Chapter twenty
Simon Riley
I've never been good with words.
Never known how to say the things that matter most—not without them sounding like commands, or silence, or something that never leaves my throat.
But Lilly?
She speaks in gestures. In care. In time.
And she gave me something I didn't know how badly I needed until I held it in my hands.
"You still carry love."
Four words that cracked my chest open.
Now I owe her. Not in a way that weighs—but in a way that matters.
Because I need her to know: I see her. I feel her. And she's made me more than just a shadow in combat boots.
So I start with what I know. What I trust. What I've built my life on:
Tactics.
Precision.
Preparation.
⸻
It takes a week.
A week of watching her, listening closely. Memorizing when she tugs on her sleeves when she's tired, or how she rolls her eyes but hides her smile every time I mutter a sarcastic comment mid-mission. The things she misses from home. What she eats last on her plate. How she hums old songs when she thinks no one's listening.
Then I start collecting.
I trade shifts to get a few hours off. Bribe one of the locals to teach me a few tricks. Break into the quartermaster's tent—only lightly—and steal exactly what I need: a tablecloth, two plates, two metal forks that actually match. I carve the handles with my knife. Sloppy at first, but they come out clean enough in the end.
The hard part? Keeping it quiet.
She's too damn perceptive. A few times she almost catches me. Once, she narrows her eyes and says, "What are you up to?"
I just smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know."
⸻
Finally, when the sun's just started to dip, I pull her aside after medical checks and press a note into her hand.
19:30. Supply shed 6B. Wear something warm. Trust me.
— S
She raises an eyebrow. "You're not planning to kill me in the dark, are you?"
"If I were, I wouldn't warn you."
She laughs. "Charming."
But I see the way her fingers curl around the paper. See the excitement she tries to hide.
And for once, I feel nervous.
⸻
I set everything up in an abandoned storage shed out by the east ridge. Nobody uses it anymore—too far from the main hub, too broken down. But I cleaned it out, hung up an old tarp as a curtain, lit two camp lanterns, and laid out the meal I've been preparing all day.
It's simple.
Local stew from the village elder. Flatbread warmed on a pan I borrowed. A little flask of something that might be wine. Might be gasoline. Guess we'll find out.
And when she walks in?
I forget how to breathe.
She's wrapped in her coat, cheeks pink from the wind, hair loose around her shoulders. And her eyes… God, the way they light up when she sees what I've done?
That look could end wars.
"Simon…" she breathes, stepping inside. "Did you—did you do this?"
I don't say anything. Just pull out a crate-turned-chair for her and gesture for her to sit. She lowers herself slowly, stunned. Reverent.
And I sit across from her, like this is a normal dinner. Like we're not surrounded by sandbags and shell casings and silence.
She looks at me across the flickering lantern light.
"No one's ever done this for me."
"Now someone has."
⸻
We eat in near silence. Not because there's nothing to say—but because the quiet feels good. Feels safe. She smiles after every bite. Tells me the stew's incredible. I lie and say I cooked it. She rolls her eyes but takes another bite.
And when we're done, I hand her the final part.
A book.
Old. Worn. The spine cracked and pages yellowed. But I cleaned it up. Found it in a local market on recon. It's a collection of love poems—classic, dramatic, too sweet by half.
But she reads this stuff. I've seen her.
She gasps when she opens the cover. "This is…"
"I saw it and thought of you."
She flips through the pages, carefully. Then she pauses. Smiles. And reads out loud:
"I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
She closes the book. Looks up at me.
And suddenly, her eyes are full.
"You scare me sometimes," she whispers.
"Why?"
"Because you see everything. Every corner of me."
I lean across the space between us. "And I still choose you. Every time."
⸻
That night, we don't touch much.
We don't have to.
She falls asleep curled in my coat, the book clutched to her chest, her head on my thigh while I sit on the cold crate and run my fingers through her hair.
I keep watch long after she sleeps.
Not for threats. Not for war.
But because loving her—like this—might be the most dangerous, most important thing I've ever done.