You were only the enemy. That's all you were to him.

But a genuine love was all you had always yearned for. A childhood void of the emotion, a life of death and destruction that followed, you craved it. You craved it more than a starving man craved food—more than a homeless man craved shelter.

And you had fit so well together. The sun and the moon, the ocean and the stars. You felt as thought when he embraced you, when his lips met yours, it all stopped. It felt almost right—he felt right. You gave every bit of yourself to him, every single bit, you swore. You would have torn apart every corner of the country for him to prove your devotion.

You should have seen this coming. Everything had always fallen apart for you, anyways. It was obvious, no? You have been naive, no? Finding love within your enemy? Injudicious, childish ideology.

You were a pawn.

You hold guns to each other's heads. In the middle your warehouse, used for storage, as a hideout, a home. It's wooden beams were heavy with history, rusty pipes snaking against the ceiling and along the walls. Large metal crates scattered, stacked, housing various weaponry. You had laughed here, you had cried here. But that didn't matter to him, did it? Because he had a mission.

"Lower your weapon," Simon manages to growl authoritatively, his hand tightening around his grip of the pistol, his aim carefully steady between your eyes.