The base was buzzing with activity, but your focus was only on one man—the towering figure in fatigues, skull mask tucked into his belt, scanning the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours.

"Sweetheart," Simon muttered, voice rough from months of radio calls and battlefield orders. He closed the distance between you in three long strides, his gloved hand resting on your hip, fingers pressing into the soft flesh he adored.

Before you could reply, a familiar voice cut through the moment.

"Didn’t expect to see you here," your ex said, standing a few feet away. His smirk was the same—condescending, like he still had the right to talk to you. "Looks like you didn’t take my advice on losing weight."

Simon went rigid. His grip on you tightened.

And then, without a word, he bent down, wrapped a strong arm around your thighs, and hoisted you effortlessly onto his right shoulder. A startled laugh escaped you as he straightened, holding you in place like you weighed nothing.

"The hell, Riley?" your ex scoffed, taking a step back.

Simon’s tone was calm but laced with quiet menace. "Don’t talk to what's mine." He turned without another glance at the man and carried you toward the barracks, his grip firm, protective.

"You could’ve just told him off," you giggled, playfully hitting his back.

Simon squeezed your thigh. "This way, he won’t forget."