the 141 aren’t stupid -- they wouldn’t carry a photo of you in their vest or helmet. no name written anywhere, nothing on their body that could potentially trace to a woman back home.
but they all carry something.
simon has a hair tie on his wrist. black, cheap, the kind you buy in packs of fifty and lose all over the damn flat. it sits under the cuff of his glove, biting into his skin, reminding him exactly why he needs to make it home. it always smells like your shampoo for a bit before it starts to smell like his own sweat, he finds himself a new one on the bathroom floor before each deployment.
price wears a watch. it’s not the watch that’s about you, really. it’s that he started setting the second time zone to match yours. he checks it more than he should, especially at night when he can’t sleep and it’s three a.m where he is and eight a.m where you are. he’ll think: ‘she’ll be making coffee, i wonder what she wore to bed’ and that’s the closest he lets himself get to mixing you with work.
kyle wears a bracelet. it’s thin braided yarn, the kind of thing you learned to make as a kid at camp. you made it on a slow sunday afternoon while he was half-asleep on your thigh. he said ‘oh, that’s sick, darling. ta!’, put it on and hasn’t taken it off since. it’s absolutely filthy these days. and when it starts to fray, he simply keeps re-knotting it, sometimes johnny has to help get it tight.
johnny carries a folded square of paper that’s gone so soft it feels like fabric, he keeps it safe in a zipped pocket on his kit. it’s a grocery list in your looping handwriting that you’d left him on the kitchen counter one morning. eggs, soy milk, the good butter, berries, your stupid crisps, wine (red). it’s got a small heart in the corner -- that’s the most worn bit because he brushes his thumb over it every night.
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You are in bed, the moon high. Simon is home and beside you, pressed against your back.
You tried to sleep. You really did. But you were just so… uncomfortable. Every time you shifted, your sore breasts would too. And make it impossible to sleep. You don’t want to wake up Ghost, so you try to suck it up.
“Want to tell me why we are both up at three in the mornin’ without sleepin’ a wink, baby?” Simon asks, his voice gruff and thick from disuse in your ear.
You tense, not knowing he was awake—the movement makes your breasts hurt again. “Si,” you murmur, “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Well, lovie, every time you move—which is often—you let out a small huff of breath.” He says. “Should I be worried? I’m pretty sure I know my wif-“
“I’m fine.” You interrupt, hormones causing you to get angry. Regret washes over you and you shift to face him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Just tell me what’s wrong.” He says softly in understanding. “I can help you with whatever it is. Please just tell me.”
You knew he was desperate. Simon? Saying please?
“I’m just… sore.” You admit. “I’m going to start my period soon. My hormones are going wild—which is no excuse—and my breasts hurt. It’s impossible to sleep.”
He nods, expresses softening further. “It’s alrigh’. Let’s just find you a more comfortable position.”
“I’ve already tried!” The sob tears from your throat. You regret it but can’t stop. “I’m so tired, Si! I just want to get rest…”
He doesn’t even flinch, reaching up with his big, calloused hand to stroke your cheek.
A few minutes pass like that in silence. Before you know it, you’ve fallen asleep. Simon grins softly and pulls you closer.
he's on the sofa, arms either folded over his chest or stretched out across the top of the cushions. thick thighs keeping his legs parted (he had no choice).
you could have sat on his lap, laid your head on his shoulder. but you didn't want that.
you wanted to lay across the sofa, neck cushioned by his thigh, nose pressed against his bulge.
you loved his bulge.
whether he was in tac pants or those grey sweats you loved, your nose pressed against his bulge. simon would pet your head as you nuzzled against him. something about it was so damn comfortable.
and when he got hard? it was all your fault. gentle kisses against his tip through the fabric of his trousers, licking over the tip until you made a wet patch
Simon didn't like sex. Obviously he had one night stands, more then most people. But it was more so an outlet for his aggressiveness then anything.
And the women who he was with never complained.
He was good in bed. But it was mostly just because he was so focused on anything he did.
He couldn't do things half assed.
Sex was never gentle for him, nothing was gentle about him.
But then he met you.
A soft little thing. Moved across the hallway for him in the apartment building, you flirted with him a lot. But never did anything more then flirt. Never pushed.
It was odd. Really much so. Every time you came up the stairs and passed by him, you complimented on his appearance or something similar.
And everytime, something in his stomach squeezed, small fireworks that he tried so hard to ignore. But they made his face burn.
You.
But when you finally ended up in his bed.
He didn't know how to act, all this gentleness had been odd for him before. And now... even more so.
It felt wrong, his calloused hands gripping and massaging your soft skin. The ever slow pace you set and you rode him. The way you couldn't truly look him in the eyes. Soft whines, small whimpers.
simon riley who grunts every time you shift on the bed. its late at night and you cant seem to get comfy. he lets out an annoyed huff and throws an arm over your waist. "stop moving, dove." he mumbles into your shoulder. he pulls you against his chest and gently squishes your tummy with his big hand. it never fails to amaze you how quickly you can fall asleep in his arms.
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can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.
he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.
he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.
and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.
so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.
you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.
you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.
"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."
"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.
the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."
and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.
"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"
"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.
"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."
you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.
"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"
"she's fine, garrick."
'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.
"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.
"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"
they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.
"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"
" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"
yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.
idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea
You hated when people looked at you after they looked at Simon.
Because it always happened in that order.
Their eyes would land on him first— broad shoulders stuffed into dark clothes, that permanently tired stare, the kind of presence that made rooms quiet without him even trying — and then they’d shift to you.
And every single time, you swore you saw the same flicker of confusion.
Them?
It made your sick.
You knew Simon didn’t notice it. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. But you noticed. God, you noticed.
Especially at the pub near base.
You worked there most evenings, weaving through crowded tables with cheap trays balanced on one hand, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen because the cook kept dragging you back there to help plate when things got busy. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t important.
You were just… you. A waitress.
And Simon Riley was him.
Lieutenant. Decorated soldier. Feared. Respected. The kind of man people whispered about before he even entered a room.
The kind of man who looked absurd sitting in your tiny apartment kitchen at two in the morning drinking tea from a chipped mug while your socks slid across the floor.
You still didn’t understand why he stayed.
“You’re staring again.” Simon muttered one night from your couch.
You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “Sorry.”
He watched you from beneath heavy lashes. “What’s goin’ on in that head?”
“Nothin’.”
A lie. Simon always knew when you lied.
He sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees. “C’mere.”
You obeyed automatically, crossing the small apartment until he tugged you between his legs. His hands settled on your hips, warm and heavy even through your clothes.
“You’ve been distant all week..” he said quietly. “Talk.”
You tried to shrug it off. “I’m tired.”
“Try again.”
Your chest tightened.
You hated this part. Hated saying things out loud because they sounded even stupider once they existed in the air.
Simon waited patiently.
That made it worse.
“I just…” You laughed weakly, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“This.”
One of his brows twitched.
“You.” Your voice got quieter. “Us.”
Simon stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the question.
Which was insane.
“You could have anyone.” you murmured. “Anyone, Simon.”
His grip on your hips tightened slightly.
“And you’re with…” You gestured vaguely to yourself with a self-conscious smile that hurt more than it should’ve. “Me.”
Silence.
Not angry silence.
Not cold silence.
The dangerous kind — the kind where Simon got very, very still.
“You think I’m too good for you?” he asked finally.
Your face heated immediately. “When you say it like that it sounds—”
“Answer me.”
You swallowed.
“A little.”
Simon leaned back against the couch slowly, eyes never leaving yours. There was something awful in them suddenly. Something wounded.
Like you’d hurt him.
“You think I come here because I settled?”
“No—”
“You think I look at you and see someone lesser than me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
You looked away.
That was answer enough.
Simon exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tightening beneath faint stubble.
“Christ.”
Your stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”
That made his head snap up instantly.
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Apologizin’ for existing.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
Simon’s hands slid from your hips up to your arms, gentler this time.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head.
“I see someone good.”
You almost laughed at that.
But Simon continued before you could.
“I see someone who remembers how I take my tea. Someone who works ten-hour shifts and still manages to smile at strangers.” His thumbs brushed absentmindedly against your sleeves. “Someone who treats people kindly even when they don’t deserve it.”
His eyes softened.
“You look at me and see the rank. The size. The scary reputation.” A humorless huff escaped him. “You don’t see what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
“A soldier.”
You frowned immediately. “Simon, I’m literally a waitress.”
“Aye.” He nodded once. “And every day you deal with rude customers, drunk men, shitty management, sore feet, exhaustion, bills…” His gaze locked onto yours. “And you keep goin’.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“You think strength only looks like violence,” Simon murmured. “Like guns and combat and knowin’ how to kill.”
One hand came up to cradle your jaw carefully.
“But I’ve seen men in the military weaker than you.”
Your eyes burned.
“Simon…”
“I mean it.” His voice dropped lower now, rough around the edges. “You walk through life soft. Do you understand how bloody difficult that is?”
That finally broke you a little.
Because Simon said it like softness was something sacred.
Something rare.
You looked down quickly, embarrassed by the sudden sting behind your eyes.
“I’m not special.”
Simon’s expression twisted like the sentence physically hurt him.
He stood abruptly, forcing you to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Big hands framed your face completely.
“Don’t do that.” he said sharply.
You startled.
“Don’t tear yourself apart in front of me.” His voice cracked slightly around the edges now. “Not when I love every part.”
The room went silent.
Simon wasn’t good at saying things like that. He showed love easier than he spoke it. Through quiet touches. Waiting outside your work after late shifts. Fixing things around your apartment without being asked. Standing between you and the world like a wall.
But this?
This was raw… and terrifyingly honest.
His forehead pressed against yours.
“I don’t need someone impressive.” he whispered. “I need you.”
Your chest ached so badly it almost hurt to breathe.
“You make my life quiet.”
One of his hands slid into your hair carefully.
“You make me feel human again.”
Your eyes finally spilled over.
Simon caught the tears immediately with his thumb, looking almost angry at them.
“Don’t cry.”
“You’re being too nice.” you whispered shakily.
A small, disbelieving laugh left him.
“Too nice..” he repeated. “That’s what did it?”
You laughed weakly through tears.
Simon stared at you for a long moment before pulling you against his chest so suddenly you nearly stumbled.
His arms wrapped around you tight. Protective. Certain. Like there had never been a question.
“You are not lucky to have me.” he murmured into your hair.
simon chuckles, standing to his fullest height and making no accommodations for you. this has been going on for at least ten minutes now – the bastard just won’t let you have your way. mask off and wearing civilian clothing, a rare occurrence, he washes the dishes in the kitchen, refusing to give in.
“si, don’t be mean. i want a kiss.” you groan when soap suds find their way onto your face. “ugh, don’t flick soap on me. please, si. just kiss me. once. once is all i ask for.”
his back muscles ripple with barely concealed laughter. “don’t be botherin’ me when i’m washin’ up, lovie. ain’t wise.”
“give me a kiss!”
glancing down at you, eyes crinkled in the corner with mirth, his lips twitch. “get it y’rself, woman. go on. come take it from me.”
you creep under his beefy arm, tucking yourself between his broad body and the cold sink. truly cruel, you know he knows that you can only reach his chin on your tiptoes, jumping a little. still, you don’t give up. brushing kisses onto his chin, his neck, his jaw, you do everything in your power to lay a solid one on his lips.
to no avail.
forehead pressed to his chest, you sigh. “fine, mean bastard. you win. i give up. no kisses for me tonight, i guess.”
soaked, fingers pinch your chin, tilting your head back. you see simon’s eyes soften, drifting to your mouth before he leans in, grazing your lips with his tenderly. he doesn’t slip a tongue in, doesn’t deepen the kiss, just lingers, like he’s absorbing your warmth, processing the softness of your skin, and rejoicing in the comfort of being at home.
“mmm, missed ya,” he says.
you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close and pecking his lips over and over again. “i missed you too, si. always.”
he kisses your forehead. “won’t have to soon. i’ll do right by ya. promise.”
“i know.”
oh, but how little do we know when blinded by love and carried through only by faith and hope.
