#umiiqi

At first, he kept to himself. No small talk. No eye contact. But over time, things shifted. You left coffee out for him once—he didn’t say anything, just drank it and rinsed the mug. The next day, he made you tea. No note. Just… tea. That was how it started.

Now it was part of the routine. Little things. Quiet things.

Tonight, you were both off duty, lounging in your respective bunks. You were reading. He was sharpening a knife. A peaceful, domestic sort of silence.

“You always read at night?” he asked suddenly.

You glanced up, surprised. “Only when I want to sleep well.”

He paused, looking at you across the room. “You don’t strike me as someone who has trouble sleeping.”

You smiled a little. “That’s because you don’t see me when I’m not reading.”

Ghost huffed a soft laugh and set the blade down. “What are you reading now?”

You held up the book. “Something sappy and romantic. Want me to read aloud?”

You meant it as a joke, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “Sure.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Wait—really?”

He nodded. “Go on.”

So you did. You read softly, voice barely above a whisper, warmth filling the space between you. A story about two people falling in love slowly, quietly.

When you looked up halfway through a paragraph, Ghost was leaning back against the wall, mask still on, arms crossed—but completely still. Listening. Not just politely. Really listening.

After a while, you closed the book and smiled. “That’s enough sap for one night.”

But he surprised you again.

“Didn’t mind it.”

You laughed gently, tucking the book away. “Look at you, going soft.”

A pause. Then he murmured, “Only with you.”

His arm was draped over your waist, his breathing slow and even. You smiled sleepily, shifting just enough to glance up at him. His mask was off, but he was still mostly buried beneath the sheets, only a mess of blond hair and a hint of scruff visible.

It was rare to see him like this—completely relaxed, free from the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders.

You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. His brows furrowed slightly, and for a second, you thought you’d woken him, but he just let out a quiet sigh and pulled you closer.

"You’re staring," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"You’re comfy," you countered.

He huffed softly, the closest thing to a laugh you’d get from him this early. His hand slid lazily up your back, tracing slow, absentminded patterns. "You’re clingy in the mornings."

"You love it," you teased.

"Mm." He didn’t deny it.

The room was still, the world outside not yet awake. No missions, no orders, no danger—just the quiet, steady rhythm of Simon’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

You chuckled, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. "C’mon, tough guy. The battlefield’s waiting."

Barrage peeked at you, eyes narrowed. "Not until I have at least three sips of this," he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.

"Three sips? That specific, huh?" You slid into the seat across from him, chin resting in your hand.

"Tested. Proven," he grumbled, finally sitting up to take a long, slow drink.

You watched in amusement as he let out a deep sigh, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the world had suddenly lifted. "Better?"

Barrage set the cup down and gave you a lopsided smirk. "Almost." Then, before you could react, he tugged you forward, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead. "Now I’m good."

Your face felt warm, but you huffed, crossing your arms. "You just use me as an energy booster, don’t you?"

He laughed, taking another sip of coffee. "Not my fault you’re better than caffeine."

And just like that, your morning routine continued—filled with teasing, sleepy smirks, and the kind of warmth that even the strongest explosion couldn’t shake.

You peeked over the back of the couch. He was still in half his gear, mask on, eyes catching the faint light.

“Could ask you the same thing,” you mumble, hugging the blanket tighter.

He huffed a soft laugh, the sound barely there. “Suppose we’re both hopeless, then.”

He crossed the room, quiet despite the weight he carried, and sat beside you.

The couch dipped, warmth bleeding into the space between you.

For a minute, neither of you talked.

Just the hum of the lamp.

Just breathing.

Then, a gentle tug. Your blanket shifted—

Simon draped the edge over his arm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Cold,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward you.

You swore you caught the tiniest smile in the shadows of his mask.

Without thinking, you leaned into him.

He didn’t move away.

Instead, a gloved hand rested against your back—solid, steady.

“Try to sleep,” he whispered, voice softer than you’d ever heard.

“For once, I’ll keep watch.”

The world outside stayed dangerous, but right there, wrapped in shared silence and a stolen blanket, you felt untouchable.

It wasn’t romantic. Not technically. But you felt it building. The way his gaze lingered a little too long. The way he stood a little too close.

And then it all stopped.

He pulled back. Spoke less. Avoided shared meals. Gave you curt nods and nothing more. You tried to let it go, tried to be patient.

Until tonight.

You found him alone in the weapons bay, doing maintenance he’d already done twice this week.

“Are we good?” you asked.

He didn’t look up. “We’re fine.”

“You’ve barely looked at me for a week.”

Still nothing.

You crossed your arms. “Did I do something wrong?”

At that, he finally met your eyes. “No.”

“Then what is this?”

He paused. Then, with carefully measured coldness: “This is me keeping things simple.”

It stung more than it should have.

“Simple?” you echoed. “Is that what I was to you?”

“You weren’t anything to me,” he said, too quickly, too harshly.

Silence. The words echoed in the metal walls.

You took a shaky breath, nodded, and turned to leave.

But then—

“I didn’t mean that.”

You froze.

“I did it on purpose,” he said quietly, like confessing a sin. “I thought if I cut you off fast, it wouldn’t… hurt so much.”

You turned slowly. “You think not talking to me hurts less?”

He looked at you, mask off, expression drawn and tired and afraid.

“I think caring about you means I’m going to lose you,” he said.

The room was still.

And for the first time, you saw it—not just the fear, but the hope beneath it.

“Then you better make a decision, Simon,” you whispered. “Because I can’t stand here forever waiting for you to choose between pushing me away or letting me in.”

You left him there—weapon half-cleaned, heart fully exposed.

Simon stood across the room, arms crossed, mask still on despite the lack of danger.

"You’re pissed," you noted, not bothering to look up.

"No," he said, but the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

You sighed, setting the knife down with a soft clink. "Then what’s with the brooding act?"

Silence.

Then, finally—"You almost got yourself killed today."

Ah. There it was.

"You act like that’s new," you murmured, but the joke fell flat in the tension-laden air.

Simon’s shoulders stiffened. "Not funny, Y/N." His voice was quiet, but there was something sharp underneath it, something raw.

You looked up, meeting his gaze—or at least, the dark hollows of his mask where his eyes should be. "I handled it," you said simply.

His jaw clenched. "You shouldn’t have had to handle it alone."

"Didn’t have a choice."

"You always have a choice," he shot back, stepping closer. His presence was heavy, suffocating in a way that was almost comforting. "But you—you run toward the danger. Like you don’t care if—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Doesn’t matter."

You frowned, something twisting in your chest. "Simon—"

"It matters," he admitted, barely above a whisper. "You matter."

The room felt smaller, the space between you shrinking despite neither of you moving. You swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of your seat.

"You never say things like that," you murmured.

"Yeah, well," he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Almost losing you makes a man reconsider a few things."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, hesitantly, you reached for his hand.

And for once, he didn’t pull away.

“You're burning 'em, lovie.” Simon mocked, resting his elbows on the counter with a sleepy grin.

She scoffed, flipping the pancakes. “Excuse me, I'm a pancake master. These are perfectly golden.”

Simon walked over, peering over her shoulder. "Mm-hmm. And what’s that?" He pointed to the slightly darker one on the plate.

"A limited edition," she said smugly, popping a strawberry into her mouth before handing one to him.

He took it, but instead of eating it, he tapped it against her nose. "You’ve got flour on your cheek, by the way."

She gasped. "Simon!"

Before he had time to react, she dipped a small amount of batter on his arm. He glared at her in pretend horror.

"You ignited war," he growled.

She giggled, crinkling the eyes as she reached for another pancake. "And I shall win."

Simon simply shook his head, observing her move around the kitchen, like she belonged with him. And maybe—just perhaps—that was the best part of his mornings.

You were gone.

And you never knew.

He had loved you. God, he had loved you. But he had never told you. Not once.

Instead, he had let the words die on his tongue, too afraid to ruin what they had, too afraid of the possibility that you wouldn’t feel the same. So he had smiled through your stories about late-night dates with other guys, laughed when you teased him about being overprotective, pretended it didn’t kill him when you said, "You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Now you never would.

A gust of wind blew past, rustling the flowers on your grave. A single white rose tumbled to the dirt, petals bending under the weight of raindrops.

It should have been different.

You should have known.

He should have told you.

But now, all Simon could do was stand there, fingers curled into shaking fists, as the last remnants of you were lowered into the ground—along with the words he never said.