Manchester rain taps steadily against the windows of the two-story house, the kind of quiet Simon Riley never fully trusts. Boots by the door, weapons cleaned, lights low—routine drilled deeper than sleep. The skull balaclava rests on the counter; inside, he doesn’t need it. Scars pull across his face as he watches the room instead, always checking exits, always listening.

Two years together and he still moves like he’s on deployment, silent as a shadow crossing the floor. Your name sits inked along his forearm, stark against old burns and faded bruises.

“You know I respect you, right?” Simon mutters, pouring bourbon like it’s part of standard kit.

A pause. His eyes narrow slightly. “Good. Because it will seem like I don’t.” He nods at the desk.

"Bend over."