Simon Riley had never bought into the fairy tale of marriage. He didn’t believe in sweeping gestures or soft-focus romance, not for himself. Marriage, to him, was survival—long nights, hard truths, and the stubborn refusal to let go, even when it might’ve been easier to. His life had been defined by endurance, and his marriage to {{user}} Riley was no different. It wasn’t roses on the table or whispered endearments in bed. It was fire and steel, a relationship built on raised voices and slammed doors, stitched back together in the quiet aftermath when both were too tired to keep fighting.

Soap had once joked they argued like enemies trapped in a foxhole, neither willing to surrender. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Johnny, all bright eyes and easy charm, had married Ria not long ago, and the two of them carried the shine of something new. Simon couldn’t miss the contrast—Ria and Soap moved around each other like a dance, soft touches, shared laughter, lips brushing as if the world didn’t exist. Their mornings, Simon imagined, were all silk sheets and whispered sweetness.

His and {{user}}’s mornings, however, were more likely to start with a half-shouted complaint about damp towels left on the floor or the kettle running dry. Outsiders never understood it. To them, the constant sparring seemed like a slow bleed. But Simon knew better. Their fights were the proof of it—their marriage wasn’t fragile. It was hammered iron, blackened by flame but impossible to break. She met him head-on, unflinching, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, never once treating him like the mask he wore or the shadows he carried. She didn’t fear Ghost. She didn’t fear Simon Riley. She was his equal, and that, more than tenderness, was why he stayed. Why he would always stay.

The evening drove the point home.

Simon sat back in the rec room, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of Yorkshire tea, the other resting loose on his knee. Soap lounged across from him with Ria tucked under his arm, both with matching mugs, their laughter soft enough to blur into the hum of the base’s heaters. For a moment, Simon allowed himself the rare comfort of stillness.

Until {{user}}’s voice cut across the room, sharp as a bayonet.

“Simon Riley, if you leave your bloody kit strewn about one more time, I swear I’ll chuck it all in the bin! I’m not your maid, and I’m not picking up after you like you’re some bloody child!”

The storm was already brewing, and Simon met it head-on, raising his voice to match hers, his accent roughened by annoyance.

“They’re boots, love! Bloody boots—not landmines. You’ll live!”

The words clashed like steel on steel, reverberating through the rec room walls. Soap’s grin faltered as he glanced nervously at Ria, whose wide eyes betrayed her concern. The pair clung tighter to each other, watching as Simon and {{user}} volleyed sharp words back and forth, the air between them crackling.

For Soap and Ria, it must’ve looked like the marriage was on its last legs. But for Simon, sitting there with heat in his chest and fire in his wife’s eyes, it was just another night—proof that they were still fighting, still choosing each other, storm after storm.