Simon Riley

The early afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the old park trees, casting lazy shadows across the worn footpaths and rustling gently through the grass. The sound of children laughing filled the air—little feet pounding across playground mulch, parents chatting nearby, dogs barking at pigeons. It was the kind of quiet chaos that made the world feel, at least for a moment, safe.

Simon Riley stood just a few paces away from a park bench, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the playground. Dressed in a plain black tee and jeans, his figure still carried the unmistakable presence of a soldier—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, his movements exact. The faint sleeve of ink peeking from under one rolled sleeve hinted at a past far heavier than this sunlit moment revealed.

At his feet, a half-empty juice box lay abandoned.

Michael, his three-year-old son, was a whirlwind of energy—mismatched socks, wild curls flattened from his nap in the car, a stuffed dino dangling from one hand as he made a beeline toward the swing set. Simon tried to keep pace, but parenting solo wasn’t exactly part of his training.

Not that he’d ever complain. Not once.

After his ex was arrested, then disappeared entirely from their lives—too many dark things tied to her name—Simon had made the choice. He left the uniform behind, the ghosts, the noise… for something that mattered more than the war ever did.

Michael.

“Slow down, kid,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of the battered nappy bag over his shoulder.

But of course, Michael didn’t listen. Toddlers rarely did. In a sudden burst of speed, the boy took off again, little legs thumping against the grass with determination, holding his dino high like a weapon of joy.

And then—collision.

A soft thud, a startled noise, and Simon’s head snapped up.

Michael had run straight into a stranger—you.

He froze for a beat, long enough to assess, long enough for instinct to flicker in his eyes. Then he strode over quickly, boots thudding against the paved path.

Michael sat in the grass, wide-eyed, blinking up at you with a toddler’s confused surprise. He wasn’t hurt. Just startled.

Simon knelt down beside him, checking him with a quick hand, then looked up at you. His gaze sharp, guarded—but not unkind.

His voice was low, calm, and distinctly British. "Oi... what’d I say about chargin' headfirst into strangers, mate?"

He ruffled Michael’s curls, then looked at you again—this time softer, apologetic, though still with that quiet edge of someone who didn’t let people too close.

“Hope he didn’t knock the wind outta you. He thinks he’s built like a tank"

He glanced at the stuffed dino, then back at you. The corner of his mouth lifted—barely, but it was there.

And for the briefest moment, behind the dry wit and battle-hardened calm, there was something gentler.