This work of fiction contains elements of SA and likewise triggering content. Please read the tags before continuing.
Simon Riley had learned to live inside his own silence.
It was a strange sort of home, a place he’d built out of muscle memory and habit, stitched together from closed doors and swallowed words. Silence never judged him. Silence didn’t reach for him in the dark. Silence never asked for anything he couldn’t give.
But even a decade after Roba, after the cellar, the restraints, the hands, silence still couldn’t drown out the nightmares.
They always came the same way: a sudden drop into a memory he didn’t want, a sensation he couldn’t forget. Rough palms forcing him down, breath hot against his ear. A voice he hated burrowing into his skull. The smell. The helplessness. His own body betraying him by remembering too much.
And every time he woke, he woke hard, shaking, half choking, palms pressed so tightly over the scars he knew weren’t visible. Convincing himself he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t trapped again. That he wasn’t being touched by someone who wanted to break him.
But the worst part wasn’t the dreams.
The worst part was what came after, the guilt. The crushing, burning guilt of not being enough for the people who claimed they cared about him.
He’d tried relationships. God, he’d tried.
He liked the idea of them. The closeness. The companionship. Someone to sit with at the end of a long day. Someone to text stupid shit to. Someone to love.
But love seemed to come with expectations, hands tugging at his shirt, someone pushing him down on the bed, the look of disappointment when he froze again. Every time, he told himself he could handle it. That he should. That he owed them something for putting up with him.
He could’ve said no. He knew that. Rationally, he knew that. But guilt was a powerful thing.
It drowned him. Drowned him until he convinced himself that saying no made him cruel. That flinching made him broken. That enduring the pain, the bile rising in his throat, the white-hot static rushing under his skin, was better than admitting how messed up he really was.
It was a cycle. A toxic, exhausting cycle of self-destruction and compliance. And he had resigned himself to it.
Until you. You were… different.
He didn’t notice it at first. Not consciously. It was something gentle, something quiet, a softness he wasn’t sure he’d ever been offered before. You didn’t push. Didn’t hover. Didn’t reach for him with greedy hands or press your body against his in a way that made his lungs lock.
You asked for so little. A kiss. A brush of fingers. A cuddle if he wanted it. Just enough affection to make him feel human, but never enough to make him feel trapped.
Sometimes, after long missions, you’d sit beside him on the couch, your head leaning lightly on his shoulder. Not all your weight, never all of it, just the barest touch. Something he could move away from if he needed, though he never did.
And when he kissed you, slow and soft, you kissed him back like you meant it. Like the moment was enough.
It confused him. Terrified him. Made him want to keep you at arm’s length and pull you closer in the same breath. But then came the night he realized how much you saw.
It was during a make out session, one he initiated, for once. He’d been feeling brave, maybe reckless. Your hands were in his hair, your lips warm against his, your breath soft and steady. Something in him wanted more, wanted to prove he could handle more. Wanted to prove he wasn’t broken beyond repair.
His fingers drifted downward, testing. Searching. And you pulled his hand away. Gently. Softly. With no shame, no judgment, no urgency.
He froze immediately. Heart in his throat. Certain he’d ruined it. But you just guided his hand back to your waist, where it had been. As if nothing was wrong. As if he hadn’t just tripped over one of his deepest fears.
He didn’t understand it.
Didn’t understand why you weren’t upset that he wasn’t touching you. Didn’t understand why you weren’t pushing for something more. Didn’t understand why you weren’t taking advantage of the moment, of him, like others had, even unintentionally.
He didn’t even dare ask. Because part of him was certain that if he asked, you’d give him permission. And if you gave him permission, he’d force himself to go further than he wanted. And he’d spiral again.
So he stayed quiet. And you stayed patient.
But you… you saw him.
You saw the way his eyes drifted somewhere distant when someone brushed too close. You saw the way he tensed when lips moved down his neck. You saw the way he pulled back from anything that felt like being held down, even if it was soft hands or a simple embrace.
You saw the man behind the mask, not Ghost, not the unbreakable soldier, not the sarcastic bastard who could intimidate an entire platoon with one glance.
You saw Simon.
You saw the boy who’d survived hell and was still learning how to live afterward. You saw the man who wanted intimacy but was terrified of it. You saw the person who had been hurt in ways he didn't know how to explain.
And more than anything, you saw the truth he never said out loud. He didn’t want sex. Not with you. Not with anyone. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he still wanted you. And so you gave him the one thing no one else had ever offered:
Time.
Time to breathe. Time to trust. Time to understand that he didn’t owe you his body. Time to learn that intimacy wasn’t a damn transaction. Time to see what love looked like without fear attached.
And slowly, so slowly he barely noticed it at first, his nightmares changed.
They didn’t stop. He doubted they ever would.
But instead of waking alone in the dark, gasping for air, he woke with your arms loose around him. Not pinning him, not trapping him, just there. A quiet presence. A grounding warmth.
Sometimes he woke trembling and you murmured, “I’m here,” with your forehead resting against the back of his shoulder. Sometimes he pulled away, needing space, and you gave it without question. Sometimes he clung to you so tightly it startled even him, and you held him through every shaky breath.
And for the first time in years, Simon didn’t feel like a burden.
He felt… seen.
He felt wanted, not for what someone could take from him, but for who he was in all his broken, jagged edges.
He still didn’t understand why your patience didn’t run out. Why you never asked for more. Why you never took advantage of his guilt. But he didn’t question it anymore.
Because when you looked at him, he didn’t see hunger or expectation or disappointment. He saw something softer. Something he’d lost, then buried, then forgotten: He saw safety.
And for Simon Riley… that was enough to start healing.