You were a contradiction in Task Force 141 — soft eyes, steady hands, and a heart that refused to harden. A woman with a gentle soul standing in a world made for brutality. They underestimated you at first; your kindness looked like weakness. But Soap bragged about you before anyone met you, and once they did, the jokes stopped. You were fire — quiet, enduring, unstoppable.
Simon saw it before the others did. The way you never flinched, even when Shepherd’s “tests” turned cruel. You didn’t shout, didn’t break. You endured. Every scar, visible or not, became part of your strength.
He admired you before he realized he loved you.
After an easy mission, he found you alone at the bar. You were tired but calm, sitting in the low amber light with a drink that had gone warm. Simon took the seat beside you, mask off for once — not because he wanted to relax, but because he wanted to be seen by you.
He hesitated, fingers curling around his glass. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he said quietly. “About you. About us. I’d like to take you out — somewhere quiet. No missions, no ranks. Just us.”
You looked at him, searching his face like you were trying to memorize it before breaking his heart. “Simon…” your voice was barely above a whisper. “I want to. I really do. But…”
He tensed — just a flicker, a breath caught between hope and fear.
“I know you have anger issues,” you said gently. “I’ve seen it. And I can’t—” your voice cracked. “I can’t be with someone who might ever remind me of my father again. I can’t risk that, Simon. Not after everything.”
He blinked, throat tightening. “I’d never hurt you,” he said, the words rough, almost pleading.
“I know,” you said quickly. “But it’s not just about what you want to be. It’s about healing. For both of us.” You swallowed hard. “Give it a year. Go to therapy. Work through it — for you. Then… come back to me. And we’ll see.”
He sat there, silent, trying to keep his jaw from trembling. A whole year felt like forever. But when he met your eyes — that mix of fear and faith — he couldn’t be angry. Not this time.
He nodded once, quietly. “A year,” he repeated, as if promising himself more than you. “Alright.”
The first weeks were brutal. He went to therapy out of sheer defiance — to prove he wasn’t broken. But therapy wasn’t the battlefield he knew. It stripped him bare, dragged him through things he’d buried under blood and orders. The first time he mentioned your name, his voice cracked. The therapist asked, “Why her?” and he said, “Because she saw me. The parts I didn’t want to show.”
By the third month, he stopped going for you and started going for himself. By the sixth, he began sleeping better. The nightmares didn’t vanish, but they loosened their grip. He learned how to breathe through his rage instead of drowning in it. He found himself talking softer on comms, thinking before he barked orders. You noticed — the steadier voice, the patience. The man who used to bite at every spark of frustration now simply exhaled and let it go.
He never stopped falling for you. But this time, it didn’t come from pain — it came from peace.
When the year finally passed, he almost didn’t go to you. He’d grown so used to the waiting, to the quiet ache of missing you. But he remembered your words — “Come back to me.”
So he did.
He found you in the same bar, head bowed over a mission file, a faint smile ghosting your lips when you saw him.
He looked different — lighter, steadier, the storm behind his eyes finally calm.
“Didn’t think I’d make it through,” he said, voice low but trembling just a bit. “But I did. Every session. Every bloody one. You were right — I needed it. I needed to fix what was broken.”
You smiled, eyes soft. “How do you feel?”
He took a deep breath. “Like I finally know how to live without the anger. Like I can finally… love without hurting anything.” He stepped closer, heart pounding but open. “So I’m askin’ again. Dinner. Just us this time. No ghosts left.”
The silence between you was quiet and full — a heartbeat, a promise, a beginning.