Layla

His mind wandered as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

What would be the best way to kill Mark? Slowly, to make a point? Or quick and efficient, so he could get it over with and come back to you and finally confess like none of this had happened?

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t Mark’s fault. Simon knew that, even if he hated admitting it.

The guy had the balls to do the one thing Simon was too scared to even seriously consider. He’d stepped forward while Simon had stood frozen, waiting for the perfect moment that never came.

And someone like you was never going to stay unclaimed forever. Of course someone was going to notice. Of course someone was going to reach for you.

Why wouldn’t they? You were perfect in every way possible.

Simon rolled onto his side and hugged the pillow to his chest like it might absorb some of the ache. But, it didn’t. Nothing ever did.

He tried to imagine not wanting you, just for five minutes. Tried to picture a version of himself who didn’t notice the sound of your laugh echoing in his head, or the way your face lights up when you see a cat.

Pathetic. He felt absolutely pathetic.

He wondered if you ever thought about him at all. If he was just another coworker to you. Another background character you smiled at politely before going home to someone else. Someone braver, and someone who didn’t lie awake at night dissecting every conversation you’d ever had like it was something sacred.

Simon replayed the smallest moment. The time you’d leaned closer to show him something on your phone. The way you’d said his name once, slower than usual, when you were tired. The accidental brush of your fingers when you passed him a cup.

You probably didn’t remember any of it.

That was the worst part.

He pressed his face into the pillow and groaned, half in frustration, half in resignation. How had he let it get this bad? How had wanting you turned into this humiliating devotion where he was grateful just to exist in the same room as you?

He didn’t want to be this guy. The guy who waited. The guy who watched. The guy who loved you in silence while you lived your life somewhere just out of reach.

And yet.

If you walked into the room right now, smiled at him like you always did, asked if he was okay, Simon knew that he’d fall all over again.

Because even like this, wanting you was still the best thing he had.

And God help him; he’d take that over not wanting you at all.

In the morning, Simon saw you before he could mentally prepare himself.

You were near one of the buildings on base, laughing so hard you had to bend forward a little. Mark stood close, too close for Simon’s liking, saying something that made you shove his shoulder lightly.

Simon stopped dead.

His body reacted before his brain could catch up. His chest started tightening. He told himself to look away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t

You laughed again, brighter this time, head tipped back just slightly. Mark said something else and you leaned into him, not even fully, just enough to mean something. Just enough to make Simon’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

That laugh wasn’t for him.

The realization hit harder than he expected. He felt stupid for thinking it might still be. For thinking there was some invisible thread between you that would pull you back to him eventually.

You were meant to be together after all.

But you looked happy with Mark.

Simon wondered if Mark knew how lucky he was. If he noticed the way your eyes lit up when you smiled, or how your whole body leaned toward people you trusted. If he knew what it felt like to be chosen by you without having to beg the universe for it.

Mark reached out and brushed something off your sleeve.

Simon flinched like he’d been punched in the face.

God, he hated this version of himself. Standing there, pretending to check something on his phone while his heart shredded itself. He hated that he noticed every detail anyway. The sound of your laugh. The angle of your smile. The way you looked at Mark like he was… he couldn’t even finish this thought.

Eventually, you started walking, still talking, shoulders almost brushing. Simon stayed where he was long after you disappeared from view, the echo of your laughter clinging to him.

He told himself this was good. That what he wanted was for you to be happy. He told himself he was being mature about it.

But later, alone again, the image replayed on a loop behind his eyes. You choosing someone else without ever knowing there had been a choice at all.

And Simon, pathetic and hopeless Simon, pressed his forehead into his palms and wondered how something so small could hurt so much.

Because the worst part wasn’t seeing you with Mark.

It was knowing that if you turned around tomorrow, smiled at him, and said his name the way you always did—

He’d still be yours in a heartbeat.

-

Simon almost didn’t recognize the sound of his own name over the noise in his head.

“Simon!”

He looked up and there you were, standing in front of him looking perfect as ever, smiling at him like nothing in the world had changed. Like you hadn’t rearranged his entire life just by existing.

“Hey,” he said, surprised at how normal his voice sounded.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and leaned against the table beside him. “I haven’t seen you all day. How’ve you been?”

Good. Fine. Dying quietly…

“Yeah,” he nodded, forcing something that looked like a smile. “Same old.”

You laughed softly. “God, same. But honestly?” You brightened, eyes lighting up in that way Simon adored. “I’ve been really happy lately.”

There it was.

Simon felt the hit of your words. He kept his posture relaxed, shoulders loose, and his hands steady. He’d been trained for worse than this, hadn’t he?

“That’s good,” he said. “You deserve that.”

You smiled at him, warm and genuine. “It’s Mark. He’s just… easy, you know? He makes everything feel better.”

Easy. Better.

Simon nodded along like this wasn’t actively killing him. Like his lungs weren’t suddenly too small. Like he hadn’t spent months memorizing the exact shape of your smile and wondering if he could ever be the reason for it.

“Yeah?” he said. “That’s… that’s great.”

You kept talking. About dinners, about stupid jokes Mark made, about your plans. Little things that stacked up into a life Simon wasn’t part of. Every word slid under his ribs and stayed there.

He laughed when you laughed. Timed it perfectly. Threw in the right comments. Asked questions like a friend would. Like someone who hadn’t once imagined brushing your hair back, or kissing the corner of your mouth just to feel you smile against him.

Inside, he was folding.

Every mention of Mark’s name felt like a reminder of everything Simon hadn’t been brave enough to say. Everything he’d held back because he’d wanted to love you right.

You paused suddenly, studying him. “You okay? You’re kinda quiet.”

His heart jumped. He forced another smile, softer this time. “Yeah. Just tired.”

You accepted that easily. Of course you did. Then, you reached out, and squeezed his arm briefly.

The touch burned.

“Well,” you said, stepping back, still smiling, “I should get going. Mark’s waiting for me.”

Simon watched you leave, posture still relaxed, his expression still calm. He didn’t move until you were gone, until the echo of your voice faded and the space you’d occupied felt unbearably empty.

Only then did he exhale.

He told himself he was doing the right thing. That this was what loving you properly looked like. Smiling, listening, and letting you be happy with someone else.

God, what an idiot.

It had been a week, and somehow every day managed to feel worse than the one before it.

At first, Simon had told himself it was just shock, that he’d adjust, that seeing you with Mark would eventually stop feeling like someone was slowly tightening a hand around his chest.

It didn’t.

Every time he caught sight of you together, whether it was you two laughing in the hallway, walking a little too close, or with Mark’s hand briefly at your back like it belonged there, something in him sank a little deeper, until even breathing felt like effort.

By the middle of the week, he started changing his routines without really meaning to. Taking different corridors. Lingering longer in places he didn’t need to be. Leaving rooms the second he heard your voice approaching.

And you noticed, of course.

You always did.

At first, you asked around casually, like you weren’t looking for him specifically. Then you started texting, stopping by places he used to be, your eyes searching rooms before you even realized you were doing it. Simon hoped that you’d eventually get distracted, that you’d stop trying.

You didn’t.

He was alone in his office when you finally found him, sitting too still in his chair, staring at the wall, thinking about how he’d let things get this bad.

When the door opened, he didn’t have time to fix his face.

“Simon!”

He straightened automatically, as you stepped inside with that familiar energy, smiling like this was normal, like nothing had changed between you at all.

“There you are,” you said, light and teasing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Just busy,” he replied.

You didn’t press. Instead, you leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed comfortably, like this was exactly where you were meant to be. “I had the best time last night,” you said, already smiling wider. “Mark took me out after shift, and I swear, I don’t think I’ve laughed that much in ages.”

Simon felt his stomach drop slowly, but he stayed quiet.

You kept talking, words spilling out easily, telling him about the place you’d gone, the food, the jokes Mark made, how effortless it all felt, how happy you were. You sounded relaxed, just sharing something good with someone you trusted.

With him.

His hands curled slowly into fists out of habit more than anger, his gaze fixed somewhere just past you, because if he looked directly at your face for too long, he was afraid his expression would finally betray him.

You smiled at him when you finished, waiting for a response, still completely unaware of the damage you were doing.

That was when something in him finally gave.

“Love,” Simon said quietly, his voice low.

You paused, blinking at him.

“Please,” he added, barely above a breath. “Stop it.”

“Stop what, Simon?”

Your voice wasn’t sharp. It was confused in the most genuine way, brows drawing together as you looked at him like you honestly didn’t understand what he meant.

He laughed once, scrubbing a hand over his face like that might pull him back together. “Stop… torturing me,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could soften them.

You straightened a little. “What are you talking about?”

That was it. That was the moment he realized there was no graceful way out of this anymore.

Simon stood slowly, thinking if he moved too fast he’d scare you off, like he hadn’t already been scaring himself half to death for weeks. He paced once, then stopped, fingers digging into his palms as he tried to find the version of this conversation that didn’t end with everything breaking.

“I can’t listen to this,” he said finally, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “I can’t stand here and hear about how happy you are with him, what you did last night, how he makes you laugh like that, like it doesn’t rip something out of me every time you say his name.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

“I tried,” he continued, words coming faster now, years of restraint collapsing into honesty. “I swear I tried to do this the right way. I thought if I waited, if I gave you space, if I didn’t push, things would work out the way they were supposed to.”

He finally looked at you then, and there was no hiding it anymore.

“I fell in love with you the second I saw you,” he said, voice rough. “And I told myself it meant something. That it had to. That we were… meant for each other. That timing would sort itself out if I just held on long enough.”

Your lips slowly formed into a smile. Just a small, soft smile, as you were watching something inevitable finally happen.

Simon didn’t notice.

“It hurts,” he went on, hands lifting helplessly. “It hurts watching him touch you, make plans with you, live the life I kept imagining would eventually be mine. I feel like an idiot every time I tell myself to be happy for you when all I want is for you to look at me and see what I’ve been trying to give you this whole time.”

He swallowed hard. “I know it sounds insane. I know I waited too long. But I need you to know that this, I didn’t choose this. I just… woke up one day and realized everything in my life revolved around you.”

You were still smiling, and still listening.

“And seeing you with him,” Simon finished quietly, voice breaking just a bit, “feels like losing something I never even got the chance to have.”

The room went silent.

He stood there, exposed and breathing hard, waiting for the rejection he’d been rehearsing for months.

And you, still smiling at him like that, finally stepped closer.

You stared at him for half a second longer, and then you said, very clearly, “Fucking finally.”

And before Simon could even process the words, you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him as hard as you could.

It wasn’t gentle, nor it was careful. It was all teeth and breath and months of restraint snapping at once.

Simon froze.

Not because he didn’t want it, but because his brain short-circuited completely. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, eyes wide, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

You pulled back just long enough to lightly slap his cheek. “Kiss me back, you bastard.”

That did it.

Something in him finally caught up with reality, and he surged forward like he’d been released from a cage, one hand coming up to your jaw, the other at your waist as he kissed you back harder, like he was terrified you might disappear if he didn’t hold on properly.

When you broke apart, both of you breathless, your forehead rested against his.

“I was getting so tired of waiting for you to make the first move,” you said, smiling like this had been obvious the entire time. “Honestly, the others were sick of listening to me talk about you. They said you needed a… gentle push.”

Simon blinked. “The others?”

You laughed. “Mark included. He literally said—and I quote—‘If I hear you complain about Simon one more time, I’ll jump off a bridge.’”

Simon stared at you, stunned.

You grinned wider. “He offered to help. And would you look at that—” you gestured between the two of you, still way too close, still holding onto him “—it worked.”

Simon let out a shaky laugh, forehead dropping to your shoulder, something between disbelief and relief tearing through him all at once.

All that time, all that waiting, and you’d been right there, waiting too.

Simon pulled back first, mostly because he needed air and partly because his brain still hadn’t caught up with what his mouth had just been doing.

“Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “Okay. Just—give me a second.”

You laughed, breathless too, hands still fisted in his shirt. “Take all the seconds you need. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I thought you were happy with him,” he said. “You kept telling me you were.”

“No,” you said. “I lied, and I’m sorry about that. But I didn’t think you wanted anything more. You never said anything, Simon. You barely even flirted.”

He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “I was flirting constantly.”

“You were staring,” you corrected. “Intensely.”

“That was me flirting.”

“Well, it worked,” you said dryly. “I figured if you were ever going to make a move, it would be sometime in the next decade.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“You were messing it up by doing nothing.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Fair.”

You studied him for a moment, softer now. “I didn’t talk about Mark to hurt you, you know. I thought… maybe if I made it obvious that I was available, you’d finally say something.”

His eyes widened. “That was you being subtle?”

“Simon, I pretended to date another man in front of you.”

He barked out a laugh despite himself, shoulders finally dropping. “Jesus. I really am an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” you said, stepping closer again, voice quieter. “You’re just bad at risking things you care about.”

He swallowed. “So… what now?”

You shrugged, smiling, completely unbothered. “Now we stop dancing around each other. We see what this actually is. And if you disappear again—”

“I won’t,” he said immediately.

You raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t,” he repeated, clearer this time. “You have my word.”

You nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because I’m done chasing you down empty hallways.”

He smiled then, real and a little shy. “You could’ve at least knocked.”

You smiled back. “You could’ve kissed me months ago.”

He didn’t argue with that.

-----------------------------------------

When you finally spoke to him it wasn’t fate crashing into place like he’d expected. It was casual and very human.

And that terrified him.

For the first time since the moment his heart had stumbled at the sight of you, Simon wondered if wanting you wasn’t enough. If maybe being destined for someone didn’t mean owning them, but choosing them, again and again, even when they could walk away.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure whether he was more afraid of losing you…or of loving you the right way and still not being chosen.

Simon first noticed the subtle change in himself the day you leaned over the printer, squinting at the screen. You muttered something under your breath, but he couldn’t stop watching. Your hair fell over your face-, and he caught himself imagining how it would feel to brush it behind your ear for you. His chest tightened. His fingers twitched against the edge of the counter.

You didn’t notice him there. You were too busy tapping at the screen, muttering, adjusting your hair, completely unaware that somewhere in the corner of the office, Simon Riley was quietly rewriting the meaning of his existence.

When you finally straightened, you smiled at someone else across the room and Simon felt like he got stabbed with a knife. He told himself he was fine. He wasn’t.

Later that week, you were in the kitchen making tea. He leaned against the doorway, waiting for the coffee machine, but really, just wanting to watch you move. You hummed a little song, a tune he didn’t know but felt familiar somehow, and he froze mid-step. The way you reached for the sugar, the way your fingers lingered on the jar for just a moment too long, it was nothing, and yet everything.

“Want some?” you asked, holding out a cup toward him without thinking.

Simon’s chest stuttered. “Uh… sure,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You smiled, bright and innocent, and he had to close his eyes for a second to stop the world from spinning. He could feel your warmth through the paper cup. That was all, just warmth. But it was devastating. He swallowed, forced a smile, and muttered, “Thanks.”

And then you were gone, leaving him with the ghost of your presence, a laugh echoing in his chest.

One evening, you ended up outside on the steps, just after a long day. You didn’t even realize you’d chosen to sit next to him, and yet there he was, shoulder brushing yours. The air was cool, biting slightly at your cheeks, and you blew out a breath that drifted over him. He wanted to reach out, touch your hair, hold your hand…but didn’t. He never would… not yet.

“Long day,” you said, voice soft.

Simon nodded. “Yeah.”

You didn’t look at him, just tilted your face toward the sky, letting the faint glow of the streetlight illuminate your profile. “Do you ever feel like time’s moving wrong?” you asked. “Like you’re either too early or too late for everything?”

He swallowed hard, words thick in his throat. All the carefully rehearsed lines he’d written in his head evaporated. “All the time,” he said finally, before he could stop himself.

You hummed thoughtfully, and nudged your knee against his lightly. It was accidental, but he felt it as though you had pressed straight into his ribcage. He froze, trying to control the hammering in his chest, the way every instinct in his body screamed to lean in, to hold that space with you. But he didn’t. He just stayed still, and let you be.

Because loving you wasn’t about forcing you into his world. It was about choosing restraint, over and over, even when it burned.

Simon memorized everything. The little things nobody noticed. The way your eyebrows knitted when you concentrated, the faint crease in your smile when you laughed too hard, and he stored them in his heart, as his precious little secret.

And you, completely oblivious, moved through life like a sunbeam, unaware of how close you were to someone who had fallen utterly, irrevocably for you.

…

Simon woke one morning already exhausted, though he hadn’t moved from his bed. He’d been replaying yesterday’s and how he’d nearly told you how he felt in the kitchen, how the words had fizzled into nothing.

He told himself he could do it today. Today would be different. He’d walk up to you in the hall, lean against the doorway, maybe brush some hair from your face, and just say it. That was all. Simple.

By the time he saw you, leaning against the lockers, hair half-falling over your face as you read something on your phone, his plan was already trembling in his hands. His throat felt thick. His palms were sweaty, and his heart kept hammering like it wanted to escape.

“Hey,” he said instead.

You looked up, smiled, completely unaware. “Hey!” Your eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and bright, and Simon felt his courage crumble. Words were stuck in his chest. He opened his mouth again, tried to start over.

Then someone called your name from the other side of the hallway. You waved and walked toward them, and Simon just… watched.

Lunch was worse. You were sitting outside with your usual group, laughing at something dumb, hair falling in soft waves across your shoulders. Simon had been building up to this all morning, imagining walking up, sitting beside you, leaning just close enough to brush your hand as he spoke.

But every time he took a step forward, a new wave of fear hit. What if you laughed? What if it changed everything? What if you didn’t feel the same way?

So he stayed back. He leaned against the wall, pretending to scroll on his phone, every instinct screaming at him to just say it. To reach out. To tell you he had wanted you from the very first moment he saw you. But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched you. Memorized the way your eyebrows lifted when you laughed, how your eyes crinkled at the corners, how your shoulder brushed your friend’s for just a second.

Later, walking back from the cafeteria, Simon almost did it again. You were joking with him now, leaning close enough that your hair brushed his shoulder. Perfect timing, perfect light, perfect quiet. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing into his chest.

“Can I…” he started, words choking off before they could form.

You tilted your head, waiting for him to continue and Simon—stupid, terrified, human Simon—looked down at his shoes and mumbled about the weather instead.

You laughed at his ridiculous comment, your eyes sparkling. He forced a smile back, heart breaking in a slow, painful rhythm.

By evening, Simon was pacing in his room, running his hands through his hair, muttering to himself. Okay. I’ll text them. No, wait. I’ll wait for tomorrow. No, now. No—what if I ruin it? What if I scare them off?

He sank onto the bed, head in his hands, trying to make sense of the fire in his chest. Wanting you wasn’t enough. Waiting wasn’t enough. Saying the words might be worse. And yet, the thought of another day of just watching, memorizing, aching silently… it was unbearable.

Simon realized, finally, that he wasn’t just scared of being rejected. He was scared of the possibility that loving you the right way might not be enough to make you stay. That maybe, after all this, you could still walk away.

And so he waited. Again. And memorized. Again. And hoped. Quietly, desperately, painfully. Again

Because loving you was terrifying, but not loving you… God that was impossible.

…

Simon leaned against the railing of the stairwell, hands gripping the cold metal, heart hammering so loudly he was sure you could hear it if you were close enough. He had rehearsed this moment in his head for weeks. Every word. Every pause. Every little breath between syllables. Tonight, he told himself, he was finally going to say it.

You appeared at the top of the stairs, humming softly to yourself, completely unaware of the war waging inside him. You spotted him and smiled, a small, careless thing that made Simon’s chest both ache and skip.

“Hey,” you said, stepping closer. “Everything okay?”

Simon nodded, though his stomach was twisting into knots. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to finally say it.

“I… I need to tell you something,” he began, voice low and steady. His heart surged, pounding so hard he thought it might give him away.

But before he could continue, you grinned and practically bounced on your toes. “Oh! I wanted to tell you! I’m so excited! Mark asked me to grab dinner tonight! I can’t believe it; I’ve been talking about that place forever!”

The words hit Simon like a bucket of ice water. His chest went tight. The syllables he had lined up perfectly, the truth he had been holding for months, evaporated in an instant.

“That’s… great,” he said, voice tighter than he intended, forcing a small smile. His hands itched to reach out, to stop your happiness from hitting him like this, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

You laughed, talking about the menu, the dress you wanted to wear, the joke Mark had made earlier. Simon nodded and smiled along, but inside, it was like someone had hollowed him out. The courage, the words, the vulnerability, they were all gone, buried under the weight of your excitement for someone else.

He wanted to say wait, don’t go, I need you to hear me—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stayed there, shoulders slumping, staring at the stairwell floor as your voice bounced off the walls and left him feeling smaller than ever.

When you finally turned to leave, he whispered your name, but you were already gone, leaving only the echo of laughter, of hope, and the brutal knowledge that sometimes wanting someone with every part of yourself still wasn’t enough.

Simon pressed his forehead against the railing, letting out a shaky breath. Tonight, he had come close. Tonight, he had almost had it.

And tonight, it had all slipped through his fingers.

PART 2

-------------------------------------------

don't hate me pls

“Here,” he said simply, and dropped it onto your lap.

You stared at it. You stared at him. “Simon, you don’t have to—”

He just gave you that look, the one that was somewhere between don’t argue with me and you’re freezing and it’s annoying me, but softened around the edges in a way he probably didn’t even realize.

“You’re cold,” he said. “Put it on.”

And honestly, your heart did this stupid little skip because the hoodie was large and soft and heavy in that comforting way, and it smelled like him. Not overwhelmingly, but enough that when you pulled it over your head, it felt like being wrapped in something safe and warm.

You tucked your hands into the sleeves, which were so long they covered your fingers, and tried not to think about how ridiculously nice it felt. Or how your stomach fluttered when Simon’s eyes lingered on you for a second before he went back to his seat.

The rest of the night went on like normal, but you were hyperaware of the hoodie. How warm it was. How good it smelled. How every now and then Simon’s gaze flicked in your direction, like he was checking on you but trying not to make it obvious. It made your face warm in a way you couldn’t explain.

By the time the night wound down and everyone started heading out, you were so wrapped up in comfort that you didn’t even think to take the hoodie off. It was late, you were tired, and in your mind, you figured you’d just hand it back next time.

Except when you walked toward the door, Simon didn’t say anything. He didn’t clear his throat or gesture or raise an eyebrow or do anything that indicated, hey, that’s mine.

He just stood there in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a gentle expression.

“Night,” he said.

You swallowed. “Night.”

And that was it.

No mention of the hoodie. No teasing. Nothing.

He let you walk out with it still on.

And that was very, very dangerous for your heart.

The group chat was already buzzing before you even woke up, full of Soap’s terrible jokes and Gaz’s reactions and Price pretending to be disappointed in all of you like he wasn’t the biggest menace of them all.

Still half-asleep, you snapped a photo of your morning coffee because the foam had made this accidental little heart shape and you thought it was cute enough to share. So you tossed it in the chat with a quick morning, and didn’t think twice about it.

Until your brain finally woke up.

Until you actually looked at the picture you’d sent.

And there it was in the bottom left corner, part of your arm. Just the sleeve, but you knew it, and Simon definitely knew it.

You were still wearing his hoodie.

Others didn’t notice, obviously. Soap immediately commented about how your coffee art looked better than anything he could ever make.

But Simon… didn’t type anything. Not a single word. Which was somehow worse in your head.

Because miles away, in his own kitchen, he had his phone in his hand, staring at the picture longer than he should have. And once he spotted the sleeve, he didn’t look at the coffee again.

You kept it.

Not just shoved it in a drawer somewhere, no, you were wearing it. In your home. On a random morning. As if it belonged to you now.

Something warm and stupid and incredibly inconvenient bloomed in his chest at the thought.

A few days later, you were not expecting company at all. You were fully settled into your evening, wearing the hoodie again (because at this point it was basically a second skin), hair a little messy, feet bare, completely unprepared for the outside world.

You’d left a message earlier in the day asking if anyone had seen the flash drive you’d forgotten, but you hadn’t gotten an answer yet, so you figured you’d pick it up tomorrow.

Then your doorbell rang.

As you went to open the door expecting maybe a neighbor, maybe a package, maybe someone trying to sell you something, you were shocked to see him standing on the other side of the door.

Standing there while holding the flash drive between his fingers.

Your stomach dropped in the most embarrassing way.

“Oh— hi. I— I didn’t know you were coming by,” you said, trying not to choke on your words.

Simon lifted the drive slightly. “Found this at work. Thought you might need it.”

You blinked and realized, with absolute horror, that you were wearing the hoodie again.

And when Simon’s eyes lowered taking in what you were wearing, you felt your face go hot.

He raised one eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth pulled upward in this slow, knowing smirk that made your knees feel weak.

“You ever gonna give that back?” he asked, voice a little too smooth for your sanity.

You were absolutely caught now, with no escape, and nowhere to hide.

You tugged at the hem of the hoodie and looked away, cheeks burning. “Um… no.”

His smirk deepened like he’d just found his new favorite thing in the world.

“No?” he repeated, stepping forward just enough that you instinctively stepped backward, your heartbeat picking up speed.

He took another slow step, like he was giving you every chance to run even though he knew you wouldn’t.

“And why not?” he asked, voice low and warm in a way that made your stomach flutter.

You fidgeted with the sleeve, unable to look directly at him. “Because… it smells like you.”

It came out soft, almost embarrassed.

Simon froze for a second, but not in a bad way, just this sort of stunned stillness, as if the words hit deeper than you meant them to. His expression softened in a way that made your heart trip over itself.

“It smells like me,” he repeated slowly, like he was turning the thought over carefully.

You nodded.

He took one more step, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, as he murmured, “You could’ve just told me you wanted it.”

You swallowed, feeling ridiculous and very seen. “I didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“Love,” he said gently, tilting your head so he could meet your eyes, “the only weird thing is that you thought I wouldn’t like it.”

Your breath caught, because that sounded… that sounded like something else. Something almost too good to be real.

He lifted his other hand, hesitating for a moment, then touched your waist softly and leaned in just enough that your foreheads brushed.

You tugged nervously at the sleeve of the hoodie, avoiding his gaze, your cheeks burning like a stupid teenager caught doing something embarrassing.

Simon leaned just a fraction closer, that familiar teasing glint in his eyes softened. “You can keep it,” he murmured, “but only if I get to keep something of yours too.”

Your brows shot up. “And what would that be?” you asked, heart suddenly racing, voice quieter than you intended.

He smirked just a little, with a smirk that made it impossible to look away, and his tone dropped to a teasing whisper. “Your heart,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been holding the words in for far too long.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the fabric, breath catching. “You… what?”

“Your heart,” he repeated. “Please don’t make me repeat myself, I’m really bad at this.” He adds with a chuckle.

A mix of shock and heat flooded you, and then a small laugh escaped, soft and breathless. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, though your smile betrayed you, tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Maybe,” he said, “but I’m serious.”

“…Then stay,” you whispered.

A small, warm smile appeared on his lips.

“Didn’t think I’d hear you say that,” he said quietly.

He stepped inside, brushing against you gently as you closed the door behind him, and when his fingers found yours, you didn’t let go.

You glanced down at the hoodie one more time, smelling him again, and felt your heart skip as you followed him inside.

-----------------------------------------

“He shoved me into a cleaning cart!” you said, gesturing wildly, like Price hadn’t understood the full gravity of the situation. “A rolling cleaning cart. And then I spilled my entire cup of coffee, Price, on my new uniform. My new one.”

Ghost shifted slightly, and you whipped your head toward him.

Price sighed long and slow, rubbing his eyes. “Ghost?”

“I genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about,” Simon said in that low, intentionally calm voice he used when he wanted to annoy you even further. “She tripped.”

Your jaw dropped. “I did not trip!”

“This is a pattern,” Simon added. “She trips a lot.”

“Ghost— I swear—”

Price slammed a hand on his desk. “Both of you. Stop.”

You both clamped your mouths shut.

Price leaned forward, voice strained. “You are grown adults. You are highly trained, highly paid professionals. And yet every time I see you two, I lose one year off my life.”

“That seems dramatic—” you muttered.

Price pointed at you in warning. “You’re partners on the next mission. You will get along. I don’t care how. Figure it out.”

Ghost huffed. “Sir, partnering me with her is a mistake. She’s impulsive. And she kicks the back of the chair in the transport.”

You spun toward him. “I kicked it once because you wouldn’t stop changing the damn radio station!”

Price pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it looked like he might break it. “Get out. Before I reassign both of you to laundry duty.”

You stomped out, and Simon followed. The door slammed shut behind you both.

And Price stared at it like he was seriously considering early retirement.

The next morning, you screamed so loudly that two recruits dropped their trays in the mess hall.

The water was freezing. Not cold, not chilly, arctic.

“Oh my god—Ghost—” you shouted into the empty showers, shivering so hard your teeth clicked.

Because no one else on base would sabotage the water line, only your stall lost hot water.

By the time you toweled off, threw on your clothes, and stormed through the hallway still dripping, you were running on pure rage.

You found Simon exactly where you expected him to be, sitting at a steel desk in the comms room, looking calm and comfortable, headset tilted back around his neck, and a steaming mug of coffee right beside him.

You slammed your hand onto the desk with the force of someone who had lost all restraint.

He actually flinched, a tiny one, but enough to make you feel victorious. He looked up at you with innocence.

“Morning,” he said.

“You’re a monster,” you snapped. “You’re a full-grown monster.”

“Bit early to be dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You froze my shower!”

He lifted his mug to his masked mouth. “Hmm. Sounds unfortunate.”

You paused, staring at the steam rising from his cup.

And then you simply reached out and pushed the entire mug into his lap.

The scalding liquid spilled across his thighs. He stood up sharply, grabbing at his clothes, letting out a hiss through his teeth.

You smiled sweetly. “Oh no. How clumsy of you.”

His head snapped up, and even through the mask you could feel the glare.

“That was a mistake,” he growled.

You took a small step back, just out of reach. “I’ll survive.”

He took a threatening step forward.

You bolted.

But he didn’t chase, which meant he was planning something worse.

And you were absolutely right.

Later, as you slung your rucksack over your shoulder, a sudden sense of wrongness hit you. Something felt… off. Too heavy. Like, way too heavy.

Your brow furrowed as you shifted it from one shoulder to the other, trying to gauge what exactly had gone wrong, because you definitely hadn’t packed it that way.

With a growl of frustration, you unzipped the main compartment, fully expecting to see your neatly stacked gear—medkit, magazines, rations, everything exactly where it belonged. Instead, your eyes fell on a chaotic mass of… rocks. Rocks. Dozens of them, varying sizes, but all dense, smooth stones that weighed far more than your kit should have.

They weren’t just random, either. You could tell some had been carefully selected to match the weight of the items they’d replaced. Every muscle in your body tensed, a mixture of disbelief, fury, and begrudging admiration for the sheer audacity of the act. How did he even have the time for this level of petty, ridiculous, infuriating thing?

“Looking for something?” The voice was that perfect combination of casual and infuriating, and when you spun around, there he was. Leaning against the vehicle, one boot casually crossed over the other, adjusting your own combat knife on his vest as if it were his, a smirk clearly audible in his stance even if his face remained obscured by that stupid skull mask.

“Ghost,” you said, your voice shaking slightly with a mixture of rage and disbelief, “Where. Is. My. Gear.”

“In my locker,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have your carefully packed equipment in his possession. “Wouldn’t want you slowing us down.”

“You—” You opened your mouth to scream, to demand the universe deliver some sort of justice, but he cut you off.

“No time,” he said lightly, tossing your communicator back at you with a flick of his wrist. “Move.”

You didn’t even hesitate. You grabbed your rucksack and hoisted it over your shoulder, practically fumbling to secure the straps because adrenaline had decided to make your hands clumsy.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.

He glanced at you, eyes sharp, and tilted his head ever so slightly, like he was silently mocking you without moving a muscle. You wanted to punch him. But you also wanted to shove him into a wall and make him apologize, which was probably even worse for your dignity.

The walk to the extraction vehicle was painfully slow, despite the fact that you were practically vibrating with irritation and adrenaline. Every time your shoulder brushed against him, every time his arm flicked lazily in your peripheral vision, it felt like an additional insult, a reminder of the perfect chaos he loved to create just for the sake of seeing you lose your mind.

By the time you both climbed into the transport later, fully packed and mission-ready, you realized something absurd—the mission itself went smoothly. Maybe it was the tight schedule, maybe it was pure luck, but somehow, despite your mutual animosity and the tension that practically crackled in the air every time you looked at him, nothing went wrong. Not a single mishap.

Mostly because you barely looked at each other.

Mostly.

But the tension was still there. A low hum under everything, the way he adjusted his vest just a little too slowly, the way you gritted your teeth when he passed the radio to you without a word. Every minor movement, every glance, every slight sound was loaded. And both of you knew it.

Somewhere deep down, both of you also knew that the chaos wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

A week later, you were all relaxing in a small common area, unwinding after a successful, though incredibly tense, assignment. The room was stuffy and smelled like old military rations and cleaning supplies.

You were currently recounting a dangerous situation where Simon had, seemingly on purpose, aimed his headlamp directly at your face while you were trying to aim at a target.

“And then he just said, ‘My bad,’ and acted like nothing happened! It almost messed up the entire operation!” you finished, throwing your hands up in complete exasperation.

“It was a smart way to redirect attention,” Ghost argued calmly, leaning back and sipping a glass of whiskey. “The target was looking at her, not at the objective.”

“I became the target! You used me as a human shield with a flashlight!”

Soap, who had been quietly cleaning his pistol and listening to the latest episode of the You vs. Ghost rivalry, snapped his gun closed and placed it down loudly.

He looked from you to Simon, then back, his expression deeply serious.

“Right. I’ve heard enough of this garbage,” Soap declared. He rested his forearms on the table. “Look, I have the only real solution to this never-ending drama.”

You and Ghost both stared at him, perhaps secretly hoping for a legitimate, useful suggestion.

Soap leaned in, lowering his voice slightly but making sure everyone heard. “You two just need to fuck.”

The silence that followed was instant and absolute.

You gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

Simon’s head shot up. The sheer shock, despite the balaclava, was evident in his posture. “MacTavish, what exactly did you just propose?”

“You heard me! You are both so focused on each other, always fighting and creating chaos!” Soap gestured dramatically between the two of you. “The sexual tension between you is so thick it could cut glass. Just do it! Get it out of your systems! It'll be over quickly, hopefully messy, and then we can finally get back to being a normal, functioning team!”

You shot out of your chair. “That is the most ridiculous, insulting, and stupid suggestion I have ever heard! We despise each other, Soap! With genuine passion! We can barely share oxygen without causing a scene!”

“I would prefer a swift death, MacTavish,” Ghost stated, his voice a low, threatening sound. He stood up, towering over Soap. “Do not repeat that suggestion.”

“See! This is exactly what I mean!” Soap threw his hands up in frustration. “You’re yelling! You’re both yelling at me! This is not just simple hatred! This is pent-up, ridiculous frustration that only has one outlet! I’m telling you, it’s the only way to defuse this walking time bomb of a partnership!”

You stamped your foot. “It’s hatred, you idiot! He’s a cold, annoying, mask-wearing weirdo who actively tries to ruin my life! And you think we should—” You shivered dramatically at the thought.

“Just think about it,” Soap insisted, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’ll be thanking me eventually.”

The moment Soap left the lounge, muttering something about needing a fresh beer and a new pair of earplugs, the tension that remained between you and Simon was heavier than ever. The space felt suddenly cramped.

You immediately busied yourself gathering your things, refusing to look at the masked giant still standing across the room.

“Don’t—” Simon’s low voice cut through the quiet.

“Don’t what?” you snapped, quickly swinging your rucksack onto your shoulder.

“Don’t think about what he said,” he finished, his voice rough.

You scoffed, trying to sound completely unaffected. “Please. As if I would waste brainpower on Soap’s incredibly disgusting suggestion. I’m thinking about the mission debriefing, Lieutenant. Unlike some people, I take my job seriously.”

“Of course,” he murmured, though he didn't move. You knew he didn't believe you. How could you be thinking about the debriefing when all you could picture was Soap’s stupid, grinning face and his ridiculous, simple 'solution'?

You finally risked a quick glance at him. He was still standing over the abandoned table, his focus seemingly on the wet ring left by his glass. Even though his face was covered, you could feel the intensity of his stillness. He was definitely thinking about it, too.

“We are professionals,” you declared, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

“We are,” he agreed instantly. “Now go. I don’t want to see your face until the next mandatory meeting.”

You didn't need telling twice. You practically ran out of the room, desperate to escape the shared, uncomfortable silence.

For two weeks, the base enjoyed a fragile peace. You and Simon were cold, distant, and intensely professional. The tension had vanished, replaced by an uneasy, yet effective, mutual avoidance. Price was thrilled, and Soap and Gaz, though confused by the sudden change, were merely relieved.

The breaking point arrived during a late-night planning session in a small, windowless briefing room. The mission required one of you to act as a distraction while the other executed the main objective, and neither of you trusted the other to handle the critical role.

It all started with an argument. Of course it did.

You were standing over the briefing table, leaning on it with one hand, pointing a finger at the map with the other, trying to ground yourself in logic while every nerve in your body screamed at you to throw logic out the window.

“You can’t do the distraction,” you snapped, voice tighter than you intended. “You’re too loud. You stomp. You draw attention!”

“I do not stomp,” he said, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed.

“You stomp like a dinosaur,” you shot back, eyes narrowing.

“You have no subtlety,” he countered smoothly.

“Excuse me—”

“You overcomplicate every op because you want to show off,” he continued.

“Oh, you’re one to talk—” you interrupted, gesturing wildly, the heat rising in your cheeks.

“You’re predictable,” he said, stepping closer without moving a muscle. His voice dropped so low that it made your stomach clench. “Especially when you’re angry.”

You froze. “…What is that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced down at your feet, then back up with a tilt of his head. “You step closer. Every time.”

Your chest thumped painfully. That realization hit harder than any insult, because it was true. Every argument, every flare of temper, every word spat at him had brought you closer physically, drawn in by some magnetic pull you refused to acknowledge.

Your voice came out tight, barely restrained. “You drive me insane.”

“Good,” he muttered, and you caught that low, dangerous edge in his tone, the one that promised trouble. “Because you—”

You never found out the end of that sentence.

Because Simon moved.

Just a slow step forward that obliterated the small, painstaking distance between you, forcing you back against the edge of the table. And then his hand came up to your jaw, firm, gloved fingers curling around it, tilting your head up, claiming the space like he had a right to it.

And then he kissed you.

Hard and sharp. Like punishment and promise rolled into one.

Your first instinct was to push, to shove, to scream, but your body betrayed you completely. Your hands fisted in his vest, clutching at anything solid, anything tangible, because your balance wobbled as your pulse spiked.

He pressed you backward, and suddenly the briefing table wasn’t a piece of furniture—it was a battlefield. Papers scattered, pens rolled across the floor.

“Ghost—” you tried to speak, your voice cracking in frustration and want, but he cut you off with another, deeper, rougher kiss. His hand moved to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you flush against him, hungry and relentless.

“Should’ve shut you up like this ages ago,” he murmured against your mouth, breath uneven, the words vibrating through you in a way that made your knees threaten to buckle.

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasped, heart hammering, breath jagged.

His mouth ghosted down your jaw, brushing the side of your neck with an almost cruel tenderness. “Say it again,” he demanded, the sharpness in his voice matched by the rough press of his body against yours.

“You’re an—”

He kissed you again before you could finish, chaotic and consuming, and the rest of your sentence vanished into the heat between you.

You grabbed at his vest, dragging him closer, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist to anchor yourself as if he might disappear if you let go. He inhaled sharply, a breath against your neck that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“God, you’re a menace,” he growled, voice low and ragged. “Every damn day.”

“Then stop wanting me,” you whispered back, breath hitching, words spilling out with a mix of exasperation and desperate need.

His grip tightened around your waist, and you felt the weight of him pressing you into the table. “Impossible,” he said, voice rough, controlled yet barely holding back, like he was teetering on the edge himself.

You didn’t notice when your shirt shifted, when his hands slid under the fabric, warm, rough, searching, moving as though memorizing the planes of your body in the chaos. One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other held your waist, keeping you trapped and entirely his.

“Still hate me?” he asked, barely audible over the rapid pounding of your heart.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“No, you don’t,” he countered, voice teasing.

“I do.”

“Liar,” he whispered against your skin, lips brushing your jaw.

And then everything dissolved.

Heat, motion, chaos, tangled limbs, rough kisses, whispered insults that sounded dangerously like confessions, all of it blending together until the table creaked alarmingly beneath your combined weight. You were both moving too fast and too slow at the same time, every touch, every press, every breath fueling the impossible intensity between you.

He pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, and for a fraction of a second, the world outside that room ceased to exist. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to—”

You yanked him down for another kiss, silencing him, teeth and lips colliding, nails digging into his vest. “Shut up. Shut up and—”

He didn’t let you finish.

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him flush against you, and he let out a sharp, ragged breath that hit your neck and made your stomach twist.

“Every damn day,” he murmured against your skin again.

The next moments were chaotic, yes, but it wasn’t just physical. Every brush of skin against skin, every groan, every impatient, whispered insult, carried the weight of two weeks of tension, of two people who had circled each other, baited each other, and finally snapped.

It was clumsy, frantic, and desperate, a storm of desire and irritation that left you both breathless, hearts hammering, hands moving without thought, and minds a messy blur of want, hate, and confusion.

When it finally slowed, you were still pressed together, sweaty, panting, clothes in disarray, hair sticking to your skin, papers scattered like evidence of your collision.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of your combined breathing and the tiny creaks of the table under your weight. And even then, even as you tried to untangle yourself, even as your chest heaved and your hands fisted, you knew one truth: nothing would ever feel quite the same again.

Moments later, you stayed exactly where you were, shoulders pressed into the edge of the table, lungs heaving, mind buzzing like a live wire. Your fingers itched to smooth down your shirt, though it was hopeless; your hair stuck to your forehead and neck, damp and wild, and you could still feel the heat of him against your skin like a lingering ghost.

Simon braced his hands on either side of you, leaning forward slightly, head lowered, his breathing was uneven, and there was a tension in the set of his shoulders that betrayed the calm composure he tried so hard to project. He finally straightened slowly, adjusting his vest with precision, as if that motion alone could convince anyone that everything was under control.

He wasn’t.

“Feel better now?” he asked, voice low, as if he was trying not to sound like he’d been just as undone as you were.

You shifted on the table, wincing at the soreness in your shoulders and the way your thighs ached from the awkward angles you’d been pressed into. “I hate how much I do,” you admitted, voice tight, and slightly breathless, because saying it aloud made it real in a terrifying way.

He adjusted his mask back into place, the familiar gesture oddly formal after everything that had just happened. “Operational necessity,” he said softly, almost muttering, “Apparently.”

You swung your legs off the table and landed on the floor with a dull thump, brushing off the dust that wasn’t really there, straightening your shirt the best you could. “So… what? Are we talking about a standing appointment?” you asked, teasingly.

His eyes flicked up to yours, but with something behind them you hadn’t seen before, a shadow of amusement. “Every week,” he said, as if it were already a rule, non-negotiable, like it was a mission order rather than a conversation. “Mandatory.”

You smirked, despite yourself, feeling the corners of your mouth twitch into a reluctant grin. “For the good of the team, then?”

“For the good of the team,” he echoed, the words carrying a softness, a subtle warmth that made your stomach twist unexpectedly.

Silence stretched between you as you both crouched to pick up the scattered mission papers, bending over awkwardly, your hands brushing once, twice, accidentally lingering just a fraction too long. Both of you pretended not to notice, but the warmth clung to you in every tiny touch, impossible to ignore.

The room looked like a tornado had hit it, but it didn’t matter.

Neither of you was intact either.

For the first time in months, in weeks, maybe even years, it felt like you could finally, truly breathe.

A few hours later, you were sitting at your desk, absently straightening scattered mission papers, when your phone buzzed. You glanced at it, expecting another routine update from command, and froze.

A message from Soap.

See? I knew it would help😏

You hate that he was right.

-------------------------------------------

You step forward and throw the first jab. He blocks it with ease, but the movement is too hard and forceful, like he’s trying to spend anger he doesn’t want you to see. The second you regain your footing, he’s already coming at you with a quick combination and is more aggressive than usual, pushing you back instead of testing you.

“Jesus, Simon,” you mutter, dodging a swing that whistles past your ear. “Did someone piss you off?”

“Focus.” Again. One damn word.

You narrow your eyes and counter, landing a hit on his rib that should’ve earned at least a grunt, but he barely reacts. Instead, he steps in close, forcing you to move back until your spine almost touches the wall.

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” You push, your breath quickening as you slip under his arm and pivot behind him.

“Not in a mood,” he growls, and your skin prickles at the sound. That makes four words, which means he’s practically giving you a speech by his standards, but he’s still not telling you a thing.

You press forward, refusing to let him shut you out. You jab again, testing him, provoking him. “Simon, talk to me. You’re being—”

He grabs your wrist mid-sentence, twists with controlled precision, and in one impossible movement he hooks his leg behind yours, sweeps, and slams you onto the mat with a thud.

Before you can even process it, he follows you down, pinning you completely, his weight heavy across your hips, his hands trapping your wrists above your head. His breath is harsh, uneven, ghosting across your cheek. His mask is inches from your face, close enough that you can smell his aftershave and the warm, faint scent of soap clinging to him.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t finish the spar. Doesn’t release you.

He just freezes.

And so do you.

Your chest rises against his. His thighs tighten around yours. His grip on your wrists isn’t painful, but it’s firm enough that you feel the tremble running through his arms.

You swallow, voice quieter now. “Simon… tell me what’s wrong.”

For the first time all evening, his eyes finally meet yours. There’s something possessive and vulnerable in them, tangled together so tightly you can barely tell where one ends and the other begins.

His jaw works once, twice, and when he speaks, his voice is low and honest in a way that startles you.

“You let him touch you.”

“What?”

He doesn’t look away. If anything, he leans closer. “I saw him. That little shit put his hand on your arm like he had the right.”

You blink, realization flooding through you immediately. “Simon…”

But he isn’t finished.

“You laughed,” he adds, this time a bit softer. “He touched you, and you laughed.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, because suddenly everything makes sense: his silence, his sharpness, and the way he’s been holding himself back.

“Simon,” you whisper again, lips brushing the bottom edge of his mask. “Why do you care?”

He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a curse. His hold on your wrists tightens, and his forehead presses gently against yours like he’s losing the battle he’s been fighting all night.

“You know exactly why I care.”

The words settle between your bodies, impossible to ignore.

Your pulse thrums wildly as he shifts, lowering his weight just enough that you can feel every inch of him pressed against you, strong, warm, and trembling with restraint he’s rapidly losing.

“Then say it,” you breathe. “Say it, Simon.”

His thumb brushes your wrist, sending heat spiraling through you. “If I say it,” he mutters, “I’m not takin’ it back.”

“Good,” you whisper. “I don’t want you to take it back.”

His head tilts, just slightly. Just enough that the fabric of his mask grazes your cheek. His nose touches yours.

There’s a moment where he hesitates, giving you one last chance to stop this.

But you don’t.

Your fingers curl against his hold, not to escape, but to pull him closer.

And that’s all it takes.

Simon’s grip loosens only so he can cup your face with both hands, palms warm and rough against your cheeks, and then his mask is lifted just enough for his mouth to finally crash against yours.

The kiss is not soft. It’s not patient. It’s years of restrained wanting breaking open at once. His lips claim yours with desperation, like he’s been starved for this and he’s terrified it’ll be taken away.

You kiss him back with equal hunger, arching into him as his body presses you deeper into the mat. His hands slide into your hair, holding you exactly where he wants you, thumbs stroking your jaw. Every breath you take is him. Every sound you make is swallowed by his mouth.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes are blown wide, pupils dark and dilated.

He drags his thumb over your lower lip, voice ragged. “No one touches you,” he murmurs. “Not like this. Only me.”

Your reply is a breathless smile as you tug him back down. “Then don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

---------------------------------------

You’d been dropped off at a safe house in the middle of nowhere, barely four walls and a roof, and the air inside was colder than it was outside. The power was out, the heating was dead, and the only thing you could see through your breath was one worn-out bed shoved against the wall. It was supposed to be a short stop, a few hours, some rest, and then extraction in the morning. But hours were slow in a place like this, and the cold crept in fast.

He didn’t say much when you both realized what it meant. Just that quiet, resigned look before he muttered something like, “Ain’t exactly luxury, is it?” and set his gear down near the door. You tried to laugh it off, tried to sound normal when you said you’d take the floor, but he wasn’t having it.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, already pulling off his gloves. “You’ll freeze.”

You wanted to argue, but you were already shaking. So you nodded, pretending it didn’t mean anything when he climbed in first and lifted the blanket like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

You lay there stiffly at first, both of you on your sides, a wide strip of cold air between your bodies. The bed creaked every time one of you shifted, and the silence started to feel worse than the dark. You could hear him breathing, and you tried not to think about how close that sound was.

Then he moved, his low voice cutting through the quiet.

“Come here,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You hesitated for a second, your mind telling you no, but your body already sliding closer, until your back brushed against his chest and the heat that hit you made your pulse jump. He adjusted behind you slowly, until his arm came around your waist. The fabric of his shirt brushed your skin, and it was ridiculous how good it felt, how easy it was to forget you were supposed to be just teammates.

You told yourself it was just to stay warm, that this was just practical, nothing else. But then he exhaled against your neck, the air hot and uneven, and you felt it, the hard press of his dick, unmistakable even through the layers between you, and your breath caught before you could stop it.

For a while, neither of you moves. You stay still, trying to pretend it’s fine, that it’s just about keeping warm. His arm is heavy around your waist, and the sound of his breathing brushes over the back of your neck, feeling a bit too intimate.

You tell yourself to sleep, to think of anything else, but your body’s too aware of every small thing, of the way his chest rises against your back, the warmth of his hand where his glove used to be, his thumb resting just under your ribs, unmoving but there. It feels safe, but it also feels like something you shouldn’t want this much.

You shift just slightly, barely more than a breath, trying to get comfortable, and that’s when you hear it. The sharp inhale behind you, breaking the rhythm of his breathing. His body tenses, and you don’t have to look to know what it means.

For a second, you both freeze. His grip tightens a little at your waist, not enough to pull you closer but enough that you feel the tremor in his fingers. Neither of you says anything.

Then, softer than a whisper: “Don’t move,” he murmurs.

You stay still, but your pulse won’t. His breath lands against your skin again, heavier this time, and when he exhales, it sounds like he’s trying to swallow something down. The silence stretches thin until it almost hurts, and your body betrays you with another small shift, this time slower. You don’t even mean to. You just need to feel him again, to make sure you didn’t imagine that sound.

He inhales sharply again, and this time, his hand moves. His fingers flex against your stomach, holding you there, close enough that you can feel his heart hammering through his chest. You can tell he’s fighting it, that voice in his head probably telling him to stop, to keep it professional, to not cross the line you’ve both walked around for years.

But he doesn’t move away.

His nose brushes the back of your neck, the smallest touch, and your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You arch back just slightly, your hips brushing his, and he lets out a sound.

His hand slides higher, his palm careful, and you can hear how his breathing’s changed, with each exhale landing against your skin like it’s burning him to hold back. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, almost broken.

“You keep doing that,” he mutters, voice low near your ear, “and I won’t stop this time.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t move away either. The line that used to be there between you is gone, and maybe it’s been gone for a long time, and you’re only just admitting it now. He shifts behind you, closer, his body pressed to yours in a way that leaves no space for pretending anymore.

The bed creaks as he tightens his arm around you, his hand flattening against your stomach, holding you in place. You can feel the tension running through him, the kind that has nothing to do with the cold anymore.

And then, slowly, you turn your head, just enough that your cheek grazes his face, and he doesn’t pull back. He stays there, close enough that you can feel the words before he says them.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

But you don’t.

You just breathe his name, quiet and shaky, and that’s all it takes. His arm flexes, pulling you back against him fully, and all that tension that’s been building for years finally snaps, the air between you breaking open into something hot and desperate and way past the point of denial.

When his mouth finally found yours, it was savage, not gentle, with a rush of cold air and warm breath and the taste of the field, of dust and mint and something else that was just him. It wasn't the tentative kiss of a first date, but a demand, a release, the culmination of years of suppressed glances and close calls.

You met the intensity, turning fully in his embrace, your legs tangling instantly beneath the thin blanket. The cold was still there, but it was miles away now, a faint hum around the edges of the heat radiating off his body, the heat of his desire, of his shock at finally giving in. His arms, always so capable and controlled on a mission, wrapped around you fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, to take more.

A low sound rumbled in his chest, absorbed by your mouth, as your fingers found their way under the rough fabric of his shirt. His skin was hot, taut over the muscle that had always commanded your attention. You felt the faint scars and the hard lines of his ribs beneath your palms, tracing them with a frantic curiosity that had been years in the making.

He broke the kiss, gasps of air between your mouths, but he didn’t move away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, his breathing labored and loud in the small room. “God,” he breathed the word like a confession. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

There was no need for words, no need for caution. The time for pretending was over, and the realization was a current, a relief running between you. You lifted your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and dragged your knuckles across the stubble on his jaw, an action so simple, so intimate, it felt revolutionary.

He reacted instantly to the touch, pushing you back onto the mattress with a sudden urgency. The worn blanket shifted and fell away as he followed you down. The movement wasn’t slow or sensual; it was the sharp, necessary collision of two people who had held themselves apart for too long.

His body was heavy over yours, and you welcomed the weight. His mouth devoured yours again, fiercer this time, and you felt his knee nudge between your legs, a silent, demanding question. Your hips arched naturally in response, pressing your jeans against his trousers, a thin barrier against the heat that was now too much to contain.

He shifted, muttering something low and inarticulate against your neck, something that sounded like your name mixed with a plea, and then his hands were everywhere, movements practiced and quick, pulling away the layers of clothing that had kept you both separated. The cold air rushed across your exposed skin, but it was instantly forgotten as his hands returned, sliding beneath your shirt, his fingers finding and closing around the curve of your breast.

A gasp tore from your throat, and you arched your back, pressing yourself into the heat of his palm. His thumb brushed over your hardened nipple, a quick stroke that sent a shiver through you, with a blend of pleasure and disbelief. He had always been so observant, so precise, and even now, in this moment, he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to get your attention.

The heavy thud of his own trousers hitting the floor was the last thing you heard before his mouth was back on you, moving lower this time, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses over your collarbone, down your neck, lingering on the sensitive skin right where your pulse beat frantically.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark, deep in the gloom, and for a split second, you saw it—the fear, the vulnerability, the naked desire that he’d hidden under that calm exterior for years. He didn't ask again. He just took his last few layers off, and then he was back, pressing his entire length against you, skin to skin, heat to heat.

His hand found the sensitive curve between your thighs, and you cried out, a muffled sound against his shoulder as his fingers stroked and pressed, finding the slick heat he had created. He worked you expertly, the precision of a man who measured every action, but the touch itself was hungry, impatient, reflecting the desperation you felt echoing in your own body.

You gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging into the muscle, urging him on, and he answered the unspoken command. He shifted once more, positioning himself, and then he was sinking into you—not a gentle slide, but a single, deep thrust that made you gasp his name, sharp and clear in the small, dark room.

It was everything you had both denied, with the tension, the danger, and the intimacy, all compressed into this single, shattering physical reality. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, matching his pace until the bed beneath you groaned in protest.

He leaned down, burying his face against your neck, his breath coming in short, harsh pants against your skin. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice raw, close to your ear.

You opened your eyes, meeting his in the dark. He wasn’t hiding now. His expression was a mess of pure passion, a mirror of the explosive feeling coiling tight in your own core.

The climax felt like a desperate, shuddering release that tore through the cold and the dark and the years of denial, a silent explosion that left you both gasping, clinging to each other.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, his weight a comforting pressure, his heart hammering against your chest. He didn't speak for a long time, just held you tighter, until the tremors in your body subsided, and the air around you slowly cooled back down.

Finally, he shifted, pulling the blanket up and tucking it around both of you, cocooning you in the shared heat. He didn't move away. He settled in, his chin resting on the crown of your head, his arm heavy and across your stomach.

“I suppose,” he finally murmured, his voice filled with exhaustion and satisfaction, “we won’t be needing the floor after all.”

You didn't answer. You just pressed a kiss to the solid muscle of his shoulder, closed your eyes, and, for the first time in years, truly let go. The silence that followed was no longer heavy. It was simply the peace of two bodies finally at rest, side-by-side, no longer pretending.

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