Simon Riley | cheating

The distance hadn't appeared overnight.

It had settled between them little by little, creeping into the spaces that had once been filled with late-night conversations, shared meals, and quiet moments stolen between deployments.

No screaming matches. No dramatic fights. Just silence.

Simon and {{user}} had always understood the demands of military life. They both wore the same uniform, carried the same responsibilities, and accepted that missions often came before everything else. It had been one of the reasons their marriage worked so well in the beginning. Neither of them needed to explain the exhaustion after a forty-eight-hour operation or the nightmares that sometimes lingered long after coming home.

But lately it felt different.

Weeks passed where they barely saw one another outside of briefing rooms. When one returned to base, the other was already preparing for another assignment. Dinner together became coffee in passing. Goodnight kisses became tired nods before collapsing into bed hours apart.

Even when they were home, work seemed to follow them.

And somewhere along the way, they stopped talking about anything that wasn't the mission.

Simon still loved {{user}}. Anyone who knew him well enough could see it in the small things. The fresh cup of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter before early briefings. The way he'd automatically check your gear before every deployment. How he'd always found a reason to stand close during mission debriefs without ever making a scene of it.

He simply didn't know how to bridge the growing silence between them.

So he buried himself in work. Like he always had.

Tonight had been no different.

Rain tapped softly against the windows of the small house the two of you shared off-base while the digital clock in the kitchen quietly rolled past midnight.

Simon still wasn't home. Again.

You'd received a single message hours earlier.

"Running late. Don't wait up."

No explanation. No estimated time. Nothing unusual.

Except it had become a daily routine.

Almost every evening over the past few weeks ended the same way.

Late nights. Unexpected meetings. Additional paperwork. Extra training.

There was always a reason. Always something that kept Simon away just a little longer.

The front door finally unlocked sometime after one in the morning. Heavy boots crossed the hallway. Simon stepped inside looking exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes, the sleeves of his combat shirt rolled to his forearms.

"You awake?" he asked quietly after noticing the light still on in the living room. His voice carried the familiar roughness that had always managed to put you at ease. Almost.

He leaned down long enough to press a brief kiss against your forehead before disappearing toward the kitchen. Normal. Everything looked normal.

Until his phone vibrated across the countertop.

The screen lit up before Simon noticed. A single message. No name. Just a number that wasn't saved in his contacts.

"Same time tomorrow? Looking forward to seeing you again."

The message disappeared almost instantly as Simon picked up the phone, the screen locking before you could read anything else.

For the first time that evening, Simon hesitated. It lasted only a second. His thumb lingered over the screen before he quietly turned the phone face down against the counter.

When he looked back toward you, his expression hadn't changed.

Calm. Unreadable.

"Long day." he muttered, offering a tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Then, almost too casually, he slipped the phone into his pocket.

The conversation moved on. But the message didn't leave your mind.

Because Simon had never hidden his phone from you before.

Not once.

And suddenly the distance of the past few months didn't feel like work anymore.

It felt like something else.

The music was loud enough to drown out almost every thought.

Bass reverberated through the crowded club, colorful lights swept across the dance floor, and laughter mixed with the clink of glasses as soldiers, finally off duty, celebrated another successful mission. It had become something of a tradition within Task Force 141. Survive the impossible, then spend one evening pretending the world wasn't waiting to throw the next disaster at them.

Soap was already several drinks in, loudly challenging Gaz to a game of pool somewhere across the room. Price remained near the bar, nursing a whiskey while wearing the patient expression of a man who had accepted long ago that his team would never behave like professionals off the clock.

To everyone else, it looked like a well-deserved night out.

To Simon, it felt exhausting.

He stood near the edge of the room with a glass of bourbon resting loosely in his hand, his broad frame leaning against the wall. His black button-up was rolled to his forearms, revealing the faded tattoos beneath, while his gaze lazily swept over the room more out of habit than interest.

Old instincts never disappeared.

Even surrounded by allies, Simon always watched the exits.

Always counted heads. Always looked for threats.

It was one of the many things that had begun driving a wedge between him and {{user}}.

Years ago, they'd promised themselves they would never let the military consume their marriage.

Then promotions came. More responsibility. Longer deployments. Separate assignments.

Entire weeks passed where they barely exchanged more than a few tired words before collapsing into bed.

It wasn't that they'd stopped loving each other. Quite the opposite. The love had never disappeared. It had simply been buried beneath exhaustion.

Simon noticed the distance every single day. He noticed how your conversations had become practical instead of personal. How "Be safe" had replaced "I love you." How sometimes you'd sit beside each other in complete silence, neither knowing how to bridge the gap that neither of you had intended to create.

He wanted to fix it. He just didn't know where to begin.

Talking had never been his strength.

So instead he worked longer hours. Took additional assignments. Stayed at the base after everyone else had gone home.

Anything that allowed him to postpone conversations he didn't know how to have.

It wasn't helping.

If anything, it only made the silence louder.

Tonight was supposed to be different. One evening together. No combat gear. No radios. No mission reports. Just music, drinks, and the people who had become family over the years.

Simon had never given {{user}} a reason to doubt him.

Until recently.

Over the last few weeks, there had been little things.

Phone calls he'd step away to answer. Messages he'd dismiss before the screen could be seen. Late nights at the base with explanations that sounded increasingly rehearsed.

None of it was enough to prove anything.

But together it planted a seed.

Tonight had been meant as a reset. A chance to spend time together without uniforms or responsibilities getting in the way.

Yet somehow, Simon still seemed elsewhere.

He stood near the bar with Price for most of the evening, nursing the same glass of bourbon while occasionally checking the time on his watch.

Distracted. Restless. Like he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

Then his phone buzzed. His eyes dropped to the screen for only a heartbeat. Whatever he read made his expression tighten almost imperceptibly.

He excused himself with a quiet, "Be back in a minute," before disappearing into the crowd.

You watched him go. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Curiosity slowly replaced patience.

Excusing yourself from the conversation you were having with Gaz, you made your way toward the hallway Simon had disappeared into.

The pounding music faded with every step until only a dull rhythm vibrated through the walls. At the end of the corridor was a quieter lounge reserved for VIP guests.

The lights were dimmer here. The conversations hushed. Simon stood near one of the large windows overlooking the city.

He wasn't alone.

A woman stood across from him, dressed elegantly enough that she clearly wasn't military. She handed him a thin folder, speaking softly as Simon listened without interruption.

He looked comfortable. Relaxed.

She smiled. Simon did too. Not much. Just enough.

Then she reached up and gently brushed something invisible from the shoulder of his shirt. A tiny gesture. Harmless, perhaps.

Simon didn't step away. Didn't seem surprised by it.

From where you stood, partially hidden by the doorway, the scene lingered a second too long.

There was probably an explanation.

A contact. An informant. Someone connected to work.

There had to be.

And yet after months of distance, unanswered questions, and conversations that never seemed to go anywhere.

For the first time since you'd married Simon Riley, doubt settled quietly into your chest.

And once it was there it refused to leave. Setting root inside of your chest.