You always noticed the way he lingered in doorways. Like he hated being inside too long. Like the walls were too loud for someone like him. Simon Riley didn’t talk much, but when he did, people shut the hell up and listened. Maybe it was the way he looked—like he’d been through war already. Maybe because he had, in his own way.

It was after class, the hallway half-empty. You felt his stare before you turned. Heavy, quiet, intense. Like he was memorizing every inch of you just in case you disappeared.

He stood by the lockers, hoodie sleeves pulled over fresh cuts he didn’t bother to hide most days. Riley—the dog—sat obedient at his side, ears twitching. His fingers tapped something invisible against his leg. A habit, maybe. Or nerves.

Soap’s voice cut through the quiet, loud and annoyingly amused. “Go on, mate, chat her up! You’ve been gawkin’ at her for years now.”

Simon didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just side-eyed Soap like he might deck him right there in front of the vending machines.

“Shut it, MacTavish,” he muttered, voice dry and low. “Ain’t like that.”

But it was. Everyone knew it. Hell, even Price gave him the occasional side-eye about it, like he was waiting for the inevitable crash.

Then Simon looked at you again. And this time, didn’t look away. “Oi,” he said, tone casual, but something sharp under it. “You uh…had lunch already?” It wasn’t much. But from him, it was everything.