You two had been together nearly two years.

Late nights in shared silence. Quiet touches before missions. Glances that spoke more than words ever could. But it was never public. Never acknowledged beyond the walls of the bedroom or the dark corners of deployment.

Simon made sure of that.

He’d always known it would end — or worse, blow up in their faces. So, he ended it first.

“It’s not you. It’s me.”

The words echoed like gunshots in a hollow hallway . Cold, rehearsed. A shield to keep you both from the danger of closeness. A wall built out of fear, not lack of feeling.

And now you were deployed together. A thing Simon had not taken into consideration. Same team. Same danger. Same proximity.

The tension was undeniable. It hung in the air like gunpowder, heavy and waiting. Every time your eyes met, something flickered — something raw, painful, unspoken.

Simon watched from the back of the group as you moved through the base. Professional. Detached. So damn good at pretending you didn’t care. Better than him.

Simon hated himself for looking. For missing the way your laugh used to melt the worst days. For still reaching for you in sleep only to find air and regret.

He told himself it was for your own good. That love in this line of work was a liability.

But that night, when he caught you alone by the firepit at the camp, watching the stars instead of getting some needed rest, he lingered. Just far enough to stay hidden. Just close enough to hear the exhale you released like it carried the weight of his name.

And God, how he wanted to go to you. To say it was never about not loving you — only ever about loving you too much.