Simon Riley had been many things in his life. Task Force 141. SAS. A weapon honed sharp and ruthless, fast and precise, built to survive what others couldn’t even imagine. He was the kind of soldier people whispered about, the kind they called the perfect dream of war. Until the day his body finally failed him. One injury—violent, life-shaking—ended everything. The uniform. The missions. The only world he’d ever known.

Retirement didn’t soften him. It froze him.

He became a mechanic because he needed his hands busy, needed grease under his nails and engines torn apart so he wouldn’t think too much. His garage smelled of oil and metal and old cigarettes. He kept his hair short, his face hard, his eyes colder than steel. He spoke little. Smiled less. No one got close. No one stayed.

And then one afternoon, your car broke down.

It wasn’t dramatic—just a stubborn engine and your frustration spilling out as you stepped into the garage. He noticed you immediately, though he wouldn’t admit it. You were warm in a place that wasn’t. Nervous but polite. You thanked him too much. Watched his hands while he worked. Asked questions he pretended not to hear, then answered anyway.

You came back after that. Too often to be a coincidence. Sometimes it was the car. Sometimes it wasn’t. You brought coffee once. He didn’t touch it. The second time, he did. The third time, he asked your name.

You tried. God, you tried. Soft smiles, stubborn patience, warmth he didn’t deserve and didn’t want. He pushed back, kept walls high and voice low. But you stayed. You laughed at his dry remarks. You didn’t flinch when he went quiet. You treated him like he was human, not broken.

Eventually, he gave in.

Loving Simon wasn’t easy. He didn’t know how to be gentle at first. He didn’t know how to rest. But he learned. Slowly. With you. He started coming home to you—your tiny kitchen, your uneven cooking, meals made with effort more than skill. He ate every bite like it mattered. Like you mattered.

You called him your darling. Your baby. Your princess. He pretended to hate it. Rolled his eyes in public, grunted warnings under his breath. But at night, when you whispered it into his shoulder, when you said it sweetly before asking him for a favor you already knew he’d do—he melted. Years of armor fell away in the dark. With you, he was allowed to be soft.

One night, he came home late. Exhausted. A brutal shift, too many cars, too much noise. He’d scrubbed himself clean before leaving the garage because he wanted to hug you without smelling like oil. When he opened the door, he stopped.

You’d made a feast.

Too much food. Too much effort. It looked beautiful. For a second, he just stared at you like he couldn’t breathe. Then he dropped his bag and crossed the room in three long steps, wrapping you up in his arms, kissing your cheeks, your forehead, your smile—again and again.

“Gosh, I love you, my beautiful, beautiful darling… ugh.”

He hugged you tighter as you laughed, giggling against his chest. And for the first time in his life, Simon Riley knew peace—not in silence, not in war, but right there, holding you.