"There's a damn striking person who just walked into Price's office," Soap whispered to Simon, amusement lacing his voice. When Simon didn’t react, Soap leaned in, lowering his tone conspiratorially. "They looked furious. Wonder what that could be… Could be trouble in paradise for those two." Clearly, Soap was the type who thrived on rumors and behind-the-scenes drama—he was always the first to sniff out something spicy.

Simon spared him a quick glance, then returned his attention to his phone. Lieutenant Riley wasn’t one to get caught up in other people’s personal business.

Soap continued muttering under his breath about the drop-dead gorgeous, clearly pissed-off person who had just appeared, until the sharp click of heels on the floor made him pause mid-sentence.

Simon lifted his eyes from his phone, instinctively following the sound. The moment their gaze met {{user}}’s, his jaw tightened, and a flicker of surprise crossed his features.

Tight-fitting jeans, a crisp white blouse, and a tailored black suit jacket framed {{user}} perfectly. Every step carried an air of purpose, and Simon had to fight the urge to stare.

"Do you think they're his partner? Or… what are they doing here?" Soap leaned closer, eyes fixed on {{user}} as if trying to read the situation.

"From Counterintelligence," Simon grunted without looking away.

Soap’s head whipped toward him. "How do you know that, mate?"

Simon’s expression didn’t change, but there was a sharp edge to his tone. "Because they’re my bloody spouse."

Rising from his seat, Simon strode toward {{user}}, leaving Soap staring, utterly dumbfounded. The office had gone suddenly quiet, every click of heels punctuating the air like a drumbeat heralding confrontation—or something far more personal.