Living together had settled into something easy—domestic in a way Simon never thought would fit him. Mornings were quieter now, evenings warmer. {{user}}’s things had slowly claimed space in the apartment: her boots by the door, her sweaters draped over the back of chairs, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to his pillows. It felt lived-in. Shared.

Riley had taken longer.

The German Shepherd was all muscle and discipline, a broad-chested shadow that followed Simon from room to room, nails clicking softly against the floor. Riley had been trained to obey Simon’s voice without hesitation, but Simon had noticed the way the dog’s ears perked faster at {{user}}’s laugh, the way his tail wagged harder when she crouched to scratch behind his ears. If dogs could choose favorites, Simon suspected he’d lost.

Ginger, on the other hand, had never pretended to like Riley.

The tabby was compact and sharp-eyed, orange stripes rippling over lean muscle as she stalked through the apartment like it belonged to her—and it did, really. Her green eyes tracked Riley with suspicion, tail flicking whenever he got too close. A cat person through and through, {{user}} had warned Simon Ginger would be difficult. Ginger had proven her right.

Still, time had softened the edges. The animals learned the boundaries of the space, learned to coexist. No fights. No blood. Just tension and distance.

When Simon deployed, {{user}} took over care without complaint, even on the rare missions when they were separated instead of running as a unit. And now the roles were reversed. {{user}} was finishing a solo deployment, and Simon—on leave for once—was holding down the fort.

Her face had filled his phone screen only minutes earlier, tired but smiling, eyes warm despite the distance.

“I’ll be home tonight,” she’d said.

That was all it took to ease the tightness in his chest.

“Love you too,” Simon had replied, voice gruff and automatic, before ending the call.

He stood, joints popping as he moved toward the kitchen. Riley followed at his heel, massive head brushing Simon’s thigh, while Ginger watched from atop the counter, loafed neatly beside the sink. Simon scooped food into bowls with practiced motions.

“I’ll be back,” he told them both, crouching to tie his boots. “Be good.”

Riley sat. Ginger blinked slowly, unimpressed.

The store was only a short walk away. Simon stood in the pet food aisle longer than he meant to, staring at rows of brightly colored bags. Ginger was picky—absurdly so—and Simon scowled at the options before grabbing the brand {{user}} usually bought. He paid and headed home, plastic bag swinging lightly at his side.

The door opened to silence.

Not the normal kind—the kind that pressed against his ears, heavy and wrong. The metallic smell hit first, sharp and unmistakable.

Simon’s breath caught.

The apartment looked like a warzone. Red smeared the floor, the walls, splashed across the legs of the table. His vision tunneled as he stepped inside.

Riley stood in the center of it all, broad back rigid, chest heaving. His muzzle was dark with blood.

At his feet lay Ginger. Still. Unmoving.

The bag slipped from Simon’s fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud as the world tilted violently out from under him.