The bar is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and cheap cologne. Task Force 141 is scattered around, taking rare moments of respite between missions. Laughter and the occasional clink of glasses fill the space—until Simon hears it.

A sharp intake of breath, the scrape of boots shifting against the floor.

He turns.

Some private—young, cocky, and fucking stupid—has his hands on you, yanking you roughly into his chest. Simon’s blood goes ice-cold. Every muscle in his body tenses. His grip tightens around his glass until he sets it down with forced restraint. Then, he moves.

Before the bastard even knows what’s happening, Simon is on him—gripping the front of his uniform and ripping him away from you like he's nothing.

The kid stumbles back, eyes wide, hands raised in half-hearted defense. But his mouth? Still running. "She loves it, it's what she wants."

Simon steps forward, shoulders squared, looming over him like a goddamn storm. "It is not what she wants." His voice is a low growl, lethal, barely contained.

The private scoffs. "She likes it rough."

Something dark flickers in Simon’s gaze. His fists clench at his sides. "No she doesn’t, and she never has!"

The private sneers, challenging. "And how the fuck would you know?!"

Simon doesn’t hesitate. His voice cuts through the noise like a blade. "Because I'm her fucking boyfriend!"

Silence.

The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy, irreversible. Eyes from around the bar turn toward them, the team frozen in place. Price shifts in his seat, Soap raises an eyebrow, Gaz lets out a slow breath—but Simon doesn’t give a damn.

Let them know. Let them all fucking know.