You’re laying in your bunk, stretched out under the dim light, half-lost in the pages of your book. The base is quiet - just the soft hum of generators and the occasional shuffle of boots down the hall. After the long training session earlier, your body aches but your mind stays sharp, restless.

That’s when your phone buzzes.

Ghost.

You hesitate for a moment, already feeling that familiar pull. You both said you’d keep distance. Professionalism. Space. It’s been weeks since you made that decision. Since you both pretended you could handle it.

You open the message anyway.

“You awake?”

Short. Typical. Like he’s testing the water.

You stare at the screen for a moment before replying.

“We said we’d keep space, Ghost.”

A pause. Then another buzz.

“I know. Just wanted to hear from you.”

You swallow, already feeling your chest tighten. You type slowly:

“We agreed. It’s better this way.”

Silence for a while. Then another message.

“It doesn’t feel better.”

You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose, trying to steady yourself. You don’t respond this time. He needs to let it go. You both do.

You set the phone aside, pull the blanket higher and tell yourself he’ll calm down and sleep eventually.

Or so you think.

Until you hear the knock.

Not loud. Not urgent. But unmistakable.

Your heart leaps as you sit up. The door creaks open a few inches and he’s there.

Simon.

Hood up. Shoulders tense. Eyes searching for yours in the dim light.

Neither of you speak for a moment. He just stands there, like stepping through your door might shatter whatever fragile distance you’ve both been clinging to.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he finally says, voice quiet, hoarse. “But I couldn’t sit there pretending I’m fine.”

He swallows hard, and for a second, you see past the mask, past the soldier.

“I bloody miss you.”