Chapter seven
Simon Riley
She kissed me.
That should've been the end of it. Should've snapped me out of whatever spell she's got on me. But instead, it sealed something. Anchored it. I've gone and crossed a line I swore I never would. And the worst part?
I don't want to go back.
I've been in warzones for years—seen enough death, betrayal, and blood to strip a man bare. I've kept people out for a reason. Caring gets you killed. Loving someone? That's a weakness I can't afford.
But Lilly isn't a weakness. She's a fuse, and she's already lit.
And now, I'm waiting for the explosion.
⸻
We're wheels up in less than an hour. Intel says the area's hot—ambush potential. I should be focused. Gear prepped, head clear, heart cold.
Instead, my eyes find her across the tent as we load out. She's zipping up a field kit, lips pressed together in that way she does when she's pretending nothing's wrong. But I know better now. I know her.
"Riley," Soap mutters, sidling up next to me with a knowing smirk. "You and the medic got somethin' to confess?"
I give him a hard glare. "Drop it."
He raises his hands. "Alright, alright. Just saying… you're not exactly subtle, mate."
I clench my jaw and finish checking my weapon. I didn't think anyone noticed. Clearly, I was wrong.
That's the problem with letting something real slip through the cracks—it always shows.
⸻
We hit the drop zone with zero margin for error. The terrain is tight. Buildings gutted, roads half-collapsed. Ghost town with too many hiding spots.
She sticks close to the rear with her gear, eyes alert. Professional. Focused. But when our paths cross during recon, she brushes her hand against mine as she passes—quick, almost nothing. But I feel it like a live wire.
We clear two blocks before it happens. An IED under the rubble. Loud. Flash-blind and ears ringing. Then the gunfire starts. Screaming in my comms. Shouts. Dust. Blood.
And her voice.
"Simon—Riley!"
I spin, and she's down on one knee, working on a soldier with shrapnel in his leg. Exposed. No cover.
Too exposed.
I move before I can think, sliding behind a crumbling wall and laying down cover fire, barking orders. "Move her back! Get her behind the damn Humvee!"
Someone grabs her, pulls her away just as bullets chew the wall where she was kneeling seconds ago. My heart's in my throat. The kind of panic I don't feel—not for anyone.
Except her.
⸻
Back at base, it's chaos. Debrief. Triage. Another soldier down. She's fine—scratched, tired, covered in someone else's blood—but alive.
I corner her after things settle. In the back corridor, where no one's watching. She looks up, and she knows before I speak.
"You could've been killed," I grind out.
"So could you," she fires back. "It's war, Simon. That's the job."
"You're not a soldier."
"No, but I'm still on the field. And if you think I'm going to hang back every time you get scared for me, you picked the wrong woman."
I step in close. Anger. Fear. Everything boiling up at once. "You think this is just about fear?"
"I think you're in love with me," she says softly. "And it's messing with your head."
Silence.
She's not wrong.
But love is the last thing I know how to deal with.
"I can't afford to lose you," I say.
"Then don't push me away."
She turns, walks off, leaving me alone with the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I survived today's firefight.
But I don't know if I'll survive her.