You and Simon came from worlds that didn’t just fail to speak the same language— they didn’t even breathe the same air.

Yours was polished quiet: curated, manicured, softly perfumed with roses and old money. A white-pillared house at the end of a private road, the lawns clipped to perfection, the neighbors politely distant, every window reflecting a version of life meant to look effortless. Your childhood was softened by privilege but sharpened by expectation—space, silence, and a schedule carved out for you long before you learned the word choice.

At four, you were playing scales on a piano while a tutor corrected your posture. A violin too large for your arms rested against your shoulder, vibrating with Bach. Your lessons rotated like clockwork—languages, debate, etiquette, history—designed to funnel you toward the life your parents framed as inevitable. Boarding school followed: ancient stone walls, crests carved into pillars, Latin mottos, prefects who strutted like royalty. Every corridor smelled of old books and ambition.

By adolescence, you were fluent in handshakes, poised smiles, and speaking without saying anything true. You learned to hide the parts of yourself that didn’t fit the blueprint: study law, enter the family firm, inherit a legacy you never asked for. You became someone admirable. But rarely someone known.

And then Simon Riley walked into your life.

He came from Manchester’s rougher veins—brick and soot and streets that taught you to keep your head down unless you were willing to fight. His childhood wasn’t curated; it was survival carved into bone. Noise, fists, grief, long silences no child should’ve learned to read. He enlisted young, found purpose in discipline, escape in structure, and eventually carved his way into the SAS. He carried ghosts—real ones—etched behind his eyes, in the way he stood, the way he watched the world, always waiting for the next impact.

He didn’t ask who your parents were. Didn’t care where you studied or what your GPA was. He listened, really listened, to the things you never dared say aloud. And he touched you with a kind of gentleness that felt contradictory to everything he’d survived—like he saw you fragile, yes, but never weak.

Home became less of a place and more of a presence. More of him.

Now, you’re months from finishing your law degree. The future waiting for you is all dark suits, heavy doors, voices that echo in marble hallways. And tonight, you’re bringing Simon to a formal dinner with your family.

The dining room is a cathedral of wealth—marble floors, chandeliers dripping crystal, a mahogany table long enough to seat an army. Silver cutlery gleams under bright polished light. Your father’s expression gives nothing away. Your mother’s smile is thin, practiced. Your older brother arrives late, apologizing to the room but not to the man he brushes past like he’s part of the furniture.

Simon wears a clean button-up, dark trousers. He left the gloves at home. But his posture is stiff, too straight, shoulders locked like he’s bracing for an impact he can’t map. His eyes flick, calculating exits, habits he can’t switch off.

Your father asks, far too casually, “So, Riley… The military. Must be… demanding. Less strategy than brute work, I’d imagine?”

Simon goes still. Not offended—just choosing. “Strategy’s what keeps us alive, sir,” he says quietly. “Without it, we don’t make it back.”

A silence drops, brittle as glass. Your mother fills his wineglass without looking at him. Your brother smirks and murmurs, “Different kind of professionalism. Ours requires a bit more… finesse.”

You rest your hand on Simon’s knee beneath the table. His thigh is coiled steel. His polite smile isn’t real—you know that. You also know it costs him something to hold it.

You excuse yourselves, slipping out into the garden. The air is warm, fragrant with honeysuckle and cut grass.

Simon exhales, sharp and low, like he’s been holding his breath since he crossed the threshold.

“I shouldn’t’ve come,” he mutters. His voice is rougher than before. “Don’t fit in there.”