Simon Riley never believed in soulmates.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t afford to.

He was born into violence. Raised by monsters. Groomed by chaos. The kind of life that doesn’t make room for soft things like fate or connection. The kind of life where soulmates were a fantasy told to children who didn’t have to sleep with one eye open.

The mark was supposed to appear when you met your person. Your match. Your other half.

His didn’t show up for decades.

Not during his years in the SAS. Not when he was being tortured and buried alive in a box by enemies who didn’t even want answers—just screams. Not during all the missions where his squadmates bled out beside him. Where he dragged what was left of their bodies back across enemy lines.

He figured the universe had the right idea: someone like him shouldn’t be given a soulmate.

So when it finally did appear—on his right bicep, after a routine training session, faint like a brand rising under his skin—he didn’t tell a soul.

He covered it. Wrapped it in gauze. Told himself it was heat rash.

It didn’t go away.

And he knew, then: someone he saw. Someone nearby. Someone under his command.

It was a cruel joke. Some poor bastard had been marked by the worst man they could’ve gotten. A man made of trauma and silence. A soldier who buried softness like it was a liability. Who had trained himself not to feel.

He didn’t want to know who it was.

Because if he found out? He might care. And caring made people dead.So he ignored it. He stayed colder. Meaner. Barked orders harder.

No. He doesn’t care.

You on the other hand had given up on the thought of having a soulmate . Military life left little room for destiny. Between training rotations, combat drills, and deployments, there was no time to search. No time to wonder. Your world was reduced to sand, sweat, and shouting—and the cold stare of a superior officer who never once looked at you like a person.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.

They called him a ghost for more than just the mask. He was unreadable. Unreachable. A perfect soldier carved from stone. No mercy. No softness. He issued commands with clinical efficiency and punished failure with brutal intensity. He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to.

You hated him, in a way. But you respected him more.

There was no room for connection under his command. Just exhaustion, bruises, and silence. He barely acknowledged anyone outside of official orders—and if he had a soulmate, they were either long dead or deeply unfortunate.

You told yourself that the sharp ache in your chest when he passed by wasn’t anything but fear. Or maybe respect. Never longing. Never fate.

Then the mark appeared.

It showed up one morning after a particularly brutal session. The sun had barely risen. You stood under the flickering fluorescent light of the barracks bathroom, peeling off your sweat-soaked shirt when you saw it—on your wrist. Your mark. Glowing faintly like a bruise made of fire.

Someone you had seen recently was your soulmate.

Panic followed. Who? When? Where?

You searched every face during training, every laugh in the chow hall, every stranger in uniform. Nothing felt right. Nothing clicked.

Until summer came.

It was too hot for regulations to matter that day. Even Ghost had shed the long sleeves for once, opting for a black sleeveless shirt—still masked, still untouchable, but exposed in a way you’d never seen.

You had been sitting on the edge of the training field, gulping water and catching your breath when your eyes drifted toward him.

And then your world stopped.

Because on his right bicep, just below the curve of hard muscle, was your mark.

Your exact mark. Your soulmate’s mark.

Lieutenant Riley never reacted. Never looked your way. If he noticed his mark glowing that day, he ignored it completely. Just like he ignored everyone else.

But you saw it.

And now… you can’t unsee it.