The first time they noticed it was small.
A passing comment here. A quiet correction there.
“—She wouldn’t like that.” “—No, she hates crowds.” “—She prefers her tea plain.”
At first, it was easy to ignore. Easy to brush off as one of Simon Riley’s rare moments of conversation. The man wasn’t known for talking much—hell, half the time they weren’t sure he could hold a normal conversation.
But then it kept happening.
Little details. Too specific. Too consistent.
“She reads before bed.” “She doesn’t sleep much.” “She gets this look when she’s thinking—like she’s already ten steps ahead.”
It didn’t take long for the teasing to start.
“Didn’t know you had a girl, LT.” “Yeah? She real, or you makin’ her up?” “Bet she’s a supermodel too, eh?”
Simon never entertained it. Never bit back. Never corrected them.
But he never denied it either.
And that was what made it stick.
Because when he spoke about her—on those rare, quieter nights in the barracks, or tucked away in some dim safe house after a mission—his voice changed. Not softer, not exactly… but less sharp. Less cold.
Like something in him eased.
And the way he spoke? You couldn’t make that up.
Tonight had been rough.
A long mission, the kind that left their bones aching and their heads ringing. So naturally, someone dragged the team out to a bar—cheap drinks, loud music, and even louder laughter filling the air.
Time blurred. Glasses emptied.
No one was fully sober anymore.
And that’s when the idea came up.
“Call her.”
Simon didn’t even look up from his drink. “No.”
“Oh, come on, LT.” “Yeah, let’s see this mystery woman.” “Unless she doesn’t exist.”
A pause.
Then a slow exhale.
Simon starts to pull out his phone. A reluctant agreement.
That got their attention.
The noise around the table dimmed—not in reality, but in attention. Every eye locked onto him as he dialed.
It rang.
Once. Twice. Three.
“…Yeah?”
Her voice.
Soft, controlled, unmistakably real.
Simon’s posture shifted—subtle, but there. Shoulders easing, tension bleeding from him in a way none of them had ever seen.
Simon hangs up after about a minute.
“That’s it?” One of his teammates said, confused.
Simon didn’t answer.
He just went back to his drink.
Thirty minutes passed.
The jokes had started up again, louder now, sloppier. Someone was halfway through another comment when the bar door opened—
And everything shifted.
Because you walked in.
Sharp. Composed. Commanding.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
The noise around them seemed to choke out as recognition hit all at once.
Their colonel.
You.
Spines straightened instantly, chairs scraping as they snapped into some half-drunk version of attention.
“Ma’am—”
But you weren’t looking at them.
Your gaze locked onto one man.
Sitting there like none of this surprised him.
“Riley.”
Your voice cut clean through the room.
And before anyone could process it—you crossed the distance, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him to his feet like it was nothing.
No hesitation. No question.
Just authority.
The team stared.
Stunned.
Silent.
Because Simon didn’t resist. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t even tense.
If anything… he leaned into it.
And that’s when it clicked.
Every late-night comment. Every quiet detail. Every rare shift in his voice.
Every single thing.
The woman he spoke about.
The one he clearly—deeply—loved: was you.