carnate

You opened the door in an instant.

He stood there towering, blood soaking through the shoulder of his tactical gear. His breathing was shallow, controlled but strained. His mask was on, but the weariness in his posture said enough.

– Simon, what happened? – you gasped, stepping forward, instinct already kicking in. You slid an arm around his waist, guiding his weight as he staggered forward toward your couch.

– Can’t talk right now, love,– he muttered. – Can you fix it?

That voice low and frayed around the edges. You nodded without thinking, already moving to grab the small medical kit you kept for emergencies. This wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when you bought it.

You switched on every light you could, your hands working fast. Your mind raced, but your movements were steady.

– I need to get your gear off. You can’t lift your arm, can you? – you muttered, more to yourself than him.

– Do what you need, – he rasped, settling into the couch with a sharp exhale.

You grabbed scissors and began cutting through the thick fabric of his shirt. His skin was hot, either from exertion or fever, you weren’t sure. Blood stuck to your gloves, warm and slick.

The bullet was still lodged in the meat of his shoulder. A clean shot, no exit wound.

– This is going to hurt.

He only gave a small grunt in reply, head falling back against the couch.

You sterilized your tools and got to work — forceps steady in your grip, jaw set. His body remained still, but the muscles in his jaw tightened, and you saw his fingers curl into fists. No sound. Not a cry, not a wince. Just silence, and that made it worse.

After several long, tense minutes, you got it out. The metal clinked softly into the dish beside you.

You exhaled slowly, pressing a clean cloth hard against the wound to slow the bleeding. Once it eased, you cleaned the area, packed it as best you could, and began wrapping the bandage firm and tight.

When you finally looked up, his eyes were on you.

Dark, steady. Watching every move you made.

The room was quiet now, save for your unsteady breathing. Your hands moved slower, more careful. You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline wearing off or the sudden way the air between you had shifted.

– Why are you like this?– you whispered under your breath, trying to keep your focus on the bandages.

His good hand reached out and caught your waist, gentle but firm. He tugged you forward, pulling you into his lap, his breath warm against your collarbone.

– Careful,– you murmured, hands braced on his chest. You could feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingers, the tremble of strained muscles, the barely-contained control.

– I’m okay,– he said lowly. – You don’t have to be so gentle.

That voice—it wrapped around your spine like silk and smoke.

Your fingers reached up, slipping under the edge of his mask, pulling it just high enough to reveal his lips.

– You didn’t need to get shot just to come see me, you know,– you whispered with a faint smile, trying to tease him a little.

He huffed out a low chuckle, lips brushing yours.

– Had to give you a reason to keep your hands on me. You’ve been too relaxed lately.

He didn’t move closer, didn’t finish the kiss. He just stayed there, eyes locked on yours, making you do the rest.

So you did.

You kissed him slow at first, then with the hunger that had been building in the silence. His mouth tasted like blood and breathless tension. One hand slid behind your back, drawing you closer, and the other stroked up your side with surprising tenderness.

As your lips parted, his hand drifted lower, and you gasped sharply. – Simon, – you breathed his name like it was something holy.

– You’ve always been good to me, – he whispered near your ear. – Always take care of me.

You shivered, skin prickling with heat as he kissed down your neck. Your hands explored his body, learning his shape again but the moment your fingers grazed his wound, he hissed.

– Sorry, – you pulled back immediately.

– Been through worse,– he muttered and then, with shocking ease, he lifted you up and laid you down beneath him carefully.

His lips found your skin again, trailing deliberate, reverent kisses down your chest, your stomach. Each one like a promise. He peeled your clothes off piece by piece, never rushing, never breaking eye contact for long.

– You smell like sin, dove, – he whispered, mouth brushing the inside of your thigh. – Softest fucking thing I’ve ever touched.

You were already trembling beneath him, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The tension between your legs was unbearable—aching, desperate.

– Need you,– you whispered, legs parting on instinct.

– Patience, little one, – he murmured into your skin.

His fingers ghosted over your core, teasing, testing and then you felt the wet slide of his tongue. Your hips jerked, and he chuckled, quiet and satisfied.

He tasted you slowly, hungrily, as if nothing else existed but the heat between your thighs. His tongue worked you open, dragging waves of pleasure through your body, building steadily, achingly until you could barely breathe.

– Simon, please, – you gasped, fingers clawing into the sheets.

Two thick fingers slid inside you, stretching you deliciously, his mouth never letting up. Your climax hit like a tidal wave, sharp and overwhelming, and you cried out, body shaking beneath him.

He kissed his way back up your body, lips crashing into yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It made your stomach flip, made your whole body tighten again.

He pulled back, just slightly, eyes searching yours.

– You good, love? – he asked softly, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles. – We can do this all night.

– I need you inside me, – you whispered, breathless. – Now.

That smirk curved across his lips again.

– Fuckin’ hell, – he growled, scooping you up like you weighed nothing.

– Is this what it takes to get you worked up? Bleeding on my couch? – you muttered against his throat.

That rare laugh escaped him. It was low, deep, addictive. He said nothing more as he carried you to the bedroom, your body still humming from his touch.

— I’m sorry, it’s just… Not something I was prepared for…

— You were so eager to know more, weren’t you?

— Yeah, information about you, — I clarify, still staring at him the way you stare at something you’ve been trying to picture for months and got completely wrong.

He gives me the look like “Don’t lie to yourself”.

— Well, yeah, obviously I was curious how you look like fully without the mask.

His facial expression doesn’t change and the feeling is indescribable because it’s so strange to see his full face and actually understand his emotions more through it.

I step closer and take my time with it. He doesn’t look like anything I had built in my head, which shouldn’t surprise me but does. He’s not intimidating in the way I anticipated or not only that. There’s a scar that cuts across his cheekbone that I hadn’t been able to trace from a distance, and another through one eyebrow, his nose has clearly been broken at least once, maybe more and somehow all of it sits on his face with a particular weight that makes him look like someone who has survived things on purpose. His eyes are what get me. I’ve been looking into them for months and still wasn’t prepared for what they look like with nothing in the way. How much is actually in them, how steady they are. His lips I’ve seen before but in context they look different. Everything does.

He holds still and lets me look. There’s no impatience in it, no discomfort that I can read. He simply waits. His hair is short and blond, slightly messy from the balaclava coming off. I want to run my fingers through it badly enough that my hand moves before I’ve decided it should. It lands on his cheek. I trace the stubble that he shaved recently, not today. My thumb finds the scar on his lower lip and I stay there a moment. He doesn’t flinch. He lets my hand be there like it belongs.

My eyes meet his and I stop. My hand drops to his chest and stays there, feeling his heartbeat under my palm.

The moment is too much and not enough at the same time. I want to kiss him with a completeness that genuinely frightens me and I can’t tell if I’m allowed. I’ve never cared about that question this much before. Feels like I am in no position to do so right now.

He calmly breathes and takes my hand.

— I’m sorry, — it comes out before I can find anything better. I cringe at myself immediately.

— Maybe stop apologising. I don’t look that bad, — he says, and squeezes my hand tighter.

My mouth drops and my face goes hot.

— WHAT? No, no, no… You are…

— Relax, love. Just playing with you, — he smirks, and my stomach does something it has no business doing. Looking at his actual expressions is something I could get used to in a way that terrifies me.

I roll my eyes with annoyance creeping inside and step into the shower.

Warm water hits my skin and my shoulders drop. I hadn’t realised how hard I’d been holding everything for the past ten minutes.

He steps in behind me. The shower door closes and the world gets smaller, just steam and warm water and him directly behind me. His hands finding my waist without hesitation, his chest against my back. The second I think I might be able to breathe normally again I feel exactly how close he is.

His thumbs find the dip of my lower back and press there with the kind of deliberate attention that makes it impossible to think about anything else. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on the water instead. It doesn’t work. His nose traces from my shoulder up toward my neck and I feel it more than I should. The effect he has on me is embarrassing in the most complete sense. My body gives up any pretence of composure and presses back into him entirely. One hand finds the wall. The other goes to the back of his neck.

It still feels like something I’m going to wake up from. He’s fully exposed and so close that I’m aware of every point of contact between us. The sound he makes when my hand tightens at his neck. Low, quiet, unmistakably real, does something permanent to my chest. His hands burn spots on my body wherever they move. I’m going to carry those spots around for days.

I want to turn around but I can’t make myself do it. With anyone else I’d know where the lines were by now. With Simon it’s different. Every move feels like a question I don’t have the answer to. I don’t know what I’m allowed to take and what he’s still holding back, and the not knowing has its own particular weight.

Is he enjoying this? Does showing me his face mean something or is it simply that he doesn’t wear the mask indoors when he’s alone. That I’m not special, just present? Maybe I’m reading significance into practicality. Maybe I’m not.

I’ve thought about him for so long in the abstract that being in his actual arms is disorienting in a way I wasn’t prepared for. The fantasy had edges I could control. This doesn’t.

— Lost in thoughts? — his voice breaks the silence and my hand drops to my side.

My chest tightens and I shake my head.

— You’re messing with my head, — I say, barely above a whisper, turning my head just enough to find his.

— Mhm, — he hums again and breathes in deeply near my temple.

His hands travel from my back to my chest, slow and deliberate, squeezing and unhurried. Sounds escape me that I’m glad the water is covering. His teeth find my shoulder and I feel it in my knees. He really enjoys biting.

— God, Sim-, — I don’t finish it because he presses me against the wall and every word I had disappears.

My heart is about to jump out of my chest and I turn back at him.

His lips are parted, eyes dark with something that makes my legs genuinely unreliable. His grip on my hips is firm enough that I couldn’t move if I tried. His tongue touches his cheek and he starts to rub himself against me.

— Giving you what you wanted, — his words land somewhere low and immediate.

— That’s not-, — a moan breaks the sentence clean in two.

He slides inside slowly and my eyes close. Everything goes white at the edges. What comes out of my mouth is something I have no vocabulary for.

He starts slow and holds it there, which is its own particular form of cruelty. His size is something I can feel in every breath. My arms search for anything to hold onto. He keeps that unbearable pace. Like he was torturing me.

— Fuck, ah, — I look back at him again, — Harder, please.

He smirks and his hand closes around my neck. That deliberate pressure I’ve felt before and picks up the pace. I say a quiet prayer that whatever sounds I’m making are staying inside these walls. Every movement sends a wave through me and clears my head completely.

— That good, love? Already fucked you dumb?

Moans with the mix of his name is the only answer I could provide.

He presses forward until I’m fully between him and the wall, and I feel the shift. A small adjustment, then another, his movements getting slightly more impatient. The angle isn’t working. The height difference is the problem and we both know it. His frustration with it is visible in the way his hands tighten and his pace stutters.

— Fucking hell, — it comes out clipped, under his breath, and he pulls out. I make an embarrassing sound about it, which is immediately replaced by a completely different one.

He turns me around in one movement and lifts me without ceremony, like the logistics of it genuinely require no effort. My eyes find his immediately. My face burns. I look at his lips and want to close that distance so badly it costs me something to hold back. He reads it on my face and pushes inside again and the thought is gone. The back of my head finds the wall and he moves like I weigh nothing.

He’s mostly quiet. Low sounds, controlled breathing but at this angle it costs him more. And some of those sounds start escaping without permission. I file every single one of them away.

— So good around my cock, — his accent has thickened in a way I’ve never heard from him before and it moves my climax considerably closer.

My arms go around his neck as I feel it coming.

— Such a good girl for me, — he says as his pace turns brutal, — Cum.

I stop holding it back. It breaks through me in a wave and I bury my face into his neck. Saying his name somewhere into his skin. He keeps going through it, drawing every second out, and then I hear it. A sound from him that is entirely unguarded. Low, satisfied, real. That sound is going to live in my chest for a very long time.

He lifts me off and finishes against the wall. His breathing is ragged in a way I find deeply satisfying.

His hands lower me back to my feet carefully, steadying me until my legs decide to cooperate.

I bury my face into his chest because my legs are not ready to be responsible for themselves yet, and he chuckles. Low and unhurried. The sound of it does something warm and uncomplicated to my chest.

We clean up in a silence that doesn’t need filling. His hands move over my back and I let them. My head is empty in the best possible way.

I step out first and find a towel. He follows and catches my reflection in the mirror.

— You okay?

— Yes, — my voice is still a little unsteady as I hand him a towel.

He watches my face carefully as he dries off, then nods.

I’m still adjusting to watching his expressions move in real time. He drapes the towel over his hips and heads back to the room. I follow quietly and he holds out the same t-shirt I wore the last time I was here. I take it with a short laugh and a quiet thank you.

The room settles into something different. The temperature of it has changed. Simon opens the window and changes, then lays down in just his underwear with the ease of someone who has decided the evening is done. I sit on the edge of the bed and look down at him.

— So…

— So? — he tucks one arm behind his head and looks at me with the tiredness of someone who has no intention of moving.

— So what now? — I pull at the hem of his t-shirt.

— Maybe start with five minutes of not talking, — he tugs my arm and I go easily, head on his chest, — Think you can manage that?

— I need some kind of certainty at some point, — I say into his chest.

He looks down at me and I look back up. Immediately getting distracted by the details of his face again.

— You’re staring, dove.

— It’s hard not to, especially when it’s my first time properly seeing you.

— Fair enough, — he chuckles and starts to play with my hair.

— How old are you?

— Here we go, the questions.

— No, seriously, — my brows furrow.

— Shouldn’t that be something you’re interested in before sleeping with the person? — The teasing paired with his actual visible face lands completely differently. I’m going to have to get used to that.

I roll my eyes and stare at him, waiting for an answer.

— Thirty-six.

A smile takes over my face before I can stop it.

— You look not that bad for thirty-six.

He stares back at me with the expression of someone showing great forbearance toward a joke that didn’t quite land, and somehow that’s more affectionate than anything else he could do.

— You’ve let me in further tonight than you planned, I think.

— Didn’t plan around it. Don’t wash in the mask.

— So you’re not actively hiding your face. Just…

— It’s a work thing. Became the habit.

— Has the team seen you without it?

He nods and keeps his fingers moving through my hair. I file that away too.

I chuckle and rest my head on his chest. His breathing is calm and I can feel his heartbeat under my ear.

— Funny, — I say after a moment, — I ran away from my father’s house because he aggressively accused me of sleeping with you. And here I am, doing exactly that.

Simon hums and looks down at me. Something crosses his face briefly.

— Making him proud? — His tone has shifted. Not sharp, but different. Like the words arrived before he’d decided to say them.

I look up at him and the openness that was there a moment ago has closed. Not all the way. But enough. The mask isn’t back on his face but the effect is the same, and I feel it immediately.

— What?

— What? I don’t understand the switch and I don’t like the feeling it leaves.

His hand traces my chin and his eyes drop to my lips, then back up.

— Sorry, love. Not a big fan of your old man.

I tilt my head and wait for him to go somewhere with it.

— You worked together before?

— Not directly.

My mouth opens and closes. “Do I really want to dig that hole.” Probably not tonight.

— Did it have some influence on your impression about me?

— Not a person of assumptions, especially at work.

“Work.” That word sits between us.

— I guess that’s for another time.

I look at him and hold it in. It’s not news that people who meet my father tend not to like him. But hearing it from Simon, in this room, at this hour, with everything that’s just happened between us. Moves something, I don’t have a clean name for. Relief that he sees it and something older underneath that I don’t want to examine right now.

He doesn’t add anything. He gets up slowly. I start to follow and he presses my head back toward the pillow gently.

— Going for a smoke. You can stay.

I lay back and watch him settle by the window, the small glow of the cigarette in the dark.

Tiredness moves through me all at once. The real kind, the kind that comes after something releases. Every conversation we have starts somewhere and arrives somewhere I didn’t expect.

The US trip is in two days. Two days to be the version of myself that can walk into a room full of people who assess everything and give nothing away. I don’t know how I’m going to do that yet. Did something change between us tonight? It did. I can feel it in the fact that I’m lying in his bed without needing a reason for it. But I also know exactly where his walls are. The places he won’t open, the questions that get absorbed without answer, the way “not directly” closed a door as gently and completely as a lock. He showed me his face tonight. That’s not nothing. But I can’t call it everything either and the gap between those two things is where I always seem to end up.

My thoughts start to slow around the edges. I don’t know if he’s watching me from the window or if I just want him to be. Both feel possible. Both feel like him. Exhaustion wins and my mind goes completely dark.

I’ve been through hard things before. That’s not new. But this feels like something broke through whatever barrier I’d built, and three days later I’m still sitting in the wreckage of it. The argument with Father is one thing. Simon is another thing entirely, and the two of them together are more than I know how to carry. Every time that moment in the briefing room surfaces — his breath, his voice, how close his lips were — my chest tightens and my head starts to spin in a way that has nothing to do with anger. And yet anger is the only word I have for it right now, because the alternative is admitting something I’m not ready to admit. This all needs to be packed away before the US trip. I need to be sharp. I need to be trusted. And all I feel right now is like I’m fraying at every edge.

I spent two days locked inside the apartment trying to make it feel more like home. It didn’t help. Being alone with this much noise in my own head turned out to be its own particular kind of misery.

I sit by the window with a cigarette and his words run through my head again.

*Are you going to be this obedient with me*.

I shake my head and open my phone. It doesn’t last long.

“Fuck it. Maybe it’ll help to empty my head.”

Driving toward the base makes my heart sink. The confidence I had forty minutes ago has quietly dissolved, but the pull hasn’t. I park and move through the entrance quickly, keeping my eyes forward and hoping the corridors empty out before I talk myself out of this entirely. It’s past ten and most of the base is winding down, though a handful of young soldiers are still wandering around the lower wing and I keep my head down past them.

Whatever part of my brain was driving this got me to his door and then promptly went offline. I stand there staring at it. My hands are already shaking. I cycle through approximately eight versions of turning around and walking back to my car. The reasonable one. The sensible one. The one that doesn’t end with me having to explain any of this. And then I knock, because apparently I am not reasonable or sensible, and the fear of it makes my hands go cold and my heart migrate somewhere toward my feet. I hear movement on the other side and brace myself.

He’s there. Balaclava slightly shifted, like he pulled it on quickly. He rubs his left eye with the heel of his hand and leans on the door frame, looking at me with no visible surprise. No visible anything. Just those eyes, steady, taking me in. The sight of him makes my throat close and the part of me that drove here suddenly wants to run as well.

— Hi... Hello... I’m sorry, were you sleeping? — Words didn’t really want to come out of my mouth.

He tiredly sighs and shakes his head a little.

 Same clothes on him, same from that embarrassing morning.

— No, did some cleaning, — his eyes find mine and he opens the door fully, — Better come in before anyone walks by.

I look around and slip inside as quick as possible, hearing his low chuckle as he closes the door.

I stand in the middle of the room with absolutely no plan for what comes next. “What exactly do I do now.” My own mind doesn’t have an answer.

— Anything I can help with? — he says calmly, sitting down on his bed.

I look at him for a moment and the honest answer surfaces immediately and gets buried just as fast.

— I don’t know, — before anything better can get there.

“Why do I have to be this stupid.”

— The second I left the apartment I thought this made sense. Now I’m standing here and I can’t even explain it to myself.

He doesn’t say anything. He sits there and watches me with that patience that doesn’t ask for anything and somehow that’s worse than if he’d said something to pull apart. There’s nowhere to hide in the quiet he’s giving me, and the longer it stretches the more everything I’ve been holding tightens in my chest. A wave of heat moves through me that has nothing clean about it.

— You’re infuriating, — the words come out before I can shape them into anything more composed, — Confusing and infuriating and I’m furious at myself for being here, which only makes it worse. I know nothing about you. Nothing. And you’ve somehow managed to take up permanent residence in my head without even trying, and I hate it.

His brow raises and he keeps listening.

— Please, Simon, — something in my voice shifts and I don’t have the energy to cover it, — Give me some clarity. You don’t get to do what you did on Monday and just leave me to sit with it. That’s not fair and I think you know that.

Standing there having said all of that feels like standing too close to something with no cover. But is it wrong of me? He started this.

— This is... I’d never do something like this. I don’t show up uninvited, I don’t let things get under my skin, I don’t stand in someone’s room at ten at night unable to explain myself, — I run a hand back through my hair, — But I can’t ignore it either. So I need you to tell me what is happening, because I can’t keep carrying it around pretending it’s nothing.

He stands up with a low grunt and looks at me.

— You sure I’m the one who started this, love? — His voice does something irreversible to my ability to think straight, — Spent weeks digging through every file you could reach on me. Came and stood outside my door.

He moves closer, but holds a careful distance.

My stomach turns and the pathetic truth of it lands squarely on my face.

— I was just curious because I never heard or saw anything about you before.

— You didn’t need to.

— I work with you.

— Whatever makes you feel better about it, love.

I feel like a complete fool. What did I actually come here expecting? Some clean answer that makes all of this legible? He’s right. I came back. And the reason isn’t curiosity anymore and I know that, and I can’t say it out loud in this room. I can’t admit that I’ve been thinking about his touch since the first time I heard his voice in the dark and that the anger and the frustration and everything I launched at him just now is just the shape of something I won’t let myself name.

A minute of silence stretches between us. Then he closes the distance and I look up at him when I feel his hand at my neck. Fingers finding my pulse point, thumb resting there barely moving. Like he’s checking something. Like he wants to know what he does to it.

My whole body goes still and my hand lifts to cover his. Not to stop him. Not entirely.

He leans close until his mouth is at my ear. The fabric of the balaclava just brushing my jaw. Every muscle in me locks. I am completely unable to move, completely unable to find a single coherent thought, my legs threatening to give way under the weight of this close proximity and whatever it’s doing to every nerve ending I own.

Then he lets go and sits back on the bed. The absence of his hand on my neck registers immediately. My lips part and I watch every move he makes.

— Wha...

— Strip.

My eyes widen and I look around like he wasn’t actually saying that to me.

— Excuse me? — My voice comes out considerably smaller than I intended.

— Show me that same performance you did here on Friday.

— Are you...? — I couldn’t even finish the sentence when I look him in the eyes.

I stand there with every nerve in my body firing at once. My heart is going so fast I can hear it. He adjusts how he’s sitting, eyes on me, and says nothing. I know I could walk out. He wouldn’t stop me. That’s somehow the thing that makes me stay.

My face is burning and my hands are already shaking as I drag the tank top off. The cool air of the room hits my skin. He doesn’t need to repeat himself. His gaze is doing something to me that strips away any remaining pretence of composure.

I reach for the strap on my bra that fell off the shoulder and try not to look directly at him because holding that eye contact makes my legs uncertain. I stay like that for a beat, hearing nothing from him, and then slide the sweatpants down.

His hand shifts on his thigh. I notice it. He lets me notice it. I step out of the sweatpants and stand there in just my underwear and the silence is the loudest thing in the room.

His head tilts and his hand moves toward the centre of his thigh.

— Simon, — I whisper. My hands go to my hair without a plan.

— Fully, — his voice certainly went lower.

I bite my lip and hesitate. The effect he has on me is embarrassing in the most complete sense. There is a version of me watching this from somewhere above my own head, mortified and entirely unwilling to stop.

I reach back and undo the bra. It isn’t graceful. My hands are shaking too much for graceful. I let it fall and don’t look at him when I do it. I look at the floor and I breathe, and I hear something change in his breathing too. Small. Quiet. But it’s there, and I feel it in my chest like a fist closing.

It all feels like too much and not enough at the same time. The sober version of me is barely holding on. I slide the last piece down and step out of it, I look down at myself and then back at him. His gaze moves over me slowly enough that I stop breathing.

I look back at him. His hand has moved and I can see what it’s resting over now through the fabric. He looks at me for a long moment, up and then down, and something in the line of his jaw tightens.

— Come here, — his free hand extends toward me.

I cross the room. My heart is in my ears. He draws me down onto his lap and his hands are warm on my waist, and being this close to him — the solidness of him, the sheer size of him. He lifts the balaclava above his lips. I try not to close the gap between us on my own. His hands grip my hips and push me flush against him.

A sound escapes me that I’m immediately glad no one else can hear. My hands find his shoulders for something to hold onto.

— That easy to make you soaked, lovie? — his lips brush my cheek and his voice is rougher than it was at the door, — Come on, then. Make a mess.

He starts moving my hips and my brain goes off. I can’t form a single coherent thought. Only sounds escape me. Things I’d be mortified by in any other context and he takes every one of them.

He looks down between us and touches the wet spot I created.

— Didn’t even touch you properly, — he raises his hand and sets a finger against my lips.

My tongue moves on its own and I have given up entirely. My hips find their own rhythm and I can feel clearly now how much this is affecting him. He draws the finger back slowly and traces it along my lower lip and a quiet sound comes from him that he doesn’t seem to have planned.

— Look at you, — his voice is rough in a way I haven’t heard before.

— Simon, — his name comes out as something between a breath and a moan as the feeling in my stomach starts to build.

The rhythm I had starts to fall apart and I can see something in his face that isn’t as composed as he’d like it to be. He grips my hips again, tighter this time, and my head drops to his shoulder. When it’s right there, right on the edge, he lifts my hips and I make a sound that I’d like to forget immediately.

— Fuck, — I whisper into his neck and grip his t-shirt tighter.

He turns and lays me back on the bed. I’m breathing hard, looking up at him, and I notice the dark stain on his trousers. My face goes hot and I try to bring my knees together and he stops me.

— That look you always give me, — he says, lowering himself, — Like you’re trying to find the answer in my eyes.

He bites my breast and my whole body tenses and then releases all at once.

— Starting to think I love it more than I should, — his face moves right in front of mine and something in his eyes sits closer to the surface than usual.

I look at his lips and my body makes the decision before my head catches up. He stands.

— Please, — it comes out smaller than I mean it to, and I hate it.

He looks down at me for a moment, jaw tight. Then something in his expression closes back over itself and he pulls the balaclava down, covering his face again. I close my eyes. I need a second or more.

I pull myself up to sitting and watch him push his sweatpants down along with his boxers. I stop breathing. My mouth opens at his size without my permission and looking away is simply not something I’m able to do. He wraps a hand around himself and the sound of his breathing changes.

— Down, — he says quietly, and steps back.

I obey before I’ve consciously decided to, sinking to my knees on the floor in front of him. His chest rises and falls with a steadiness that costs him something, I can tell. Nervousness moves through me and I hesitate, not quite knowing how to start.

— Don’t worry, Y/N. Take it slow, — his voice is lower now, quieter. Something gentler in it than the rest of tonight. Like he registered exactly where I went.

He rests himself against my lips and I open my mouth slowly, looking up at him. A quiet groan escapes him when my tongue moves. He holds back, deliberately, keeping the pace controlled even though the effort of it is visible in the set of his shoulders. I work slowly, focusing on breathing, closing my eyes when I need to. He pulls back fully and looks down at me, at the mess of it, and I cough quietly into my wrist.

— Atta girl, — he gathers my hair in his fist and guides me back.

Tears track down my face and I grip his hip with one hand to steady myself. His pace starts measured and then roughens. My other hand finds my clit and I dig my nails into his skin without meaning to. His sounds grow louder. The low, unguarded kind that tell me his control is slipping as much as mine. And his grip on my hair tightens. Every time I hear it, something in my stomach tightens in response. The wave that’s been building finally breaks and my whole body shudders, sounds muffled and swallowed.

Ghost holds the pace, watching my body, and then pulls back fully. I cough and nearly drop forward onto my hands and he catches my hair, tilting my face up to his. My face is a mess. My eyes are half-closed and wet. His are steady on mine.

He releases my hair and I put my hands on the floor, leaning forward with my mouth open, watching him. My eyes don’t leave his.

— Fuck, — barely above a whisper as he strokes himself and pushes into a faster pace.

My eyes stay on his all the way through. The sound he makes when he finishes is the roughest, most unguarded thing I’ve heard from him. And it settles in my chest in a way it has no business doing. I feel the warmth of him, on my lips and down my chin, and he slows and stares down at me.

His thumb moves along my lower lip and presses gently back inside. I swallow. He pats my cheek once, softly. The way you’d steady something you didn’t want to break.

My body gives out and I sink down, head coming to rest against the side of the bed. The world is completely quiet. My head is empty in the best possible way. Everything I carried in here just gone, at least for now. There’s just the floor and his breathing above me and the strange, settling stillness of it.

Ghost strips off his clothes and takes them to the bathroom.

I turn my head and watch him. When he comes back his hand finds mine and pulls me up. Steady with no hurry he leads me toward the bathroom and I stop in the doorway, watching him reach in to turn the shower on.

I open my mouth to say something. Some version of thank you or sorry or I don’t know what any of this means. And he reaches up and tugs the balaclava off.  I stop.  The steam from the shower fills the small room slowly and I look at him and he looks back at me. There is no performance in it. This is just his face. That he has kept covered since the first day I laid eyes on him. My heart beats faster again.  He meets my eyes and waits. 

I get up and look around. I don’t want to come across as rude and go through his things, but there isn’t much on display anyway. Everything neat and minimal, exactly as I remembered. “I wonder what his actual home looks like.”

I step into the bathroom and rub my eyes. Small mirror, one toothbrush on the shelf below it, shaving blades, a few basics. I look at myself and register properly, for the first time, that I’m still wearing his t-shirt. Plain black, almost knee-length on me. I pull it up to my nose and breathe in. Addictive.

I splash cold water on my face and head back to the room. It all feels strange, but I can’t quite bring myself to leave yet. Part of me is hoping the door opens, but a bigger part wants to quietly dissolve and never have to face what I said last night. I exhale and start getting changed. I ease his t-shirt off carefully, fold it, and place it on the bed. Then I look for my things and find them — folded neatly on the chair by the desk. Something warm moves through my chest and the heat follows it immediately to my face. I reach to pick them up just as there’s a knock at the door.

I jump and scramble to get my clothes on.

— ONE MINUTE, — I yell in panic, hoping he won’t actually open the door right now.

I don’t finish buttoning up. I check myself quickly, try to catch my breath, and open the door. Simon is standing there, looking down at me with one eyebrow raised.

— Getting comfortable around here, aren’t we? — The colour goes straight to my face and I open the door fully, unable to find a single word in my defence.

— I’m sorry, I was just about to leave, — I watch him step inside and set two cups of tea down on the table.

My eyes widen and I bite my tongue as he turns around.

— How are you feeling? — his voice is quiet and a little rough, like he hasn’t used it much yet this morning. The guilt that’s been sitting in my chest since I woke up shifts.

— I’m fine. I’m sorry for dragging you into all of that, — I keep my eyes down, — I don’t know how to make last night disappear from your memory.

He sighs and sits on the edge of the bed.

— Thank you for everything, though, — I add, moving a little closer, — And forget everything that came out of my mouth last night.

— You’re pretty stubborn, you know that? — he says it evenly, but there’s something under the steadiness of his voice that I can’t quite name.

My face burns and I cough awkwardly. My eyes finally come to his. His hand moves to scratch the back of his neck under the balaclava, and this is the first time I’ve seen him in just a t-shirt — not operational kit, nothing formal or covered with jacket. It wasn’t tight but it didn’t need to be, for me to see the shape of his body. And his left arm — I hadn’t registered the tattoos before. They cover the whole forearm, heavily detailed work I can only catch pieces of from here. The whole picture of him right now is something I’m going to have a difficult time un-seeing. I pull my attention back and reach for the rest of my things.

— You don’t need to run off in shame. Have some tea at least, — he says simply, turning toward the window.

— You are not helping, — I say, barely above a whisper, as I sit down beside him and take the cup.

— Having an image of everything that happened?

— Most of it… — I take a sip. Warm. Exactly what my mouth needed after waking up feeling like I’d swallowed sand.

He looks at me again, studying my movements in that quiet way he does — unhurried, taking everything in. He leans his head on one hand, elbow resting on his knee. There’s nothing demanding in it.

— Where did you sleep? — The guilt is in my voice whether I want it there or not.

— Don’t sleep much anyway. Did some work, — he says it plainly, but something in the way he looks at the window afterward suggests there’s more he’s chosen not to add. Not out of coldness. Something quieter than that.

— Sorry...

— Don’t apologise after every move you make, sweetheart.

— I just, — I set the empty cup down, — God. It’s embarrassing.

I press my fingers to my temples and close my eyes. Talking to Ghost isn’t the impossible thing it was when I first started — but every exchange still does something I haven’t learned to brace for yet.

— Have you always had trouble sleeping? — It comes out of nowhere and his eyes open slightly more.

— Yeah, mostly.

— Do you take anything for it?

He nods slowly.

— Doesn’t help much but still makes it a little better.

He gives short answers. Always has. I know the shape of where he won’t go and I try to stay within it, even when part of me keeps wanting to push past. I go quiet and meet his eyes. They hold something different to usual — little softer exactly, less defended. Something I haven’t seen in there before, and it makes my heart do something I’d rather not examine.

— Simon…

I couldn’t finish my thoughts when my phone rings and I jump. I look at my phone and see that father is calling. Best timing that can possibly happen. Ghost gaze drops on my phone screen as well and he just stands up with a small grunt and walk towards the window to have a smoke.

I pick up the phone while watching every move he makes.

— Dad?

— Where are you?

— At work.

— What can you possibly be doing there for two days already.

I exhale and do my best not to sound as irritated as I am.

— So, you are back?

— I messaged you four times. I need those three documents done by Monday.

— Sorry, I...

— Get your shit together, Y/N. Don’t forget why you’re in that position, — a long pause. The kind where he knows exactly what he’s doing, — Least you can do is pick up when I call or check your messages.

I stay silent a moment longer than I should.

— You got it? — his voice rises and I feel the familiar old wave move through me; not quite embarrassment this time, closer to something that wants to push back and can’t.

— Yes, Sir.

He hangs up a second later and I stand there holding the phone. “I never fucking forget why I have this position.” I turn toward the door.

— Thank you, Simon. Sorry about all of it again, — I look at him with a brief smile, — I’ll go.

— You alright? — He doesn’t move from where he is, watching me carefully.

I nod and turn around.

— Daddy’s call?

I look back at him and my brows pull together slightly. Then I give up and walk out, not the right time to show my mood. I find my car on autopilot. “Seriously. Get it together. You nearly made a fool of yourself in front of a man whose face you’ve never even seen.”

The drive home is me and my thoughts, and my thoughts are not kind company. How unprofessional. How desperate. How I wouldn’t be anywhere near this job without my father’s name attached to it. That particular thought has teeth and it sinks them in. Something in me wants to scream back that I’ve worked for every bit of this — the sleepless weeks, the calls, the reports, all of it — and the voice saying that sounds exactly like my own. But so does the other one. His words play back: “Don’t forget why you’re in that position.” And the thing I can’t shake is that I don’t know which part of that to be angry at.

As I park the car and walk towards our house I pause before opening the door. After some time of hesitation, I finally get in.

— Your father is waiting for you in his office, — my mother says without looking up.

I roll my eyes at that and walk straight to him. The feeling to kick the door open was undeniably huge but collecting my composure and a little fear of losing my life make me carefully knock.

— Come in, — sharp, loud. Every syllable designed to remind you who’s on the other side of the door. I push it open.

He’s already looking at me when I enter. He doesn’t stand. He lets the silence do the work for a moment before he settles back into his chair.

— Hi, — I say carefully stepping more into the room.

— You now want to live in the base?

— No, my friends asked me to join them for couple of drinks and it was easier to stay in base.

— Friends?

— Yeah, Jh...

— Oh, TF141 are your friends now? — He says it with a particular kind of contempt — not loud yet, controlled, the kind he uses when he wants you to feel the weight of his disappointment before he applies any pressure, — You’ve clearly forgotten what I told you about personal relationships in this line of work. Professional connections exist to serve a purpose. Not friendships. Not socialising at the expense of your availability. Do you understand the difference?

— It’s not that big of a…

— You decided to be independent, to prove you’re capable of this level of work, — his voice is climbing now, that controlled surface starting to crack, — And this is what you show me. You were placed inside a Tier One intelligence unit. Do you understand the standard that requires? The clearance levels, the professional expectations, the trust that goes into that decision? And you spend the night away with one of the operators like some..., — he stops short, jaw tight. Then slowly standing up, the chair scrapes back, — Some stupid, naïve girl who has no idea what she’s walked into.

My jaw drops and my mind starts racing.

— What are you talking about?

— You’re an embarrassment. I put everything into making sure you had every advantage, every door open, and you walked through them and made a fool of both of us.

— Just stop for a fucking second and listen to me! — I snap and bump toward his desk. — Slept? With whom? You know how bizarre you are sounding right now!

— I said nothing when Price came to me with this idea. For once I let you make your own decision and you proved exactly what I’ve always known, — he holds eye contact without blinking, — That you’re not capable of doing anything on your own without falling apart. Are you some kind of-

— Of what? — I snap, stepping closer to his desk. — Do you even hear yourself right now? Are you actually monitoring my every move?

— You didn’t answer. So I checked. And what I found was you spending the night in an operator’s room.

— Oh my god, you are such an asshole! I didn’t sleep with him!

He clearly isn’t listening. He never does — once he’s decided something is true, it becomes a fact and no amount of evidence changes that. The level of anger I feel right now doesn’t have a clean shape. And the worst part — the part I can’t argue around even inside my own head — is that I did want it. Not the way he’s framed it, but the wanting was real, and that’s what makes his words so difficult to fully push back against. I’m furious at him and I’m ashamed of myself at the same time and those two things are tangled up in a way I can’t separate. My eyes go blank. I give up the same way I always do with him. He always called it weakness and I always agreed. I hold everything tightly and breathe through it because crying right now would be the one thing I could never forgive myself for.

He drops some files on the desk and sits back to his chair.

— These fil...

— No.

— Excuse me?

— Find someone else for this, — I turn around and walk towards my room.

Everything happening behind me is noise. My head is empty and I move on automatic — what I need most, into the bag, into the case. I kick the door open and keep walking past him where he stands saying something I can’t process. My head is pounding and every ounce of energy is going into not crying.

— Leave me alone, — I say calmly and go towards my car.

— Never hope for any kind of help from me ever again!

I drive straight to my grandmother’s apartment. Tears come before I reach the end of the street and I push them back down. “Stop it.” I should have moved out months ago. The whole “make him proud” project was never going to end anywhere different than this. He was never going to be satisfied. It was never about me being enough, it was about having something useful within reach.

What he almost said — what he stopped himself just short of saying — I hadn’t expected that from him.

The disgust that he could even think it doesn’t go anywhere. It just stays.

I burst through the apartment door, drop the case, and fall onto the sofa. Too many thoughts moving at once and not one of them is useful.

“Will he call Price and ask him to pull me out?” The thought arrives and doesn’t leave. It brings a whole new tier of anxiety with it and my stomach turns over. I get up and run the shower until it goes hot.

After a long shower and a couple of hours sitting in the silence of my own head, I fall asleep on the sofa. My brain finally just gives out.

I sleep the entire day — not the first time stress has done that to me. A call wakes me near 10 p.m. on Sunday. Price, telling me to be at the meeting tomorrow. My stomach drops. I hum a yes and go straight back to sleep.

***

Monday starts with a cold shower to physically reboot myself. My eyes don’t want to open and my face is a problem I spend an hour working on. Getting ready, I can’t stop running through scenarios of Father making a call to Price. I can’t predict or change anything right now so I pull on a black t-shirt with black jeans. Symbolic.

I arrive early and sit in the briefing room waiting. Already braced for the worst — Price walking in with that particular expression that means something has changed, telling me things didn’t work out. The scenarios don’t stop arriving.

The door opens and I flinch in my seat. Soap and Gaz come in already smiling. I smile back and wait while they settle.

— How’s weekends, lad? — Soap pats my shoulder and leans on a table, — You left early on Friday, didn’t even try to have proper fun.

That comment makes a laugh escape me.

— I was pretty drunk after that, so I think I tried my best.

Gaz just shakes his head and sits on the empty chair.

— Left with Ghost, aye? I get it, that was your fun?

Well, this one clearly triggers my mind but I can’t be mad at Soap because I understand where he comes from.

— Please, don’t get the wrong idea, — I try to find words and Ghost enters the room.

— Nah, I’ll just ask him, — Soap now takes me by the shoulders, — How was Friday night, Ghost?

Ghost just walks towards an empty seat and looks at Soap.

— Babysitting isn’t my strong side.

My mouth falls open and Soap laughs. I look at Ghost with disbelief, but deep down I’m more grateful for that answer than I’d admit.

Last to come is Price and he isn’t in a bad or weird mood so it makes me feel a little more relaxed.

The whole briefing covers the flight to the US at the end of the week — a joint liaison session with CIA counterpart team, which means three of the scheduled meetings fall to me: coordinating intelligence handoffs, sitting in on the threat assessment sessions, and managing the information flow between Laswell’s contact and Price’s team on the ground. Price is direct about what this means in practice: forget normal sleep, stay sharp for the duration, and understand that the people across the table will be reading everything. He doesn’t say it with pressure, exactly — more with the expectation that I already knew.

It doesn’t take long before everyone has what they need and starts filtering out. I’m the only one still at the table with Price — or so I think, until I turn around and notice Ghost is still near the door.

— Can I talk to you? — I look up at Price, still remaining on my seat.

— Sure, any questions?

— Not about the trip, — I look down at my hands, words not cooperating, — I wanted to know if you’d spoken to my dad recently.

— We had some work to do but not a lot of talking there, why?

— He didn’t ask about me or say anything?

He gives me a warm smile and taps his fingers on the desk.

— No, — he simply answers.

I nod, not wanting to ask or hear anything else.

— Focus on mission ahead, Y/N.

I nod again and he leaves, repeating it once more on his way out the door — “focus on the mission” — with the tone of someone who knows you need to hear it twice. I turn around and Ghost is still there by the door.

"Oh, he was here all this time".

I didn’t move as he walks towards me. I silently observe his movements and sink into the seat.

— Didn’t think you’d run away from me like that after the performance you put on Friday, — he says, sitting in the chair across from me. His tone is dry, easy. Like he has all the time in the world and no particular need to use it carefully.

I rub the bridge of my nose to hide my embarrassment and a small chuckle comes out of me.

— I really needed to go.

— You looked pretty upset, — he casually says and wait for an answer.

I sit up and sigh, trying to understand what to say here.

— Family things, — the best that comes to my mind.

He just patiently waits for me to continue and I shake my head.

— It’s nothing crazy.

— You still doing work for your dad? — He shifts the chair slightly and his knee finds mine. The contact is light and entirely deliberate and it makes rational thought considerably harder.

Father’s words land in my head again at exactly the wrong moment, and whatever effect Ghost already has on my ability to think straight makes it considerably worse.

— Not anymore, — I look at him and his eyes are doing that thing where they search for something in mine that I haven’t decided to give yet, — Why do you do this?

— What? — his voice goes lower.

— This, — I gesture vaguely between us, — You clearly know what you do to me, — I rub the back of my neck and look for any kind of tell in his expression, — So is it amusing? Or is there something else going on?

He takes hold of the chair through the gap between my knees and draws it close — close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath through the balaclava. My heart stops and my lips part before I can stop them.

— Yeah, it is, — each word lands against my lips directly, — Spent a fair amount of time thinking about Friday. You on my bed. The look on your face.

Everything in my body is running hotter and my legs instinctively try to press together, but his hand still holds the chair between them.

I can feel his grin through that damn mask.

— I was drunk, Simon, — I say, and my voice betrays me immediately.

— Mhm, — he says. Flat and unhurried, the tone of someone who has already thought about this more than he's letting on.

I open my mouth and nothing comes out. He watches me with the patience of someone who has decided he can wait as long as this takes, and that's somehow worse than anything. His eyes don't move from mine. His hand is still resting on the chair between my legs, not moving. Not yet.

— You like to mess with me, — I manage.

— Me? No, sweetheart, never, — that teasing tone is something new, — You want me to move back?

The answer is no. Immediately, completely no. And the fact that he knows that. That it's written plainly on my face without my permission — makes the heat in my chest move somewhere considerably lower. He doesn't move back. He doesn't move forward either. He stays exactly where he is and lets me sit inside the question.

His hand releases the chair and moves, slow and deliberate, up the inside of my thigh, stopping just short of where I need it most. My breath leaves me.

— If I give you an order, — his free hand lifts the balaclava just above his lips, — Are you going to be this obedient with me as you are with your dad?

— Fuck, — I whisper and look at his lips.

Footsteps in the corridor snap me back into my own body. I push my chair back sharply, breathing uneven, heart going at something that can’t be healthy. I get to my feet, grab my phone off the table, and move for the door.

— Not in the briefing room, you psychopath, — I say, words coming out before I can think them through.

A low, heavy chuckle follows me and I commit to my exit.

He stands slowly and watches me go at considerably more than a walking pace.

— Little minx, — he says to himself.

I drop onto the sofa in one of the team rooms and stare at the ceiling. A long sigh escapes me, and then — simultaneously from both sides — two people drop down next to me.

*Please not now*. I thought with my eyes closed.

— We lost her probably, — I hear a familiar voice.

— Yeah, mate, I don’t think she will last long.

— I can literally hear everything you’re saying, — I snap and sit up properly. Gaz and Soap’s faces light up and I clock Ghost sitting across from us. “I didn’t even hear him come in — I was sure it was only two people.”

— Still breathing then? — Soap nudges my shoulder.

— Fineee… It’s not that bad. Still getting used to the scale of it.

— You’re doing great, — Gaz adds.

— Don’t need your encouragement, — I say with a dry smile and he laughs. — Why are you all here? Don’t you have things to do?

Ghost seems relaxed, eyes moving unhurriedly between whoever is speaking, giving nothing away.

— We wanted to take you out for drinks tonight, — Soap says, and I look at him with the full weight of my skepticism.

— Huh?

— We’ve got a week before we fly out to the States, — Gaz picks up, — Figured you could use a night off. Come on, it’ll be good.

— He’s coming too? — I raise my eyebrows and gesture at Ghost. A quiet sound escapes him that I’d call a laugh if I were being generous.

— Whole team, aye, plus a couple of mates from base, — Soap says, already standing like the matter is settled.

— We’ll see, I don’t think…, — Soap reaches across and lifts my reports clean off the coffee table. — I swear to God.

— One evening of hanging out with friends won’t kill you, — he smiles and doesn’t give the papers back.

— We’re friends now? — I raise an eyebrow at him.

— Main exit, eight o’clock, don’t be late! — Soap drops the papers back on the table, half of them scatter to the floor and his footsteps are already fading down the hallway.

— Dumbass, — I whisper to myself, trying to pick up and collect the papers. Gaz giggles.

— See you later then, — he pats my shoulder and leaves.

I exhale and glance at Ghost. The exhaustion sitting in my body right now is apparently stronger than two weeks of avoiding him.

— Are you really going there? — I say clearly not believing this part.

His eyes find mine with that same steady weight they always carry.

— Is it really that hard to believe that?

— You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys this kind of thing.

— I’d consider myself pretty fun.

A genuine laugh escapes me and I look at him. He watches my reaction with what I’m fairly certain is amusement sitting somewhere behind that mask, and I feel my face go warm under the attention.

— Full of surprises, aren’t you?

He looks at me without answering. Which is somehow its own answer.

I sigh and pick up my stuff.

— See you later, Simon.

— Till evening, dove, — his voice comes out soft.

The smile comes without permission. Whatever he does to my chest is difficult to name, but something about this exchange sits differently to every other one we’ve had.

***

Before eight I head to my office and stop at the mirror. My hands go to fix my hair and I give up immediately, leaving it loose.

“Well. Decent enough.” I pull my makeup bag from under the desk. Some colour helps, I’ve looked like a standing ghost for the past fortnight. I undo the top buttons, check the mirror once more, and decide it’ll do.

I pick everything up and scroll through my phone. Father has been ignoring my calls — left for work again, I tried to reach him a few times and got nothing. “What now?” I used to have a full picture of his work but that was a while ago. The last time I actually saw him he was angrier than I can remember him being. I lock my phone and head to the main hall. I don’t want him in my head tonight.

Soap appears out of nowhere and grabs my hand.

— Ye came! Looking dead good, c’mon, — he drags me outside, already hollering something at his friends across the car park, his accent so thick at this point I catch maybe half of it.

We head toward a black SUV and he pulls the front passenger door open. Ghost is in the driver’s seat, one hand resting on the lower part of the wheel — black jacket left open over a black t-shirt, balaclava up, hood over his head.

Soap shoves me in and I look back at him in a mild panic. He pushes the door shut behind me and winks through the window.

I sit there with my mouth half open, collecting my thoughts.

— Didn’t know you were driving, — I say, and fasten my seatbelt.

The atmosphere in this car is nothing like any of our previous exchanges. I glance at Ghost and shift in the seat.

— One of the sober drivers, — he simply says and starts the car.

— You won’t drink? — I ask, looking at his hands on the wheel.

— Don’t feel like it today.

— What do you usually drink?

— Bourbon.

— Oh, — I bite my lip and look at the window.

Silence fills the car and I’m still searching for something to say when he pulls up and cuts the engine. He gets out and by the time I’ve undone my seatbelt he’s already at my door, opening it. I look at him for a moment, then step out, and we walk to the bar.

It’s not a big place — low lighting, dark wood, the kind of bar that smells like old upholstery and decent whisky. Busy enough to feel alive without being impossible to hear yourself think. Walking in behind Ghost I spot Soap already with a drink in hand, Gaz beside him, and three others I don’t recognise taking up the rest of the bar seats.

— Finally, — Gaz says and hugs me by the shoulders.

It starts better than I expected. The energy is easy, nobody’s performing, and the noise of it all is genuinely a relief after the week I’ve had. I wasn’t planning to drink much. Alcohol and I have a complicated history but Soap doesn’t understand the concept of a half-measure.

By the fourth shot of tequila — maybe the fifth, definitely not the sixth — I genuinely lose count. Soap tries to drag me outside with his friends because he’s decided the car park is the right venue for backflips, and I dig my heels in.

— Oh, for fuck’s sake, Johnny, — I start to fight him, — Let me go.

He laughs and the group sweeps him out, entirely too excited about this. I drop into the seat next to Ghost, who is working through the last of what looks like a glass of water with the unhurried patience of someone who has watched Soap do this before. I fold my arms on the bar and rest my chin on them, looking up at him.

— Having fun? — he glances down at me.

— Yeah, — I smile, noticing my head is considerably heavier than it was an hour ago. — You? 

— Tremendous, — he says, with exactly zero inflection.

— You don’t want to watch the backflips?

— I’ve seen it before. Happy to delegate the responsibility of scraping him off the pavement to someone else.

Something low and quiet comes from him that I decide to count as a laugh.

— Isn’t it annoying to always have a mask on your face?

— Not always.

— Well... Most of the time, — I lean a little closer and poke his jaw. He raises one eyebrow and sets his empty glass down on the table.

— That your idea of flirting?

— No. You wouldn’t be able to handle me if I was actually trying.

He makes that sarcastic grin again.

— Sure, love.

— What? You think I am joking?

— I think you are drunk.

I rest my hands on his shoulder and smile at him. He turns slightly to meet my eyes directly. I reach up and touch the edge of the balaclava where it sits above his lips.

— Can I? — I whisper, sliding my fingers beneath it.

He catches my hand, gently, and turns to face me fully.

I stand up between his legs and wrap my arms around his neck.

— You’re no fun, Simon, — I say, fully aware that the tequila has done away with whatever composure I had left.

His hand settles at my waist, steadying me, his thumb moving in a slow absent circle while I still have my arms around his neck. The warmth of his hand through the fabric is something I feel more than I should. The size of him from this close is different to knowing it abstractly — he fills the space completely and I’m standing in it, and my arms tighten a little without my permission. I look up at him. There’s something different in his expression right now. Not softer exactly — but the usual careful distance isn’t there the same way. His eyes are on mine and they don’t move. My heart is going too fast and I’m aware of my own breathing and aware of his hand and aware that the only thing standing between this and something else is him — because it isn’t me.

— Enough for tonight, — he says quietly. There’s a beat where he doesn’t move — where his hand stays at my waist and his eyes stay on mine and something in his expression does something it rarely does — and then he steps back carefully, and my hands land on his chest. He reaches up and straightens the balaclava.

The moment dissolves when everyone spills back in — Soap with blood on his knuckles and the expression of a man who considers this a win.

Ghost exhales beside me and crosses to Gaz, says something quiet to him. Gaz gives him a pat on the back. Then he comes back and stands in front of me.

— I’ll take you home.

— I don’t want to go home.

He takes me by the arm and steers me toward the exit.

— Night, Y/N! — Kyle calls after me and I give a defeated wave behind me without turning around.

Getting closer to the car I stop.

— I’m not going home.

— What a shame, dove, — he says, and tugs me forward again.

— No.

— You really going to be a brat right now?

I cross my arms. It’s hard to sell stubbornness when I’m struggling to stay upright.

— Fucking hell, — he says, walks up to me, and picks me up like it’s nothing.

— PUT ME DOWN, — I start to wiggle and he throws me over the shoulder, — SIMON, I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD.

— Have to be a pain in the arse right now, — he mutters, and gets the door open and deposits me in the passenger seat like I’m cargo.

I turn away to register my displeasure but he’s already buckled me in and closed the door.

Through the window I watch him go back and check on everyone before returning to the car.

— You are so mean to me, — I say quietly, sinking into the seat.

— Mhm, — he starts the car, — Are you capable of remembering your address?

— Rude, I am not that drunk.

— So?

— I won’t tell you.

— Y/N.

— Simon.

He turns to me and I lean closer to him.

— I want to spend time with you, — I prop my chin in my hand and tilt my head at him. — Where do you stay? Is it far?

— I stay in base when I am here.

— Great! I’ll stay with you.

— Not happening.

— Then leave me here, — I cross my arms and look back at the window.

I turn toward the window and he starts driving. My eyes close on their own. I don’t notice when I drift off, only that from time to time through the quiet I feel the weight of his gaze.

Next thing I remember is the sound of the door opening and his arms around me, my head on his shoulder. He gently places me on his bed and I tug him closer.

— Awake now, — he notes, moving my arms gently and pulling my shoes off.

— Is this your room? — I can’t let the chance of learning something pass, even half-drunk.

— Yeah.

It’s very neat. Everything in its place, no mess, nothing out of order. Exactly what I would have expected from him.

His bed isn’t large, but it’s clearly not a standard recruit issue either.

Without overthinking it I start to unbutton my shirt, then catch his gaze and stop midway. My face burns. He hasn’t moved. His eyes travel from my face down to the lace I’ve half-exposed and haven’t finished revealing, and then back up. Slowly. He’s looking at me the way he looks at everything. With complete attention, nothing rushed and it makes me feel more exposed than the shirt does.

— What? Sobering up? — He walks towards the bed and leans towards me.

— No, — I whisper. My hands are slightly unsteady as I slip the shirt off the rest of the way. I keep my eyes on his because looking away feels worse than the alternative. He watches me and says nothing and the silence is somehow louder than anything he could have said. There’s want in the room and it isn’t only mine. I can feel it even through the alcohol, even through the way he’s holding himself very still.

He stays silent as my hand travels down and opens the zip on my pants.

— Touch me, — my hand finds his collar and he catches my wrist. Not rough. Almost careful. Like he made the decision before I finished the sentence and is carrying it out with the same deliberateness he carries out everything.

I try to pull him toward me and he doesn’t move. Not an inch.

— Simon.

— You are drunk, Y/N, don’t ask for something you will regret later.

He doesn’t give me a chance to reply. He gently releases my hand and sets one of his shirts down on the bed beside me.

— You need some sleep, — he says quietly, — I’ll bring you water.

I watch him go and exhale, dropping the clothes to the floor and pulling his t-shirt over my head. I breathe in slowly as I settle under the covers. Everything smells like him — tobacco and something darker underneath it with the top note of little sweetness. The sheets are soft and clean. I look around the room again in the dark and feel the particular cruel clarity of wanting something I can’t have tonight. My thighs press together. I’m still looking at the ceiling when the door opens.

Ghost sets the glass on the bedside table and looks down at me.

— Lay down with me, — I say with a note of desperation.

To my surprise, he doesn’t leave. He sits on the edge of the bed, and the weight of him shifts everything slightly.

My eyes are already heavy. Sleep pulls at me before I can hold it off. His fingers move through my hair — slow, quiet, once and then again. I’m not entirely sure I’m not imagining it. It feels too deliberate to be accidental. It feels too careful to be nothing.

I sit up and look at her properly.

– Thank you, I thought I would fail miserably on the first day.

— Some parts still need work, but your diplomatic instincts are natural. Everything else develops with time and experience, — she gives me a brief smile and stands, — Make sure you get decent sleep this weekend. Team’s back Monday and the reports are all on you.

— Goodbye, — I don’t even get the word out before she’s already through the door.

Walking to the car, my thoughts drift to Father and how to handle that conversation. It’s not straightforward to bring up, but the files Price gave me have been sitting untouched all week — I haven’t had a spare second to go through them.

“Time to move out,” I think to myself, because right now I genuinely need to focus and the last thing I can afford when I get home is distraction and noise. I have a good flat from my grandmother before she passed — I just haven’t been fully ready to separate. There’s a guilt in leaving my mother alone with Father, but I need the space. The side tasks he kept trying to assign me, and then went completely silent over when I refused — I genuinely had no time for them. He was clearly annoyed, but to my surprise he didn’t say anything. I don’t want to put my mind into it right now. All I need is to finally get to the documents Price gave me.

Coming home, I find the house empty. It’s late but that’s always a relief. I go straight to my room, close the door, pull the stack of documents from under the desk, and lay the three files out in front of me carefully.

“John “SOAP” MacTavish, Kyle “GAZ” Garrick, Simon “GHOST” Riley”

My hand moves toward Ghost’s file but pauses mid-reach. I pick up Soap’s instead. “These callsigns — how do they come up with them?” I mumble and start reading.

CLASSIFIED // UK EYES ONLY

SUBJECT: Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish CALLSIGN: SOAP NATIONALITY: Scottish (United Kingdom)

AGE: 27 SERVICE: British Army, SAS ASSIGNMENT: Task Force 141

SUMMARY

Sergeant John MacTavish is a highly capable Special Air Service operator recruited into Task Force 141 following distinguished service in counterterrorism and direct-action operations. Demonstrates exceptional adaptability in hostile environments and strong proficiency in close-quarters battle.

OPERATIONAL NOTES

Participated in multiple joint operations alongside Captain John Price.

Successfully executed high-risk infiltration and hostage-rescue missions.

Known for maintaining composure under extreme combat conditions.

Frequently assigned to breaching and assault elements.

PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT

MacTavish displays strong loyalty to teammates and commanding officers. Exhibits confidence without significant disciplinary concerns. Possesses a tendency to place mission success and team safety above personal security.

COMMAND EVALUATION

"One of the most promising operators. Reliable, aggressive when necessary, and capable of independent action."

THREAT ASSESSMENT

Friendly Asset – Tier One Operator

STATUS

ACTIVE

“He’s a little older than me.” My eyes pause on his photo.

I open Kyle’s next — partly to see what it says, partly because that old childhood feeling of looking up at him still lingers somewhere.

CLASSIFIED // UK EYES ONLY SUBJECT: Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick CALLSIGN: GAZ NATIONALITY: British AGE: 29 SERVICE: SAS (formerly Metropolitan Police Specialist Firearms Command) ASSIGNMENT: Task Force 141

SUMMARY

Sergeant Kyle Garrick is a former police counterterrorism specialist selected for special operations service after demonstrating exceptional judgment during terrorist incidents in London. Recruited and mentored by Captain John Price.

OPERATIONAL NOTES

Extensive urban combat and counterterrorism experience.

Demonstrates advanced marksmanship and reconnaissance capabilities.

Effective liaison during multinational operations.

Frequently tasked with intelligence gathering and precision engagements.

PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT

Highly disciplined and analytical. Maintains professional conduct under pressure. Strong moral judgment and situational awareness. Particularly effective in civilian-populated operational environments.

COMMAND EVALUATION

"Level-headed, dependable, and quick to learn. One of the best young operators I've worked with."

THREAT ASSESSMENT

Friendly Asset – Tier One Operator

STATUS

ACTIVE

My eyes roll a little at “one of the best” even as I smile at it. Putting back Kyle’s file only now do I notice that Simon’s file has no photograph. That’s mildly disappointing.

CLASSIFIED // UK EYES ONLY SUBJECT: Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley CALLSIGN: GHOST NATIONALITY: British SERVICE: SAS ASSIGNMENT: Task Force 141

SUMMARY

Lieutenant Simon Riley is an experienced special operations officer assigned to Task Force 141. Due to the sensitive nature of previous deployments and intelligence operations, significant portions of his personal record remain restricted.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS

Skull-pattern balaclava worn during operations.

Extensive experience in covert action, reconnaissance, and target elimination.

Reputation for effectiveness in denied and hostile environments.

OPERATIONAL NOTES

Conducted numerous classified operations against terrorist and criminal organizations.

Demonstrates advanced intelligence-collection and surveillance skills.

Frequently deployed independently or in small teams.

Maintains exceptionally high mission success rates.

PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT

Reserved and highly guarded. Shows strong operational focus and mission discipline. Trust is extended selectively but remains unwavering once established. Psychological resilience assessed as exceptional.

COMMAND EVALUATION

"Gets the job done. Doesn't waste words. When Ghost is on the ground, the mission stands a better chance of succeeding."

THREAT ASSESSMENT

Friendly Asset – Tier One Operator

STATUS

ACTIVE

A long sigh escapes me as I sink back into the chair. That gave me less than I was hoping for, but there are a few things to pick up on.

I turn to the laptop Laswell gave me this week. We worked through a lot of material together and I have access to records on a lot of people here now — worth trying.

Three hours of scrolling didn’t do my sleep pattern any favours, and it became clear that someone had made absolutely certain Simon “Ghost” Riley would remain a mystery. What I find is not missing data. It's removed data. That's a different thing.

Defeated, I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.

— Lieutenant… You can’t be older than Price, — I roll onto my side, — Thirty-five? Probably.

That was the first time in my life I couldn’t find information I was actively looking for. The thought is more irritating than it should be, and asking people about him directly isn’t an option.

I try to shift my focus toward the work waiting when the team returns. It helps, a little, to have something concrete to prepare for.

***

Monday morning starts “perfectly” — Father walks straight past me without acknowledgement while I’m mid-greeting, the two of them eating in the kitchen like I’m not there. I shake it off before I reach the door. I need my head clear today.

I arrive earlier than needed and settle into the briefing room with my laptop, ready to collect everything from the debrief for the reports. The rain starts against the window not long after I sit down. It’s a pleasant sound, and between that and the wrecked sleep pattern of the past week, I’m out before I even notice.

The door bangs open and footsteps jolt me awake. I'm on my feet before I'm fully conscious, staring at the door. It takes a second to register that the whole team is back — minus Kyle, who I knew from the Laswell files had another assignment running.

– Welcome back, – I say, waiting for them to take their seats.

Soap greets me with a wide grin the moment he's through the door, and I smile back. Ghost gives me a single nod — brief, measured, the kind that manages to register without being anything more than acknowledgement.

– How was the week, Y/N? – Price asks, with a small pat on my shoulder.

– Slowly getting into the rhythm.

He gives me a smile and slaps the table slightly with both hands.

— Reports on my desk by Thursday, — he says, giving me a pointed look, and I nod as I settle into my seat.

Soap drops into the seat next to me and I glance at him briefly before turning back to the screen, ready to log everything they give. Ghost sits opposite and my gaze keeps drifting from the screen to him without permission. Price does most of the talking, with Soap filling in details where needed. Ghost speaks rarely, and every time he does it registers somewhere it shouldn’t.

The meeting runs two hours. By the end of it my head is pounding from the concentration, but I have everything I need.

– Now, that’s it, dismissed, – Price claps loudly and turns to leave the room.

I rub the bridge of my nose and close the laptop.

— Good luck with all that paperwork, — Soap says, tapping the lid of the laptop with a grin that makes very clear he does not envy me.

— Yeah, I’ll need it, — I say with a short laugh, then glance over at Ghost, whose eyes are already on me. — Are you both done for the day, or is there more?

— Done as of right now, — Soap says, standing and pointing at Ghost, — No idea about him. Going to sleep for about eleven hours. Good to see you again, Y/N. — He nods at Ghost on his way out. — Later, Lt.

Something about Soap lifts the mood in a room without trying. I don’t get a chance to reply before he’s gone. I look back at Ghost, whose eyes are still on me.

— Getting some rest too? — I break the silence, which doesn’t feel awkward, to my surprise.

— Few things still to go through – he replies shortly and gets up with a small grunt escaping him.

— Can I ask something? — He clearly wasn’t expecting that. He looks down at me and nods.

I hesitate, looking at him. There’s something in his eyes that reads like quiet amusement. The pause stretches longer than I intended.

— Go on, love, — he says, voice dropping slightly.

My heart picks up and “love” from him really doesn’t help matters.

— Sorry, I… , — I pick up the laptop and manage a small smile, — Never mind. I have four hundred pages of reports to get through. Glad you’re back.

Before I can catch his reaction I’m already through the door and heading toward my office.

Ghost stays where he is and chuckles quietly to himself, watching my silhouette disappear through the exit at speed.

“Glad you’re back? What was that? Did he think I meant the whole team? Because I obviously meant I was glad to see him specifically.” Our first conversation was so much easier before he decided to invade my dreams. I drop into my chair and sigh. At least the reports will drown out the embarrassment for a while.

I lose myself in the work more than I intend to, because when I finally look up and check the time my eyes go wide. It’s nearly midnight. I hadn’t noticed how tired I actually am until now. I decide to stop and head to the small kitchen on the far side of the base before leaving, I spent a lot of time in it during the week. It’s tucked away from the busier parts of the building so nobody really comes through late, and the window is big enough to actually feel the quiet.

I push the door open and head for the kettle — and then stop, because Ghost is leaning against the window with a cigarette between his teeth, arms crossed, looking out at the dark.

— Seriously, — I whisper to myself. Something shifts at the corner of his face that I’d call a grin, and it sends butterflies straight through me.

He’s back in the outfit I first saw him in properly — the black hoodie, the balaclava. Seeing it rather than the operational gear actually makes things slightly easier; I can read more of his face this way.

— I’m not even surprised. You do look like someone who barely sleeps, — the words are out before I’ve thought them through. His eyebrow lifts slightly.

— Your sleeping habits aren’t exactly perfect either, dove, — my face warms immediately.

— Sorry, — I say it quietly but loud enough for him to hear, moving closer and leaning against the other side of the window frame. — Still getting used to the pace of this. It’s hard to keep any kind of balance.

— Don’t worry about it, — his voice softens slightly. He stubs out the cigarette and crosses his arms again.

He doesn’t adjust his mask, just looks at me steadily. His gaze makes me feel considerably smaller than I am.

— You wanted to ask something earlier, — he says, unprompted.

I look at him and pause, feeling my face go red.

— I went through all of your files, — I pause, watching his face. It stays calm as he waits for me to continue. — Everyone else has a photograph and age in their record. You don’t.

He shows no reaction and doesn’t look surprised. He just nods, knowing I haven’t finished.

— And every file that connects to you in any way leads nowhere, — I push my hair back with a flicker of frustration, remembering exactly how little the search gave me, — I spent three hours on the internal system and came out with less than I started with, which is actually impressive.

— What exactly do you want to know, dove? — His voice does something it shouldn’t to my concentration. I hold his gaze, trying to take in what I can of his features, and then he tugs the balaclava slightly to cover his face more fully. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

— I want to know who I’m working with. That’s all.

— That interested in me?

— You know what I mean, — I scoff and try to look away from him, — The file gave me almost nothing.

— It gave you what's relevant.

— To you?

— To the job, — a pause, — Same thing. Not everything needs to be on the surface, Y/N, — the sound of my name sends a shiver down my spine.

I hesitate for a moment and his head tilts slightly, waiting. I move to the kitchen counter and hop up to sit on it. He turns to face me.

— Why is there no photograph?

– Not a fan of photos of myself.

– Age?

– Older than you.

I roll my eyes at that response and sigh.

– Your activity before SAS?

He pushes off the window frame and steps closer to where I’m sitting.

— Aren’t you a curious little thing, — he stops close enough that my breath catches. His body this near makes me feel exposed in a way I wasn’t ready for. I lean back slightly to put a little more distance between us and his gaze, tired and steady, makes my heart race.

— I’m sorry. I was only asking about what was missing from your file when everyone else’s was filled in, — my voice drops and I try to look anywhere but at him.

He holds that distance for a moment longer, then turns and starts toward the door.

— Goodnight, love, — he says, and walks out of the kitchen with that same unhurried, tired pace he carries everywhere.

– Goodnight, Simon, – I say while biting my lip.

I stay sitting on the counter for a moment, letting the quiet settle back in. Something that feels like guilt sits in my chest — the particular kind that comes from pushing into someone’s edges without being sure you were invited to.

The stress is still there, sitting heavy on my chest, and the deadline is real — but my mind keeps drifting back to that mask. I turn onto my back and press my face into the pillow. I’ve always been good at shutting things out when it matters. Even through that whole disaster in my second year, some idiot who had me completely wrapped up and then acted like nothing ever happened — I still managed to just bury it and work. I don’t know what’s different this time. Something about his presence gets under my skin in a way I can’t logic away. It isn’t just that he’s intimidating — I’m genuinely a little afraid of him. And that, for some reason I’m not ready to examine too closely, makes me want to be near him more.

My hands move across my own body as I shift onto my back. “Am I really convincing myself this is all about work and opportunity.” My shirt ends up on the floor. “Sure. A fresh start, leaving my father behind.” Jeans follow. “Perfectly rational. Not at all obsessing over a stranger.” My finger finds my clit and I exhale slowly, eyes falling shut. His hands are so large — I keep thinking about that, how they’d feel on me. My other hand moves to my chest, and I let the thought settle instead of pushing it away. My back arches as the warmth spreads through me. “I am going crazy.” Two fingers slide inside and my mind fills in the rest — those broad shoulders, the low pull of his voice saying my name. When it finally hits I sit up sharply, chest heaving.

– Fuck.

By the time morning comes I already have my answer. I avoid Father as much as possible, something in me can’t face him right now. It’s hard to explain exactly. I just know he doesn’t need to be part of this decision, and talking to him before I’ve settled it myself isn’t something I’m ready to do.

I get to the base early and head straight for the right wing. There are young soldiers around — some still half-asleep, some already moving out towards the field. I’ve always avoided this part of the base; it puts me on edge in a way I can’t shake. But there’s no other route to where Price is. I pick up my pace and keep my eyes forward, ignoring the stares drifting my way, until someone steps directly into my path. Slightly taller than me, probably my age. My eyebrows go up, annoyance written plainly across my face.

— Are you lost? — He’s enjoying this, smile spreading the moment he sees me slow down.

— No, I’m not, — I step to the right to get past him and he mirrors me, blocking the way again. A long breath escapes me and I meet his eyes directly.

— Don’t see company like this around here very often, — he says, and behind him a couple of the others have clocked what’s happening. One of them laughs. My jaw tightens.

— I need to see Captain Price, — the irritation in my voice is unmistakable as I try to step around him again.

His hand closes around my arm and that’s when the anger floods in clean and cold. I turn to face him. The others nearby are watching now, openly entertained, and the humiliation of it sits under the anger like an ember. My free hand is already curling when I hear the voice behind me.

— What is this supposed to mean? — Goosebumps run the length of my arms as I feel the weight of his presence just behind me.

I turn my head slowly. Simon has his hand on my shoulder.

— Sorry, Sir, — the guy’s confidence collapses into something closer to panic and he releases my arm immediately.

He falls back to join the others and they move quickly towards the exit.

I roll my eyes and turn to face Simon, still feeling his hand on my shoulder.

— Thanks, — the annoyance is still in my voice. — Why most of them just need to be fucking assholes — mostly to myself, but he gives my shoulder a light pat.

— You okay? — he asks, and lets go of my shoulder.

— Yeah, yeah, — I start walking again. — I was heading to see Price and that idiot decided to make it difficult.

He nods and falls into step beside me. My pulse picks up and I run a hand through my hair as we stop in front of Price’s office door.

— You didn’t have to walk me here, I’m pretty sure you scared everyone off already, — I say with a short laugh, glancing up at him.

He looks back at me, his gaze beneath the mask completely unreadable.

— I didn’t. Need to speak to Price as well, — and now a weight drops squarely onto my chest. Why did I say anything at all.

— Oh, — that’s all I manage as the embarrassment washes over me.

I knock and push the door open, doing my best to ignore the presence behind me.

Price is behind his desk, a large kit bag sitting beside it.

— Ah, Y/N, hopefully good news? — He claps his hands together with a grin. His eyes move to Simon, then back to me. Only now do I take in the fact that they’re both in full kit.

I clear my throat and step closer to the desk.

— Turning this down would be a stupid decision on my part.

Price chuckles and nods, leaning forward against the desk.

— Then it’s a yes, I suppose, — he opens the desk drawer and pulls out the same documents. — Glad to hear it, — he steps closer and hands them to me. Simon stands back, watching everything in silence as Price gives him a brief nod.

I glance down at the documents — three separate files.

— All yours, — Price catches my eyes as I nod. — You’ll have time to go through everything later. I’ll introduce you to Laswell tomorrow and we’ll get you properly brought on board.

I press the files to my chest as Simon steps closer towards the two of us.

— Adding to the team? — The dry note in his voice is unmistakable.

— Yeah. Ghost, meet Y/N, — Price smiles at me and my eyebrows lift slightly. “Ghost. That suits him.”

Ghost looks back at me for a moment, then turns to Price. There’s no reading what’s going on behind those eyes.

— We leave in 40, — he says simply, and walks out of the office, giving me a brief nod on his way past.

Price grabs his kit bag from beside the desk and claps a hand on my back to follow him.

— Quick introductions while everyone’s still here.

Keeping pace with him, my mind is still trying to catch up to everything that just happened. We reach a part of the building I’ve never been before — a staircase leading up to the rooftop. My hands are trembling slightly and I press the files tighter against my chest, trying to settle myself. Is the weight of what I’ve actually agreed to only landing now? As we step out onto the roof I see a small group already there. Price greets them and my eyes find Kyle immediately.

— Kyle! — I close the distance and pull him into a hug. — Haven’t seen you in ages, — I pull back and look at him, the smile on my face coming without any effort. He returns it immediately.

— Price mentioned you’d started, I kept meaning to find a moment to congratulate you, — he says with a chuckle, squeezing my arm before letting go.

— No surprise you already made it here. Always the lucky one, — I say, glancing down at the files in my hands with a small shake of my head.

— You’re one to talk, — he grins, nodding at the files pressed to my chest. — Straight into the deep end, then?

Price puts his hands on our shoulders before Kyle can answer.

— Gaz, — he says, with a nod towards Kyle, — doesn’t need an introduction, — there’s a teasing note in his voice.

I turn to the left as a guy with a small mohawk stares at me with a smile.

— Soap, — Price turns me slightly so I’m facing him properly. I smile and offer my hand, which he takes with a firm shake and a grin wide enough to be slightly ridiculous.

— Hiya, lad, — he says, still shaking my hand a beat too long.

The sound of a helicopter cuts through everything, ending my brief introduction to the full team.

— Well, that’s everyone, — Price raises his voice over the noise. — That’s it for now, Y/N. Tomorrow will be a full day. For now you’re free, — he glances at the team and waves them forward.

I step back towards the door, pushing my hair out of my face against the wind. I watch them move — Kyle raises a hand in a wave as they go. As they board the helicopter my eyes find Ghost. My heart beats a little faster. He looks back too.

— Pretty one, aye? — Soap nudges Ghost’s forearm as the helicopter lifts. Ghost doesn’t answer. He watches the door I disappeared through until there’s nothing left to watch, which makes Soap laugh to himself.

– I wish, – I roll my eyes and turn my face back towards the desk.

– Go take a walk, – she says, nudging my arm, – I’ll help you finish the report later, don’t stress about it.

A quiet laugh escapes me and I smile at her. Over the past month, Liz and Ivy had warmed up to me — small exchanges, little details about each other’s lives slowly finding their way into the gaps between work. We weren’t close by any stretch, but the easy atmosphere made everything more bearable.

As I stand and head out of the office, I figure a walk might clear my head a little. My thoughts drift straight to the archive, to what I might find there. Simon — who he is, where he came from, how old he even is. Price wouldn’t bring someone in who wasn’t exceptional, that much I know. It’s his build and that mask that keeps unsettling me. Then again, that kind of work calls for someone who doesn’t stand out — or maybe that’s entirely wrong and I’m projecting. Does he ever take it off? There’s too much going around in my head. All of it gets cut short when a plastic bottle bounces off the side of my head.

– Huh?

I turn around and catch a couple of soldiers nearby, too busy shoving each other and joking around to notice they’ve hit anyone, already spilling out towards the field. They shout something as they go and I just roll my eyes. Right — this is why I resented everything connected to my father’s world. Not every person in it, but most of the men I’d witnessed around him over the years were arrogant, loud and thoughtless. I hated the army, which is ironic enough now. The only things it ever made me feel were contempt and fear — fear of people like my father. Seeing some of his colleagues in our house always left me with a low, creeping disgust. Price was the exception. He carried himself with actual respect and restraint — an intelligence that felt genuinely rare in that company.

I watch the field for a moment longer, then turn and head back inside to get some work done. Tonight I’ll find what I need — which means decent sleep isn’t coming any time soon.

At the end of the day I say my goodbyes to Ivy first and then to Liz, grab the keys, and make my way towards the archive rooms. They’re in the right wing of the base, a good ten minutes of walking. When I finally get there, I stand in front of the door for a second, keys tapping against my palm, then slowly push it open and hit the light. The room is packed with files and I have no idea where to start.

My fingers run along the shelves, eyes scanning for anything that catches. An hour passes and I’m still working through the same section.

– Searching for something?

I jump, nearly dropping the whole shelf on myself.

– Why does everyone want to startle me, I swear to God, – I mutter under my breath as I turn towards the door.

Price stands there, leaning on the door frame with his eyebrows raised.

– Oh, god, I’m so sorry, I…

– Why are you here? – His voice is measured, with a faint note of surprise but no trace of anger.

– Dad asked me to find something for him, – I say, keeping my voice steady as I turn back to the shelves. Trying my best to sound like it’s nothing.

– Really?

– He came back on Saturday and had some work for me.

He nods and slowly walks up to me.

– Still his little errand runner, then.

My eyes find his and I chuckle nervously.

– You came to search for something too?

– I was passing by and saw someone here so I checked. Definitely didn’t think I would see you.

I nod and turn back to the shelves, but my mind is already running ahead. “Would it be a mistake to ask him directly? He probably won’t give anything up — and what would he think? How many times do I have to come back here before I find what I need?”

– Can I ask about TF 141? – The words are out before I can think better of it.

He looks at me directly and clears his throat.

– You even know about that? So that's what you actually looking for.

I just nod, waiting for an answer.

– Norman mentioned your habit of picking up more than you’re supposed to at his gatherings. I assumed most of what you’d heard would stay well above your clearance level.

– It is, I never…

– Don’t worry about it, kid, – he says, with a short laugh. – What exactly do you want to know?

– Who’s on it?

– Can’t tell you that.

– I know Kyle is there, you said it yourself. That he works with you.

– We worked together long before TF141 existed. That doesn’t confirm anything, – he says, with a slight smile.

A deep sigh escapes me and I look at him again.

– Okay, who is Simon?

His expression shifts into something I didn’t expect. Not confusion exactly — more like genuine surprise, the kind that doesn’t happen often on a face like his.

– See, I already know two people from your team.

Price still stays silent as he observes me and starts to walk out of the room.

– Come with me.

My eyes widen a little and I follow quickly. The corridor is mostly empty at this hour, our footsteps the only sound. I keep pace with him, my mind turning over what he could possibly want to show me. My hands are already clammy. I try to focus on the fact that he might be about to give me exactly what I came for. He wouldn’t have me hauled for poking around somewhere I shouldn’t be. I’ll know soon enough either way.

We reach his office and he settles behind his desk, gesturing across it for me to sit.

– Alright, how did you come to know who Simon is?

I sit down, smile nervously, and wipe my palms on my jeans.

– I think you’ve got the wrong idea, – I pause, watching his face. – I didn’t dig up information on him. I ran into him twice. First was the day I saw you, before I started here. Second time I stayed late and stepped out for a smoke. We spoke for a few minutes. I worked out he was with you from the day I’d seen you together, and I got his first name. That’s all of it.

He listens to every word and then chuckles lightly.

– And after that you decided to find TF141 files?

– I was curious. I’ve gone through enough documents at this base to know most people by name — I’d never come across his.

– Something Norman forced you to do?

– I’ve known a lot of people who came through my father’s house. Before I started here I thought I had a reasonable picture of who I’d be dealing with.

– Good memory you have there.

– The only thing I was ever actually good at. Finding information and holding onto it.

He taps his fingers on the desk and nods slowly.

– Alright, y/n. I need an intelligence support liaison attached to someone I work closely with — someone who can handle research, cross-reference field intelligence, and manage the information flow on the ground side. She’s been asking for a woman in that role for a while. I’ve never found the right fit, – he leans forward against the desk with a quiet grunt and holds my gaze. – If you’re this interested in TF141, maybe you can be useful to me instead.

My leg shakes as I listen to him.

– That head of yours is wasted on routine reports. Do this first, prove yourself, and I’ll move you into communications monitoring and data analysis — full access to everything you’ve been looking for. You’d actually be part of it. So. How does that sound?

I scratch the back of my neck and think for a second.

– I’m not sure I’m the right person for that. It feels like this is only on the table because of my father.

– Not entirely, no, – he pauses, and that lands harder than I expected. – But here’s the thing – you were raised inside this world. Norman spent years trying to make you into a specialist, knowing his daughter was never going to be a soldier. What I’m offering is exactly what you’ve always done. The difference is it would be under my command instead of your father’s.

He gives me a small smile as he takes out the documents under his desk. Gently putting them in front of me.

– Here, – he taps on them, – You wouldn’t be able to find any of these in that archive room. I keep the information of my team near me.

My hand reaches out toward the files but stops short of opening them. I run my eyes over the packs of documents, then glance back at him.

– I’m an impatient man, y/n. I don’t think you have a better option, and that skill of yours deserves more than being buried in routine paperwork. You’d still have reports — but they’d mean something.

I sit there and say nothing, turning it all over. He isn’t wrong. There’s something more serious I could commit to here, something that might finally pull me out from under my father’s oversight. If I go under Price, my father loses his grip. I’d be answering to someone else entirely. And yet — saying yes to Price means a completely different level of pressure, and I have no real idea if I’m ready for that.

– It’s a lot to process right now.

– I understand, but I can’t hold the position open long, – he stands and gathers the documents back carefully, unhurried. – Come back tomorrow with your answer. We have things moving and I’ll be away shortly.

I silently stand up and nod.

– Okay, thank you, – I smile at him and go towards the door.

– Hoping for a positive answer.

I pull the door shut behind me and stand in the corridor for a moment. Did any of that just happen, or is the sleep deprivation finally catching up with me. I start walking and my hands are trembling again, which makes no sense — or maybe it makes every sense. “Is it the responsibility that comes with saying yes? The fear of not being good enough when it actually matters? Or is it simpler than that — maybe I just don’t want to leave the one place where my father’s expectations can’t follow me, even if that place is a dead end.” Everything is tangled up and I can’t pull it apart.

I get closer to my car and bump into someone.

– I’m sorry, – I look up and my throat closes. – Simon? The thought of that dream lands in my head like a slap and suddenly my hands are shaking for an entirely different reason.

“How am I supposed to look him in the eyes?”

He stands still and looks down at me, tossing the end of his cigarette into the bin nearby. His mask is different tonight — a skull this time, fractured lines across it, more unsettling up close. He adjusts it slightly, pulling it flush against his face.

– Aren’t you supposed to be home already? – he says, not dropping eye contact.

– Did you let me walk into you just now? – I ask, voice coming out less steady than I’d like.

– What made you think that? – There’s something in his voice that is clearly enjoying this — unhurried, a little too composed for someone who definitely saw me coming. He absolutely did it on purpose and he’s not even pretending otherwise. I open my mouth to push back and then catch him glancing down, just briefly, at my hands. The amusement doesn’t disappear entirely, but something in his expression settles. Goes quieter.

I let it go and exhale.

– Had something to keep me late, – I say, moving towards my car.

My head isn’t in the right place for this. It’s hard enough to hold a conversation when I’m running on nothing — doing it in front of him, carrying that dream in the back of my mind, is something else. I need to get out of here.

– Goodnight, – I say quickly, dropping into the seat and pulling the door shut. I glance back at him through the window. He gives a single nod — no trace of the amusement from a moment ago — and turns back towards the base.

My forehead drops onto the wheel. Of all the nights. I stay there until my heartbeat settles, then lift my head and stare out at the empty space where he was.

I give a small smile in return, and the other one — the friendlier-looking of the two — drops a stack of papers on my desk without a word.

– Go through these. We need the report done by this evening — questions? – She drums her fairly long nails against the edge of the desk, watching me with mild impatience.

– Y-yeah, – I say, shaking my head slightly, – No problem.

As I start working through the documents, I realise it isn’t as frightening as I’d imagined. The women whose names I still need to learn aren’t bad, not really. They don’t seem to care much about my presence one way or the other — they don’t dislike me, they’re simply not taking me too seriously yet. A lot of that probably comes down to Father. Everyone knows who I am, so as long as I do what I’m told, no one will say anything.

A week passes, then two, then a month, and I settle in well enough. The only real issue is that some reports are too long, or there are too many of them at once, and I end up staying extra hours. But I am in no position to throw my hands up and walk out, so a twitching left eye isn’t exactly a crisis.

It is already past 9 p.m. when I step outside for a smoke. Standing there, I catch myself thinking about how I haven’t seen Father in over a month. He mentioned something important before he left, but never gave me any details. I sigh and look out across the base; it isn’t the first time he has disappeared like this. Still, it is rare lately for him to be called away somewhere, and for this long. I shake the thought off and lift the cigarette to my lips — and then I feel someone nearby. I turn, and the tall figure from the day I met Price is walking up. My heart almost leaves my chest as I start coughing.

– Jesus fucking Christ, – it comes out as a strangled whisper between coughs.

He simply looks at me. Black hoodie, black trousers, and that skull balaclava that makes me deeply uneasy just to look at. He is very tall and broad-shouldered; I hadn’t really taken him in properly that first day, but up close he seems even bigger than I remembered. He lifts the balaclava slightly to light his cigarette, and I catch a glimpse — a pretty sharp jaw, a faint scar at the corner of his lip, a few days of scruffy blond stubble. He is more than a little intimidating.

– Didn’t mean to startle you, – he says, taking a slow drag, – Got sent outside to smoke and the back door was locked. His voice is low and unhurried, and it sends a shiver straight down my spine.

I keep staring, though it is hard not to. He seems used to it — he doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t shift uncomfortably, doesn’t give me a strange look back.

– Oh, – the best I can manage as I force my gaze back to the empty field ahead, – I saw you about a month ago. You working with Price?

His eyes come back to me as he nods. That’s enough. I know who Price is and the kind of work he does. Task Force 141 wasn’t something I was completely unfamiliar with — I didn’t have full access to classified files, but the name had come up in conversations with Father. I did what I always do: absorbed every word I could and filed it away. I only knew that Kyle had been attached to Price’s unit at some point; I had no idea who else was on the team. Until now.

– Pretty young to be around here, – he says, breaking the silence without any particular hurry, – You an intern? My eyes widen slightly.

– Ah, yeah. It’s all down to my father, really — I probably wouldn’t be here without him, – I pause. He is still watching me. “God, this man never breaks eye contact.” - Mostly paperwork for now, but I can’t complain. His connections got me straight in.

He nods and turns his gaze back out to the field. A beat of silence passes.

– How do you know Price? 

– Father.

– Mm, – he pauses, – Age?

Something about this exchange is starting to feel strange.

– You a fan of small talk? – Something about that question catches on me. What if he’s sizing me up, deciding I’m not worth taking seriously? Not that it should matter.

– Just curious, – he shrugs and takes another drag, – So Captain Norman is your dad.

I just stay silent on that comment.

– Didn’t know he had a daughter.

A small chuckle escapes me and I stub out my cigarette against the bin.

– Why the mask?

The question is out before I can stop it.

– Got my reasons, – he says, and something in his accent thickens just slightly.

I go quiet, sensing I have wandered somewhere I shouldn’t. I turn and reach for the door, glancing back at him over my shoulder.

– I’ll go now, see you around...

– Simon, – he says, cutting me off before I can finish, his eyes finding mine.

– Simon, – I repeat and nod, – Nice to meet you, I guess…

A low chuckle reaches me, quiet enough that I almost miss it, and it does something embarrassing to my heart rate.

– Y/N, – I say quietly but enough for him to hear.

He just nods and I go back inside.

As I walk back towards my desk, my heart is still pounding. Am I terrified? Probably. It’s not like I make a habit of talking to men built like armoured vehicles while wearing skull balaclavas. I sit down and replay the conversation in my head. The thought of his voice sends another shiver through me.

– Fucking hell, – I let my forehead drop to the desk.

– Simon, Simon, – I murmur to myself, and my eyes snap to the stacks of documents on the shelf nearby.

My curiosity has already gotten the better of me. I want every scrap of information that exists on TF 141. I pull through stack after stack of physical files and find nothing I don’t already know. I rush back to my computer — glancing over my shoulder like someone is about to catch me — and open the restricted files I have partial access to, courtesy of Father. Personnel records, operational summaries, cross-referenced unit designations. My eyes move fast, scanning every line for something familiar.

Just as I am about to give up entirely, something catches my eye. I lean closer, spine straightening.

Name after name, file after file — SAS selection records, transfer requests, unit assignments across different ranks and positions — but nothing that links directly to TF 141. I sigh and check the time. I need to sleep before my brain gives out entirely, and two hours of searching for one soldier is more than enough for tonight. The whole ride home I turn over where else I could look, who I could ask without raising questions. By the time I drop onto my bed with a groan, I force my eyes shut and try to think about anything other than Simon — whose voice is still, annoyingly, ringing in my head.

…

Everything is hazy. My head isn’t working properly, thoughts dissolving the moment they form. My stomach twists with a sensation that keeps building, keeps tipping closer to unbearable. A hard thrust drives the breath out of me and pulls a moan I can’t suppress. The air in the room is thick and warm, filled with nothing but unsteady breathing — his and mine. My hands find the edge of the table in front of me and hold on. I can barely keep myself upright. Then a large hand slides to my throat, fingers wrapping around it with a firm, deliberate pressure — not harsh, just enough to make everything feel sharper, more present, more real. A small, helpless sound escapes me and my fingers close over his instinctively. The way that pressure settles over me feels far too good to be rational.

– Easy, love, – God. His voice at my ear, low and rough, and entirely too close, sends another wave of goosebumps down every inch of my skin.

My head falls to the side. My body feels like it is no longer entirely mine.

– Simon

– Yeah, just like that, – he murmurs, and then his teeth find my shoulder, and the sound that comes out of me is something I would be mortified to hear in daylight.

I wake up and immediately sit up.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.” I stare around the room in a panic, like someone is standing right there watching. My breathing is ragged, my heart is going absolutely insane, and my hand flies to my neck without thinking. “God, you are so pathetic.” I can’t stop the self-scolding because I cannot believe I just had a dream about a man I spoke to for five minutes outside a building. Maybe I had neglected my personal life since my second-year break-up, but I hadn’t realised I’d gotten quite this desperate.

– Y/N! – My heart lurches as my mother’s voice cuts through from downstairs, – Your father is back. Come and greet him.

Her voice fades as she moves away. I do my best to slow my breathing down. I get up, go to the bathroom, and throw cold water over my face.

“Get your shit together”.

Once I look something close to presentable, I head downstairs to the main living room. My parents are in conversation when I walk in, and neither of them acknowledges me for a couple of minutes.

– There you are. How was your work while I was away? – Father finally turns to look at me, skipping any kind of greeting — not that he ever gave one. Straight to the point, as always.

– It’s okay, got used to it pretty fast, – I say with a forced smile.

– Good to hear, – he nods and walks straight to his cabinet.

– Dad, – I say, following him, which earns a surprised look from my mother before she decides to mind her own business, – Can I ask you something?

– Be quick about it and speak up, – he scoffs, pushing open the cabinet door.

I hesitate for a moment, then take a breath.

– Do you have any information on Task Force 141?

His usual expression — somewhere between mild irritation and mild disinterest — shifts into something more guarded.

– Why do you need that? And who told you about it?

– Heard from your talk with Price.

– When?

– Why does it matter?

A long sigh comes out of him.

– You love to stick your nose into things you are not supposed to.

– Yeah, you taught me well, – I say quietly, gaze dropping to the side.

– Fair enough, – he says with an annoyed tone as he goes inside the cabinet, – Why do you need it?

– I ran into Price not long ago and it got me thinking. I might see an opportunity there.

He stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a short, sardonic laugh. He reaches across his desk and picks up a set of keys.

– Go through the archives and secured documents at the base. You want information — find it yourself, – he tosses the keys towards me. I catch them, and I can’t quite stop the small, satisfied grin.

– Thanks, – I nod and am turning to leave when he speaks again.

– Don’t get distracted, Y/N, I need you fully committed to your current work.

After graduating high school, I didn’t know what to do. A common problem among teenagers, so I just listened to my parents. Father wanted a son he could teach everything and eventually send off to serve in the military — well, that wasn’t an option for me, or at least I thought so. I hated everything connected to his work. Whatever emotional capacity my mother and father lacked had fallen entirely onto me, and I’d somehow doubled it. My eyes were always watery, even over small or “stupid” things, as my father would say. But without a proper dream, skill, or goal, I ended up working alongside him. Why he thought I was capable of enduring all the physical training, sharpening critical thinking, or handling the emotional demands of military intelligence work — I didn’t know. And yet there I was, going through documents I’d trained myself not to dwell on, completing exactly what I was told. Searching for information he needed, essentially serving as his personal archive. I turned out to be good at absorbing it all — pulling out the necessary details about people, locations, connections. Did I like it? I didn’t know. I started to not hate it, at least. It felt good to be useful for once, and maybe I thought it made my parents somewhat proud.

And that was how I ended up applying for International Relations and Intelligence. Father had wanted to make me more technical, but I clearly struggled with anything math-related. I wasn’t sure I was good enough for this major, to be honest. I wasn’t sure of anything, but that couldn’t be helped — uncertainty had settled into every aspect of my life. My studies were a grind: mental breakdowns, university drama, and constant pressure from Father. The people around me weren’t keen on forming real friendships, so even though I had some “friends” to spend time with, it stayed within the walls of the university. There were flings that didn’t end well, more tears over love that wasn’t what I’d imagined, or feelings that simply weren’t mutual. The typical student life, with everything hitting at once. Surprisingly, graduation came quickly — I couldn’t cope with how fast the time had passed. I still had the feeling of not being capable of anything, that I hadn’t changed or matured the way I thought I would. But it didn’t matter, because now I was standing in front of my father’s desk, waiting while he worked through the process of finding me a placement. He wanted to show the world what he had invested in me and what I could prove. My heart was racing and my hands trembling slightly as he returned with a smile.

– You will be placed in the analyst department, – he says, with a rare note of excitement in his voice. It’s an unusual sight, and it only makes me more nervous — now I have to live up to his expectations, and if studying had been hard, I have no idea what work will be like.

– Are you sure I can already start?

– You’re an intern, so your work is easy, – he says, his tone shifting to something more serious, – Even a complete stranger off the street could handle it.

I listen in silence and give a small nod; he is getting irritated and I don’t want to provoke him.

– You start next week. If you show good results, I’ll work on putting you in a better position, – he leans back, not looking at me, – Dismissed.

– Yes, Sir, – I sigh, and walk out of his office.

“Well, my life is officially hell now, probably.” My train of thought breaks as I glance at some soldiers running drills across the base. When I think back to the basic training my father put me through, I physically cringe. Maybe I wasn’t a complete disappointment, but the look on his face always said otherwise. He’s a well-respected captain around here. He used to bring me along for odd jobs on the base, often enough that a few people recognize my face. So at least the place isn’t unfamiliar — I don’t have to get used to a foreign environment on top of everything else. I look up at the building as I head out and try to make peace with the reality of working here soon.

– Y/n! – I hear a familiar voice calling out. I look to my right and a smile appears on my face, uninvited.

Captain John Price is a good friend of my father’s. They had worked together for years, and I hadn’t seen him often — but enough to place him clearly in my childhood memories.

– Hi, – I say shyly, giving him a small hug.

– Look at you! Feels like just yesterday you were a small girl with teary eyes, – he says teasingly, with a warm smile.

I nod in embarrassment.

– Yeah… Now I’m starting to work here, – I say, lowering my voice at the end.

– You graduated already? – his hands rise, – Time flies, congratulations!

– Thank you. 

– You are not very excited, are you? – he dips his head to catch my eyes.

– Just nervous. I still don’t think I’m the right fit for all my father’s plans, – I glance back at Price, trying to sound at least a little more positive.

– I’m sure you’ll be fine, kid, – he pats my shoulder.

– Are you here to see my dad? I thought you were in the US for a while. When did you get back?

– Not that long ago. I have some things to sort out here. I’ll stop in to say hello, but he’s not the reason I’m back.

I nod, hesitating to ask anything more.

– How’s Kyle?

Price smiles and looks at the soldiers running drills nearby.

– He’s good — been working with me, – he pauses and looks back at me, – Still think your father likes him more than you?

I chuckle at that and shake my head. He did always suggest that Kyle would make a better replacement for his own daughter, though he tried to frame it as a joke. It never quite landed — I’d cry myself to sleep afterward. I’ll admit I never had any hard feelings toward Kyle himself. He was always very sweet and kind to me, so I couldn’t bring myself to be angry at him. We trained together a handful of times before I’d had enough humiliation and begged my father to stop putting me through it. That ended with him not speaking to me for a month, but at least I wasn’t pushing my body past its limits anymore.

– That’s not just my opinion — it’s a fact, – I say with a straight face, as Price laughs, which quickly dissolves into a cough.

– I’ll see you around, kid. Do good, maybe I’ll steal you from your dad to work with me, – he pats my shoulder a little harder this time.

I smile and hug him goodbye.