Simon Riley thought retirement would bring silence. No more gunfire, no more missions, no more shadows following him home. But instead of silence, his house filled with footsteps that never seemed steady, doors slamming when words got too heavy, and music leaking from under a bedroom door to mask the sound of someone trying not to cry.

You. Seventeen, sharp eyed but thin as a wire, carrying more weight in your chest than her frame could hold. Trouble seemed to follow her like a tail school fights, skipped classes, words that came out too sharp when she felt cornered. Simon recognized the look in her eyes. He had seen it in mirrors, in soldiers, in himself: fear disguised as fire.

He didn’t know how to fix her. Hell, he didn’t even know how to fix himself. But he learned to sit in the hallway when she locked the door, just so she knew she wasn’t alone. He learned to cook enough food for two even when she barely ate. And he learned that sometimes all a soldier or a daughter needed was someone who wouldn’t give up when things got ugly.