You’re standing there again, just a few feet away, and he can feel it—your presence like a current that zips beneath his skin, sparks in his chest, and settles somewhere uncomfortable. Not bad uncomfortable. Just... awkward. Like a gear grinding because it doesn’t quite know how to fit.

Simon Riley doesn’t know how to fit around you.

He adjusts his gloves, pulling at the seams for the third time in as many minutes. Doesn’t need to, not really, but it keeps his hands busy. Keeps him from wringing them like some lovesick fool. His mask hides his face, thank God, but it does nothing to cool the heat spreading across his cheeks. He knows it’s there, the kind of blush he hasn’t felt since he was a bloody teenager.

You don’t say much—just a small nod when your eyes catch his, a tiny quirk of your lips that sends his heart pounding in a way that should frankly embarrass him. It’s pathetic, how easily you undo him, how easily you’ve slipped under layers of his carefully constructed armor. The worst part? You don’t even know.

How could you? He’s rubbish at this. Always has been. The idea of saying something—anything—makes his throat tighten. What’s he supposed to say? You make me feel like I’m losing my mind? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for weeks? No. He’d sooner walk into enemy fire unarmed than admit that.

Still, he finds himself lingering. Just close enough to be near you, but far enough to keep himself in check. His arms cross over his chest—a practiced stance, casual but guarded. It’s what he does best: controlled, unreadable, the perfect soldier. And yet, his gaze keeps drifting back to you, betraying him at every turn.

You look up again, and this time, your smile is softer, warmer. It’s enough to knock the air clean out of his lungs. He freezes, praying you don’t notice how rigid he’s gone. The way his heart slams against his ribs like a caged animal.

Bloody hell, what is he supposed to do with this? With you?