Chapter six
Lilly Rose
I should be focused on reorganizing the med tent. I should be inventorying the supplies, replacing gauze, checking vitals. But all I can think about is him.
Simon Riley.
Lieutenant Stonewall. The one with the gravel voice and those cold, unreadable eyes—until last night, when he kissed me like he'd been drowning in silence and I was the first breath of air he could take.
God, that kiss.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was heat and need and something wild caged behind years of restraint. He kissed me like he hated himself for wanting me—and maybe he does. I don't know. He's hard to read. Cold on the outside, all ice and sharp edges. But I've seen flashes of the man underneath. The one who checks on everyone else before himself. The one who flinched when I cleaned the blood off his chest but didn't say a damn word about the pain. The one who grabbed my wrist like he couldn't stand the idea of letting go.
It would've been easier if he hadn't kissed me.
Easier to keep pretending I don't notice how his eyes linger when he thinks I'm not looking.
Easier to ignore the way his voice drops when he says my name.
But now the game's changed. And I'm not about to play small.
I hear heavy boots outside the tent, and my heart skips. I know that sound—measured, deliberate. It's him. I turn just in time to see his silhouette pass by without slowing.
Of course he doesn't stop.
That would mean acknowledging what happened.
That would mean feeling something.
I toss down the clipboard, swearing under my breath, and step out of the tent. The air is hot and dry, dust kicking up with every step, but I barely notice. I follow the pull of instinct more than logic, rounding the corner toward where I know he goes when he needs space.
And there he is—standing with his arms crossed, staring at nothing like the war's still going on in his head.
I stop a few feet away. "So that's it? You kiss me, then act like I don't exist?"
He doesn't turn around. "Not the time, Rose."
"I'll decide when it's the time," I shoot back. "You kissed me. You touched me like I meant something. Then you shut down again like I imagined it."
His shoulders tense. He turns slowly, eyes locking on mine, and for the first time since the mission, I see it again—that storm just beneath the surface.
"You do mean something," he says, voice like gravel and regret. "That's the problem."
My breath catches.
He steps closer, just enough to make my skin buzz. "I've spent years keeping people out. It's easier. Safer. But you—damn it, you slip past every defense I have."
"So stop fighting it," I whisper.
He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from my face like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. His thumb lingers at my cheek, rough but gentle.
"I'm not good at this," he says. "Not with someone like you."
"Then don't be good," I murmur, "Just be real."
There's a pause. A heartbeat of indecision. Then he leans in, forehead resting against mine, both of us caught in the quiet before something breaks open again.
"I can't lose you," he breathes.
"Then don't."
This time, I kiss him.
And this time, he doesn't hold back.