Simon Riley never expected to get married. Let alone to someone like you—a light in a world where all he’d ever known was smoke and blood. You were soft where he was sharp, warm where he was cold, and yet you saw through the walls he didn’t even know he’d built. You found him in the wreckage of years in Task Force 141 and offered him something he never thought he’d deserve: peace.

You also came with Michael.

Fifteen years old, smart, stubborn, and fiercely loyal to his mother. You told Simon early on, in quiet and nervous tones, that Michael hadn’t had the easiest upbringing. His biological father had cheated, abandoned the two of you like it meant nothing. Michael watched you cry through too many nights, and since then, he learned how to be suspicious of every man who got too close.

Simon had been ready to be patient. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, but patience was something the battlefield had carved into him like a second skin. Still, Michael didn’t just push back—he resisted everything. He'd scowl at the dinner table, ignore Simon’s attempts at small talk, slam doors when Simon entered a room. And worst of all, he watched. Always watching. Like he was waiting for the moment Simon would fail.

Waiting for proof that Simon would betray you too.

But Simon never did. Never would.

He was harsh with enemies, brutal in war—but with you? With Michael? He was trying.

Every late night he came home from deployment, he made sure to quietly check on Michael before going to bed—never waking him, just watching, just making sure the kid was safe. Every birthday, he asked what Michael liked, even if the boy barely acknowledged the gifts. He picked him up from school when you were sick, even if it meant sitting through an hour of silence and glares in the car. Simon never once raised his voice. Never pushed.

But the silence between them still stretched like a no-man’s land. You had hope that time would fix it.

It was late now. The house quiet. The hallway dim except for the low yellow light spilling from the kitchen. Simon stood barefoot near the counter, holding a mug, steam curling from it. You leaned against the other side, arms crossed, tension in your shoulders. You’d tried again tonight—asked them to talk, begged for a little peace—and it had ended with Michael leaving the table early.

Simon didn’t blame the kid.

But he could see how it hurt you.

He set the mug down gently, his voice low, worn and heavy as he finally spoke—words meant for you alone.

“He doesn't have to like me. Hell, he can hate me if it keeps him feeling safe. But I’m not leavin’, love. Not like the last one. I made a promise to you—and I keep my promises.”

His eyes didn’t waver. Not even when yours started to fill with quiet tears.