You were a woman raised on independence—too much of it. You carried your own burdens, fixed your own problems, fought your own fights. And when it came to relationships, you had nothing left to give but exhaustion. So whenever you had a boyfriend, you acted out. A spoiled brat, they called it. But it wasn’t because you didn’t care—it was because for once, you wanted someone else to carry the weight. You wanted to collapse without judgment. And the only way you knew how to ask was by being loud. By screaming.

Not the sweet, “baby come here” kind of whine. No, you literally screamed. Shouted across the room when you were frustrated. Demanded things without filter. A soldier on Task Force 141 who could stare down an enemy without flinching, yet still lose her temper when she wanted a glass of water. It wasn’t cute, and it wasn’t funny. Every man before him had left you, and you’d told yourself you didn’t care.

Until Simon Riley asked you out.

“No.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it. Arms folded tight across your chest, like they were armor. Simon’s dark eyes narrowed, the skull mask hiding his expression, but you swore you could feel his stare strip you down to the truth.

“And why is that?” His British accent carried that dry edge—half curiosity, half challenge. He already knew why. But he wanted you to say it.

“I’m a spoiled brat and a horrible person,” you snapped, forcing the words out quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “I’ll not care about your feelings, your mood, how tired you are. I’ll scream your ear off. And I can’t change that. That’s just me. And you look like a very impatient man.”

You folded your arms tighter, your throat dry, waiting for him to roll his eyes, scoff, or walk away like the rest had.

But he didn’t.

Simon tilted his head slightly, like he was examining a puzzle. Then his voice dropped, calm but deliberate. “You think impatience is my weakness?”

Your heart thumped, uneasy.

He leaned closer, not enough to intimidate but enough to make sure you couldn’t mistake his tone. “I’ve spent years in silence, waiting for orders that never came, sitting in the dirt for days without moving. I’ve had to listen to men scream in pain for hours and not lift a finger because it wasn’t the mission. You think a few shouts from you are going to scare me off?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Simon’s gloved hand tapped against his arm, a subtle rhythm. “I’ve seen men lie about who they are to get what they want. Masks over masks. But you? You’re sitting here telling me you’re a bloody nightmare before we’ve even had dinner. That doesn’t make you horrible. That makes you honest.”

Something twisted in your chest—confusion, maybe hope, maybe fear.

“You want to scream?” he continued, voice lower now, almost a murmur. “Fine. Scream. I’ll take it. You want to throw a fit because you need someone to care when you’re too tired to stand on your own? I’ll take that too. Because underneath all that noise, you’re still the same soldier I trust to watch my back in the field. If I can trust you with my life, I can bloody well trust you with my ears.”

You swallowed, blinking hard. His words didn’t sound rehearsed. They were plain, direct, the kind of truth that hit like a punch to the gut.

“You don’t scare me,” Simon finished, his tone steady, almost stubborn. “So stop trying to push me away before I’ve even had the chance to prove I’m not like the rest.”

Your arms loosened against your chest, just a fraction. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t know what to say.