Chapter sixteen
Lilly Rose
The first thing I feel is warmth.
Not from the sun—but from him.
Simon's arm is draped heavy across my waist, the weight of it grounding, claiming. His chest rises and falls against my back in a steady rhythm, breath warm against the curve of my neck. He's tucked in behind me like he fits there—and maybe he does.
I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer, letting myself soak in the stillness.
Because mornings like this don't exist here.
Not with war humming outside.
Not with blood on our boots and rumors in the air.
But here, in this tiny pocket of peace, it's just him and me.
No masks.
No ranks.
No rules.
⸻
I shift slightly, and his grip tightens automatically, pulling me closer, like his body refuses to let me go—even in sleep.
"You're awake," he mumbles, voice gravelly, low, full of sleep and something more tender.
"Mmm. Just barely." I reach down, threading my fingers through his where they rest on my stomach. "Didn't want to move."
"Then don't." He presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder, slow and lingering, like he's memorizing the taste of my skin. "Stay."
And god, I want to. More than anything.
"I like you better like this," I murmur.
"Like what?"
"Warm. Quiet. Soft."
He huffs a quiet laugh, his nose brushing my hair. "I'm not soft."
I roll over to face him, eyes locking with his sleepy ones—bare, unpainted by duty or discipline. "You are with me."
And it's true.
This man—Lieutenant Simon Riley, Ghost, the one who commands with silence and never cracks—lets himself fall apart with me. In my arms. Between my legs. Beneath the weight of a love neither of us expected but both of us can't walk away from now.
I trace a scar on his chest with the tip of my finger. "This one?"
"Knife. Syria. Close call." He watches my face carefully. "You're not gonna start crying, are you?"
I smile. "Not unless you do first."
His mouth curves slightly—almost a smile. But his eyes are still serious.
"You're the only one who's ever looked at them like that."
"Like what?"
"Like they aren't something to hide."
I kiss the scar softly, then another. Then another.
"You're not something to hide either, Simon."
He swallows hard, thumb brushing across my cheek. "You make me feel like I'm still human."
I press my forehead to his, hands cupping his face. "You are. You've always been. You just forgot."
⸻
We lay there for a while longer, tangled up in each other, letting the sun climb higher and the rest of the world slip away. There's no rush. No clock ticking down. Just his fingers tracing idle paths along my spine, his lips ghosting over my collarbone like he's afraid I'll vanish if he stops touching me.
"I don't want to go back out there," I whisper.
"You don't have to. Not yet."
"But soon?"
"Yeah." He sighs. "Soon."
His voice is tight, like the thought of walking out that tent flap and pretending nothing happened is unbearable.
And honestly? It is.
Because this—this quiet morning, this shared warmth, this love—feels more real than anything I've ever known.
And for once, I don't care if the whole damn world finds out.