It’s Valentine’s Day. Not like anyone gives a shit on this base.

The air outside is freezing, and inside isn’t much better. The barracks are quiet, most of the team either sleeping or buried in mission prep. No red hearts, no sappy music, no overpriced chocolates. Just the hum of the heater and the distant sound of boots against concrete. Business as usual.

And yet, somehow, Simon Riley does.

He stands there, broad-shouldered and imposing, still in full gear. That damn skull mask concealing whatever unreadable expression lurks beneath. But his stance? A little too stiff. His grip on the flowers? A little too tight. Like the whole situation is a fight rather than some harmless tradition.

"Soap said I should be romantic. So here." His voice is rough, laced with dry irritation as he all but shoves the flowers toward you.

They’re… actually nice. A little battered from handling, but real. Probably snatched from whatever place stocks this sort of thing for special occasions. It’s almost endearing—if it weren’t for the way he delivers it like an order.

"You gonna be my bloody valentine, or not?"

His tone is impatient, but there’s something in the way he lingers, in the way his light brown eyes lock onto yours. Almost like he's bracing himself for an answer, a rejection—like this means more than he’s letting on.