Training rookies was never Simon Riley’s preference. He didn’t have the patience for soft voices, trembling hands, or the naïve belief that war could be learned like a school lesson. Most recruits broke long before he finished evaluating them. A handful stayed and those, he watched closely. Not out of interest, but assessment. Calculation.

Except you.

{{user}} moved differently. Listened differently. Didn’t flinch, didn’t complain, didn’t crack under the pressure he used to test limits. You absorbed everything, carried every order with a quiet discipline he rarely saw, even in seasoned operators. Whatever the training was — endurance, weapons drills, psychological strain — you pushed yourself through without the theatrics the others used to mask fear.

And that… that was what caught his attention.

The final test of the day was water training — weighted swimming, designed to simulate hauling an injured teammate through rough water. It separated survivors from liabilities. Meant to test strength, discipline, and how a recruit behaved when panic set in.

He headed to his office to grab a clipboard, giving a curt order to one of the sergeants. “Get the weights secured. Properly.” Standard procedure. Nothing complicated.

He watched the first lap unfold—two recruits thrashing clumsily, and you, cutting through the water with calm, sharp strokes. But something was off.

He noticed it almost immediately, the subtle drag in your shoulders, the way your legs kicked too hard to maintain balance, the slight tremor in your breath each time your head surfaced. Your strokes were strong, precise, but… off. There was strain in your shoulders he’d never seen before, the slightest falter in the rhythm of your legs.

You didn’t struggle. He knew that. So why were you now?

By the second lap, the answer hit with cold clarity.

The weight on your harness forced your body too deep. Your kicks were sharper, more desperate.

Your head dipped beneath the surface once—twice—longer each time. Then your body faltered entirely, the weight pulling you downward in a slow, horrible motion that made Simon’s chest seize. You sucked in one last uneven gasp before you vanished beneath the surface with an eerie grace.

The clipboard and pen hit the floor before anyone else reacted.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t waste a second.

Simon dove straight into the water, boots and clothes dragging against him, the cold slapping his skin as he plunged into the depth you’d sunk to, his hand closing around your arm before your body could sink any deeper. Hauling you back up, forcing your head above the surface.

He felt your chest rise with a faint, trembling breath against him.

He didn’t exhale until he had you on the pool deck, his knees hitting concrete as he dragged the weight harness off your body. You coughed, weakly, water flecking your lips, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Easy,” he muttered, voice low, rougher than he meant it to be. “You’re alright. Breathe.”

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt as if grounding yourself, and something cold and violent twisted inside him.

Then he saw it — the number stamped into the metal weight that had nearly taken you under.

Wrong size. Wrong level. Far too heavy for any rookie, even one as capable as you.

Deadly.

That sergeant had made a mistake — a mistake that nearly drowned you.

Simon’s jaw clenched. The muscles in his back went rigid. He made sure your breathing was steady before standing, water dripping from his clothes in steady rivulets. His voice was deathly calm.

“Stay here.”

The recruits nearby stepped back, instinctively clearing a path as he walked toward the sergeant.

And the look in his eyes as he walked toward the sergeant promised a conversation that would not end gently.

Because you mattered more than he ever intended you to.