Chapter twenty three
Lilly Rose
I haven't been on the field in three weeks.
After the last mission—the shrapnel, the blood, the all-too-close call—they pulled me from active rotation for recovery. Which sounds like rest, but really, it was punishment. Every minute I was benched, every second I was kept from doing what I trained for, what I live for—it felt like dying in slow motion.
But today?
Today I'm back in.
And they paired me with him.
⸻
Captain's voice echoed through the morning brief like a bad omen.
"Lieutenant Riley, Specialist Rose—you'll be embedded with Task Unit Echo for the village extraction. Four klicks out, three civilian targets, high risk of insurgent entrenchment. You're point and field medic. You two know the drill."
Simon didn't look at me. Not until we were dismissed.
But his hand brushed mine as we passed each other at the tent flap. Just enough to tell me: We're good. I've got you.
And I did the only thing I could.
I brushed back. I've got you, too.
⸻
The Humvee ride is bumpy and loud.
Hot air, dust in the air like ash. Everything smells like steel and old sweat.
Simon's beside me, silent as ever, but his eyes scan constantly. Watching everything. Reading the world like it's made of enemy code.
Me? I'm watching him. The way his fingers twitch on the stock of his rifle. The subtle tension in his jaw. He's always ready to move—like the only way he knows how to live is in motion.
But the moment our eyes meet, something changes. Just a flicker.
He gives me the smallest nod. Like we're already speaking the same language again.
⸻
We breach at 1600 hours.
The building's half-collapsed, torn apart by shelling from weeks ago. It's hot and quiet, too quiet. No movement. No cries. No chaos. Which only means one thing:
It's about to get very loud.
Simon clears left. I follow tight. I can feel the heat of his presence behind me, the way he's always between me and the next threat, like instinct.
Our team splits—two go upstairs. We move deeper into the hallway, weapons up, senses sharp.
"Door, two o'clock," I murmur.
He glances back. "Stack."
I take position. He signals. One, two—
Boom.
Door flies open.
Flash.
Screaming.
And suddenly, it's chaos.
Gunfire. Dust. Cries in a language I can't understand. A child sobbing. A woman shielding her head.
And Simon—Simon moves like something from a nightmare. Clean, silent, deadly. One insurgent down. Then two. The third gets close—too close—but I'm already moving.
My hand is steady. My shot is clean.
He sees it.
He sees me.
And he trusts it.
⸻
Minutes stretch. Then silence falls again.
I drop to the woman, assessing fast—fractured rib, dehydration, maybe infection. I call out vitals. Simon kneels beside the boy—no older than five—blood on his shirt, but not his own. He touches the kid's shoulder with a gentleness I've only ever seen when it's just the two of us.
We get them out fast.
Back in the Humvee, dirt-streaked and breathing hard, I reach over and grab his hand without thinking. His fingers are bloody. So are mine.
He squeezes once.
And I know—without a word—he felt it, too.
That we're stronger like this. Side by side.
Partners. Lovers. Shadows, if we have to be.
But together.
⸻
Later, in the quiet of the medical tent, after we've handed off the civilians and reported in, I find him leaning against the wall outside, smoke curling from his lips, expression unreadable.
I walk straight up to him, grab the cigarette from his mouth, toss it, and slide my arms around his waist.
"Guess we make a pretty damn good team," I murmur against his chest.
He huffs a small laugh. "Reckless medic. Stubborn woman."
"Soft-hearted soldier."
He stiffens at that. I know the word makes him uncomfortable.
So I press a kiss just under his jaw and whisper, "I like that you are. Even when you don't."
His arms wrap around me like the mission never ended.
And in that moment, I know—we're not just surviving anymore.
We're living this.
Together.