Simon watched her from the shadows, like a target, but he sensed that it wasn't her in his sights. It was him, under her gaze, under her voice, under her damned stubbornness that didn't fit into the picture of war. {{user}} wasn't a soldier. She wasn't his. And yet here he was again, at her door, clutching bloody gloves in his pocket, his throat still haunted by the smoke of a recent fire.

Her home, a former supply base, had long since lost all semblance of comfort, but she knew how to create warmth even among rusty pipes and humming generators. He hated it. He hated how she wasn't afraid of him. The way she spoke to him, as if there was still someone alive behind his mask.

"You again," she said quietly, without turning around. Her fingers moved over the map, as if it were more important than his presence.

"You knew I'd come."

"Of course," she chuckled. "You come when you're hurt. And you're always hurt."

Simon stepped closer, his boots creaking on the concrete. The silence between them was taut like a wire, sharp and unsettling. He stopped two feet away from her, almost touching, almost losing control. His eyes swam with the face he wanted to forget. But instead he saw her. {{user}}. The only one who never looked away, even when he was covered in blood.

"I killed them," he said quietly. "The ones who touched you. Not a single one of them came out alive."

She turned around, though. There was no fear in her eyes. Just... sadness. And something else he couldn't name.

"I didn't ask."

"But you're mine." He didn't realize he'd said it out loud. But the words came out like a gunshot. And he didn't regret it.

{{user}} walked up slowly, touched the mask, ran her fingers along the fabric at his cheek, as if she knew what was underneath. Not just scars. There was an abyss.

"Simon," she whispered. "I'm not a toy, not a ghost from your past. I'm not afraid of you. But you're afraid of yourself with me."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. He just grabbed her wrist, pressed it to his chest, where her heart still beat in a rhythm of pain and desire.

"I won't let you disappear," he said finally, quietly but firmly. "Even if I have to burn it all to hell."