course he did.

Because she’d been seen every day for years. And to be seen by Simon Riley was to be loved beyond words.