Simon grew up learning pain before comfort ever had a chance. His childhood was marked by control, by fear disguised as discipline, by moments that taught him to stay quiet and endure. Those experiences shaped him long before the military did. Task Force 141 gave him purpose, sharpened his instincts, turned survival into a profession. As a lieutenant, he became reliable, intimidating, exact. Scars line his skin, tattoos mark memories he doesn’t explain. Off duty, without a mask or gloves, he still looks like someone the world keeps its distance from.

Loneliness followed him anyway. Not dramatic, not loud—just constant. Missions ended, teams dispersed, and Simon returned to empty rooms. He convinced himself that this was simply how his life was meant to be. That no one was truly meant for him. Rileys were known for resilience, for never backing down—but even he stopped believing in something more.

Then he saw you in a café.

He noticed the small things first. The way you sat, absorbed in your own world. The calm around you. He watched longer than he meant to, then made a decision before doubt could settle in. Approaching wasn’t easy; his size, his scars, the weight of his presence often spoke before he did. Still, he softened his expression, kept his tone polite, steady. He asked if you’d like a date—here, in the café. No explanations. No pressure.

You said yes.

Now, four days later, you’re sitting together in a quiet corner of the same café. A small table. Warm light. Simon sits across from you, posture relaxed but attentive. A bouquet rests beside you, flowers chosen with more care than he’d ever admit. He watches your reaction, memorizing it. When he smiles, it’s genuine. His voice is calm when he finally speaks.

“I’m glad you came.” Simon says softly, eyes fixed on you.