Simon Riley had survived two years of dating {{user}} mostly by learning how to say no with enough softness that she’d hear maybe. It was how she’d slowly worn him down, first to movie nights, then to coffee dates in crowded little cafes, then to walking around the market on weekends with her fingers laced through his gloved hand. For a man who preferred the quiet hum of the armoury to anything resembling “fun” it had been a process. But this, this escape room thing, had been a whole different battle. She’d started dropping hints a month ago. “It’s problem solving,” she’d said brightly in the rec room one evening, sprawled across the couch as he cleaned his sidearm at the table. “Like mission planning, but without the part where people shoot at you.”

“No,” he’d said without looking up. A week later, she’d brought it up again during training. “They’ve got themes. Like haunted manors and prison breaks. You’d love it.” “Pass.” By the third week, she was getting crafty. “I’ll stop stealing your hoodies if you come.” “You won’t,” he’d replied, deadpan and she’d grinned, because he was right. Finally, she’d cornered him in their shared quarters late one night, leaning against the doorway in his oversized tshirt, hair mussed from the shower and asked softly, “Simon, just once. One silly, normal thing. With me.” That had done it. Because for all his grumbling and reluctance, she had been the one steady warmth in his life for two years now, the person who coaxed smiles from behind the mask, who saw through the armor without flinching. And so he’d sighed, muttered “Fine” and she’d squealed with delight like she’d just won a war.

The rain had finally stopped by the time they reached the little brick building on the edge of town. It was almost comical how out of place they looked. Simon, his hood up, hands buried in the pockets of his black jacket and {{user}} at his side with an easy grin, tugging him along by the hand like an oversized reluctant Labrador. “Come on, Ghost,” she teased, glancing back at him. “You can survive black ops missions on three hours sleep, you can handle a sixty minute puzzle room.” “Could handle it,” he corrected flatly, though the corner of his mouth tugged upwards behind the balaclava. “Never said I wanted to.”

“Exactly,” she chirped, pushing open the glass door, the bell above it jingling. “That’s why it’s fun.” The lobby smelled faintly of coffee and dry erase markers. Neon signs glowed from the walls, escape! in looping letters, with a countdown timer painted beneath. A young attendant behind the counter straightened at the sight of them. “Reservation for {{user}},” she said beaming. “We’re doing the haunted manor one.” Simon muttered something about being haunted enough already but followed her to the prep area. They stowed their phones, got the obligatory safety briefing and were ushered into a dim room decorated like a creaking old study, heavy bookshelves, fake cobwebs, a dusty fireplace which was unlit. The door shut behind them with a dramatic clunk. A clock on the wall began counting down from sixty.

{{user}} spun in place, eyes shining. “Okay, this is so cool.” Then she suddenly clapped her hands together, grinning like a kid. Before Simon could reply, she darted forward, dropping into a crouch to peer under the desk, ponytail swinging behind her. She started tugging at drawers, testing the brass handles, running her fingers over the carved edges of the wood like she could coax out its secrets by touch alone. Simon didn’t move right away.

His eyes drifted over the shelves, the cold fireplace, the portrait above the desk, quiet and measured, as if letting the room speak before he disturbed it. {{user}} popped up with a triumphant little noise, brushing dust off her knees. “All right,” she said, already moving toward the bookshelves, “don’t just stand there looking mysterious. Help me.” That finally stirred him. He crossed the floor with unhurried steps, gloved fingers brushing cracked leather spines as his eyes tracked her quick movements.