The military base was bustling with activity, the sound of drills and orders echoing across the grounds. It was a world of precision and discipline, every movement purposeful. And then there was you, weaving through the chaos with a notepad in hand, your sharp eyes taking in every detail for the article you were working on.

Simon Riley spotted you from a distance, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need to see the notepad or the press badge pinned to your coat to know who you were. You were the journalist who had been granted unprecedented access to the base, tasked with writing a piece on the realities of military life.

From Simon’s perspective, you were a nuisance, a distraction that disrupted the focus and efficiency of the soldiers. Your questions, your constant presence—it grated on him. And it didn’t help that every time you appeared, heads turned. Not because you were out of place, but because you carried yourself with a confidence and curiosity that drew attention.

He approached you with his usual stern expression, his large frame casting a shadow as he stopped a few feet away. “Miss,” he began, his voice low and clipped, “you’re not supposed to be here during drills.”