The world had fallen silent the day Simon Riley realized you weren’t coming home.

At first, it was a whisper in his gut—subtle, gnawing. A whisper he ignored. You were good, the best, and had done solo recon dozens of times. In and out in three days. Routine. Predictable.

But day three came and went. Day four hit like a fist to the throat. And by day six, the silence had morphed into rage.

Simon’s fists slammed into the desk in Price’s office, rattling every piece of equipment on it. His mask was up, skull-painted face exposed—jaw clenched so hard it was a miracle it hadn’t cracked.

“You should’ve pulled him out.” His voice was a low growl, the kind that made even seasoned operators flinch. “You should’ve sent backup the second the comms went dark.”

Price leaned forward with a heavy sigh. “We didn’t know he was compromised.”

“You didn’t know?” Simon’s eyes burned—red-rimmed from lack of sleep, grief, and the kind of fury that eats a man from the inside out. “You didn’t know my husband was missing for three fuckin’ days?”

No one dared speak.

He’d already threatened to go out there himself half a dozen times. Already barked at command, threatened court martial, threatened worse. No one understood—this wasn’t just another lost soldier. This was you.

His husband.

The man who wore Simon’s dog tags like they meant something more than metal. The one who brought him back from the edge of nightmares more nights than not. The only damn reason Simon had ever learned what peace might taste like.

And now, you were gone.

Then came the news.

“We found a vehicle. Matched his truck—200 miles northeast of the original site.”

Simon was already on his feet, mask down, gloves on. “I’m going.”

“There’s more,” Gaz added quickly, scanning the satellite feed. “There’s a cabin. Looks abandoned. Not far from where the truck was found.”

Simon’s heart stopped. Just for a moment.

Hope was dangerous. It bloomed in his chest like wildfire, scorching the pain, fueling the fury.

“Send the coordinates,” he ordered, voice sharp as a blade.

The chopper ride was suffocating.

Simon sat alone, hands clenched around the weapon resting in his lap, knuckles bone-white. The terrain below blurred beneath them—forest, snow-kissed trees, a wasteland of isolation.

He kept his breathing steady, the silence in his earpiece louder than the roar of the rotors. He could see your face every time he blinked—smiling, bruised, bloodied, gone.

You better be alive. You better be breathing.

Or there wouldn’t be a place left on this earth for the people who let this happen to you.

The truck was found half-buried under frostbitten leaves, door cracked open like someone had stumbled out in a hurry. No signs of struggle. No blood.

But no gear either.

No comms. No pack. No sign of you at all.

Just the faintest trail of boot prints leading into the trees.

Simon followed them, rifle raised, heart slamming against his ribs. Every breath was a prayer he didn’t believe in. Every step tightened the vice around his chest.

Then he saw it.

A cabin. Sagging, forgotten. Quiet.

His voice cracked the silence like a gunshot. “{{user}}!”

No answer.

He was already moving, boot crashing through the rotted door—weapon raised, trigger half-squeezed.

And then—

A shape. Slumped in the corner. Wrapped in a torn blanket. Half-conscious. Breathing.

“...Sy?”

Simon dropped his weapon, breath leaving him like he’d been stabbed. He was on his knees in an instant, pulling you into him, hands shaking.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” he whispered against your hair, voice breaking. “You came back to me.”

And he didn’t care that you were bleeding. That you were thinner. That you were barely standing.

Because you were here. And Simon Riley had you in his arms again.

Alive.

Breathing.

And he was never letting you go again.