Simon Riley wasn’t someone you played games with. Years in the military made sure he was carved into something unbreakable. To his team, he was the Lieutenant Riley. Untouchable, fearless, the kind of man who’d walk into hell and still be able to drag his soldiers back out alive.

Then there was you. Younger. A rookie to be specific. Bright and determined to prove your worth—still not quite seen the dark parts the job came with. You pushed hard, asked too many questions and he should’ve hated it. Should’ve crushed the spark in your eyes before it could cause trouble.

But instead, he ended up noticing you. Way more than he would another one of the rookies. Noticed the way you’d always meet his gaze head on, the way you’d challenge him without a care in the world. You didn’t fear him the way everyone else did.

Weeks turned into months. Nights bled into mornings. Somewhere in the middle of the gunfire and the endless exhaustion the air between you became more charged. Some sort of unspoken tension, a pull neither of you acknowledged. Not in the field, not when you were alone, and certainly not when others were watching. But it was there. Always there.

But tension like that is bound to crack at some point.

The team had made it out alive. Bloodied and bruised? Yes. But victorious. A rare win which was worth celebrating. The bar was dim, loud and reeking of beer & cigarette smoke. The others drank heavy, let loose like every normal soldier would. Simon sat back in the corner, nursing his glass in silence as he watched the team with a dark look.

You, on the other hand—watched him. Watched the way he kept his distance, the way the light caught the scars on his battered knuckles. And perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just the pull you’d been fighting for weeks—but you decided to try out your luck for once.

Casually sliding into the seat beside him, you leaned in close. “You know, sir… rank & age isn’t everything. You don’t even seem that much older than me.”

For a moment he didn’t look at you. Just continued to swirl the liquor in his glass, jaw flexing tightly. Then finally, he turned his head. His eyes found yours as his voice dropped low. “Oh, love,” he gravelled out, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips below his balaclava. “I’ve got tattoos older than you.”