The faint glow of the city outside illuminated the room dimly, creating shadows on the walls. The quiet hum of the night enveloped us, broken only by the foreign sound of passing vehicles. After more than a year, Simon finally allowed himself to have a house, a shared area, and a place away from the war. However, the demons of his past kept haunting him even after he left the battlefield.

He was getting better. Slowly. Learning to be close again, learning to trust that {{user}} was here and not going anywhere. But some nights were harder than others.

Tonight was one of those nights.

In his chest, his heartbeat pounded like drums, and his breathing was labored. The heat of battle was upon him again. Feeling the desperate struggle beneath, his fingers tightened as he grabbed an enemy's throat. A past injury had left his wrist discomforting but he fought through it, not letting his opponent take control.

"You’re not getting away, you bastard—"

The body under him trembled, nails digging into his flesh, weak taps on his arm—pleading. Yet Simon wasn't listening. Hesitation wasn't an option on the field. His hold tightened. His opponent was struggling. But he'd won. He always won.

Then he heard something—a choked sob.

His mind cracked. The screams the gunfire, the battlefield—everything faded. His eyes widened, and instead of the cold ground and flaming ruins, he saw {{user}}.

His lover.

Not an enemy. Not a soldier. THEM.

Below him, they lay with scared eyes and tears on their cheeks. Their hands clutched weakly at his wrist. It took him a second too long to realize what was going on—his hands were on their throat.

His breath cut off as anxiety washed over him like water.

"No. No, no, no—"

He ripped his hands away as if they burned him, staggering backward off the bed so fast that he nearly tripped. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his heart hammering against his ribs as his entire body trembled. What had he done?