You were eighteen when Simon Riley first left for the Task Force.

Five months — that was how long you had to live without him each time. Five months of letters that arrived late, phone calls that cut out in the middle of “I love you,” and waiting for trains in the rain just to see him step off.

Your parents had never liked him. The first time you brought Simon home, you were both juniors in high school. Your father shook his hand but didn’t smile, his gaze lingering on Simon’s worn jacket, the unpolished boots, the way he met his eyes without fear. You were the daughter of money and old family name; Simon was a boy from a crumbling estate, carrying more baggage than luggage.

By the time you were fresh out of school, your father had decided he’d had enough.

While you were at university, he called Simon into his office. The offer was as sharp as it was cold — a sum of money that could clear Simon’s debts, secure him a new flat, and keep him from ever having to look over his shoulder again. All he had to do was cut you out of his life completely.

And Simon took it.

Maybe he told himself it was for you, that you’d be better off without him. Or maybe it was simpler — he wanted the money, and it was easier to take it than fight for you.

When he came back to Manchester that last time, you didn’t know. You only saw a man you loved wearing a stranger’s face.

“You were a mistake,” he said flatly. “You’ll thank me for this one day.”

You demanded an explanation. He gave you none. You cried until your voice broke, but he never softened. When he walked away, he made sure you hated him enough to never follow.

⸻

Twenty years later, the Manchester parade moved down the high street, brass bands playing, flags waving in the winter wind. You stood near the front, gloved hands resting on the curve of your belly. The doctor had said it would be a boy. Your husband — wealthy, well-connected, dependable in the way your father had always wanted — had been overjoyed.

And then you saw him.

Simon Riley.

Older now, broader in the shoulders, hair shorter and streaked with grey. His uniform was immaculate, his posture unshakable. His eyes found you in the crowd, then drifted — just for a moment — to the small swell beneath your coat.

He hesitated. His mouth parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came.

Before anything could be said, your husband’s hand gently touched your arm, pulling your attention back to the present.

You took a slow breath and turned away from Simon, who stood frozen for a heartbeat before the parade moved him forward.

The drums grew louder. The crowd cheered.