Chapter nineteen
Lilly Rose
I'd been planning this for weeks.
Every spare moment, every small opportunity, every whispered favor owed.
Not easy to pull off—not here. Not in the middle of war and blood and uniformed silence. But I'd made a promise to myself. I would find something that reminded him he was still human. Still worthy. Still loved.
Because Simon Riley—my Simon—is so used to being the weapon that he forgets he's also a man.
And someone loves that man completely.
⸻
It started with a photograph.
I'd noticed how his eyes lingered on a crumpled black-and-white photo tucked deep inside his duffel one night after a mission. He didn't think I saw it—quick glance, quick tuck away—but I did. A boy with wild blond hair, about ten years old, holding a little scruffy dog and grinning like he had no idea what kind of world waited for him.
I didn't ask, not then.
But I memorized it.
Later, when he finally told me about his brother—about the loss, about the guilt he carries like a second skin—I realized the boy in the photo wasn't just a memory. He was a piece of Simon's soul.
So I found the photo again one night, when Simon was out on patrol. Scanned it quickly. Printed a copy with the ancient printer in the supply trailer that nobody ever uses.
But I didn't stop there.
⸻
I traded a week of clean bandages for supplies. Convinced the logistics guy to let me borrow a soldering kit. Talked a local leatherworker into parting with a scrap of good material. Sat up under the lamp night after night, fingers sore and eyes tired, carefully stitching, burning, pressing.
A keepsake.
Something to carry with him.
Something that reminded him not of war—but of life.
Of family.
Of love.
⸻
When I finally finish it, I hesitate. For two whole days. It's not fear—it's hope. The kind that trembles in your chest when you're about to give a piece of yourself away.
But then he comes back from a mission with blood on his collar and that hollow look in his eyes again, and I know it's time.
⸻
I find him in his tent, scrubbing his hands clean even though they already are. He's quiet. Distant. That edge in his shoulders is back, the one that says his mind is still on the field.
He doesn't hear me enter.
Doesn't see me kneel beside the cot.
But when I reach out and wrap my arms around his middle, he exhales like I just pulled him back to earth.
"You're here," he murmurs.
"I always am."
He turns, folding me into him, head bent to rest against mine. I wait until the silence stretches comfortably between us. Until his heartbeat calms. Then I pull the wrapped bundle from my bag.
"What's this?" he asks, voice still rough.
"A piece of home," I whisper. "Or maybe… a reminder of it."
⸻
He opens it slowly.
A leather tag, hand-stitched, carefully burned along the edges. Not perfect, but strong. Inside, sewn into a hidden sleeve, is the photo of his brother—clean, preserved.
And on the front, engraved in block letters with shaking but steady hands:
"You Still Carry Love."
He stares at it for a long time.
So long, I start to fidget. "I didn't know what to write. I almost put 'You're not alone' but… you always say you don't like empty words. And you do still carry love, Simon. In how you fight. In how you protect people. In how you hold me like you'll never let go. Even if you don't see it."
His jaw flexes.
His hand tightens around the leather.
Then he says, barely above a whisper, "Nobody's ever done something like this for me."
I brush my fingers along his cheek. "They should have. You deserve it."
He pulls me into his lap without another word, wrapping his arms around me and burying his face in my shoulder. His breath hitches—once, twice—and I know better than to call it crying. He wouldn't let the word pass his lips. But I feel it. That break in his armor. That soft, quiet unraveling.
He holds the tag against his chest like it's the only thing keeping him together.
And then he kisses me.
Not with heat.
Not with hunger.
With reverence.
With gratitude.
With love.
"I'll carry this forever," he murmurs into my hair. "Just like I'll carry you."
⸻
Later, I find it clipped to the inside of his vest—right above his heart. Where no one else can see it. Where only he can feel it.
Where it belongs.