Simon hated that feeling.

Hated the way his spine straightened whenever {{user}} spoke. Hated how years of instinct and training made him obey before his brain even caught up. Hated those sharp eyes that saw too much, that could strip a man bare with one look across a briefing room. Hated that calm voice that could order executions one moment and murmur something soft enough to settle Simon’s nerves the next.

He hated {{user}}’s hands most of all.

Scarred hands. Older hands. Hands that had killed more men than Simon could count and still knew how to hold him like something precious afterward.

And God, Simon hated how age looked on him.

The silver at {{user}}’s temples. The faint lines carved around his eyes. The weathered exhaustion worn proudly by a man who had survived too much and still stood taller than everyone else in the room. Older than Simon by enough years that it should’ve mattered.

It didn’t. Because the truth was uglier than hate. Simon loved every damn thing about him.

Loved the authority in his voice during missions. Loved watching soldiers twice their size snap to attention the second {{user}} walked into a room. Loved the weight of his stare across crowded transport planes and briefing halls. Loved the roughness in his laugh that only Simon ever got to hear when they were alone.

At first Simon fought it.

Fought the pull toward his superior officer with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Tried to bury it beneath professionalism and distance and cold silence.

Didn’t work. And somehow… somehow {{user}}noticed.

Simon still remembered the first time {{user}} cornered him alone after training, arms crossed over his chest while watching Simon with that knowing expression.

“You keep glaring at me like that, Riley,” {{user}} had murmured, voice low and amused, “people are gonna think you want to kill me.”

Simon stared back from beneath his mask. “Maybe I do.”

A pause. Then {{user}} smirked slowly.

“Funny,” he said, stepping closer until Simon could smell gunpowder and cologne on him, “I was hoping it was the opposite.”

That should’ve been the warning sign. Now they shared a flat between deployments.

Shared quiet mornings and late nights. Shared bruised kisses in dark kitchens and tangled sheets after missions that should’ve killed them both. Simon had never been good at wanting things, but he wanted {{user}} constantly.

Needed him constantly. — The flat was dim tonight, rain tapping softly against the windows while Simon sat at the kitchen counter cleaning his pistol. {{user}} moved around the kitchen behind him, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking unfairly attractive for a man making tea at midnight.

Simon’s eyes tracked him automatically. {{user}} noticed, of course.

{{user}} asked about Simon staring at him again casually. Simon didn’t even bother denying it. “Can you blame me?”

A quiet chuckle left {{user}} as he set a mug in front of him. Teasing him about getting soft, calling him ‘Lieutenant’ in teasing way.

Simon caught his wrist before he could pull away, gloved fingers wrapping firmly around scarred skin. He tugged him closer until {{user}} stood between his knees.

“Only for you,” Simon muttered. {{user}} raised an eyebrow. Telling Simon it’s a dangerous thing to admit to his superior.

Simon tilted his head slightly, dark eyes fixed entirely on him. “Behind closed doors,” he said roughly, pulling him closer by the waist, “you’re just my boyfriend.”