Simon had always known where he stood with {{user}}.

Too close to be nothing.

Too broken to be anything more.

She was everywhere with him—his shadow in the med bay, his quiet presence behind his shoulder in the field. His little medic. Always smiling, always warm. Sun-bright in places he’d long accepted would never feel light again.

And him?

A hollow thing in armor. A man stitched together by violence and habit.

So when she came to him one afternoon—smiling, giggling, cheeks flushed—and told him she had a boyfriend… Simon swallowed it.

Her age.

Her hometown.

Someone clean. Someone whole.

“A better man,” he’d told himself, voice steady, mask hiding everything.

Someone who could give her what he never deserved to ask for.

But it went to shit.

And Simon knew it before anyone said a word. It started small.

{{user}} got quieter.

Her laugh softened, then disappeared altogether. She stopped hovering near him, stopped stealing glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. Long sleeves replaced her usual rolled cuffs—even in thheat that made the rest of them sweat through their kit.

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And her eyes…

The glow was gone.

She avoided him. Dodged his questions with practiced excuses. “Just tired.” “Just busy.” “I’m fine, Simon.”

She wasn’t fine. She was folding inward, piece by piece, and every instinct in him screamed it.

Then she didn’t come to base.

One day. Two. Three.

No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Price couldn’t reach her. Soap tried—nothing but voicemail.

Laswell dug deeper, faster than command liked.

“She’s home,” Laswell finally said. “Boyfriend answered. Said she’s sick. Fine.”

Simon didn’t hear the rest.

Fine didn’t sound like that.

He was already moving.

The apartment complex was quiet. Too quiet. Simon parked down the block, melted into the shadows like he always did. He waited. Watched. Listened.

Then he heard it.

Yelling.

A man’s voice—sharp, ugly.

Something crashing against a wall. Glass shattering.

Simon’s hand tightened around the spare key in his pocket.

The one {{user}} had given him months ago, laughing, saying, “Just in case, L.T.”

She’d forgotten about it.

He hadn’t.

The door opened without resistance.

The smell hit him first—fear, sweat, copper. Then the sight.

{{user}}—his {{user}}—shoved into a closet, curled in on herself. Bruises blooming across her skin like something rotten and wrong. Her lip split. Her hands shaking. And the man standing over her.

Simon didn’t remember crossing the room. He remembered red.

The knife was in his hand without thought. Muscle memory. Training. Instinct older than mercy.

He grabbed the man.

There was shouting. Pleading. Pain.

Minutes later, the apartment was silent except for heavy breathing and a whimpering shape tied and bloodied in the corner.

Simon opened the closet door.

“{{user}}…” His voice broke on her name. She looked up, eyes wide, unfocused—until they found him. Simon dropped to his knees and pulled her into his chest, careful and desperate all at once. His gloved hands trembled as he checked her—bruises, swelling, cuts—every mark carving itself into him like a personal failure.

“I knew it,” he whispered, forehead pressed to her hair. “I fuckin’ knew something was wrong.”

His grip tightened, just a little. “You don’t just disappear. Not you. I couldn’t—” His breath hitched. “I couldn’t lose you.”

She broke then.

Her sobs tore out of her, muffled against his chest as he held her like she was the only solid thing left in the world. Simon rocked her gently, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other never leaving her spine.

He glanced once toward the corner. The man who was supposed to love her. Cherish her.

Now reduced to nothing.

“Laswell’s on the way,” Simon murmured, voice low and lethal. “Price too. He’s not touchin’ you again. Ever.”

He tightened his arms around her, sheltering her completely.

“You’re safe now,” he said, voice steadier, surer. “You’ve got me. Always.”

He vowed. No one will touch her again. He will cherish her, love her as she deserves. She was his.