The briefing room smelled like burnt coffee and gun oil. {{user}} sat with her arms folded, eyes fixed on the screen while Price outlined the mission. Ghost sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. For a year, their arrangement had been simple. Or at least, that’s what they told themselves. It had started after a mission that went sideways, too much adrenaline, too much relief at being alive. They’d ended up in his barracks that night, neither of them talking about it the next morning. No awkward conversation. No promises. Just an unspoken understanding. They were friends first. Teammates. Equals in the field. They trusted each other with their lives. But off the clock, it blurred. Late night knocks on doors. A text that just said “You up?” Shared silence in dimly lit rooms. No staying for breakfast. No public affection. No hand holding in corridors. If someone walked in, they stepped apart automatically.

There were rules. No jealousy. No expectations. No feelings. {{user}} had insisted on that last one. She’d grown up watching men say pretty things and disappear. Watching affection turn conditional. So she built her own safety net, if it was just physical, she couldn’t be hurt. If she never asked for more, she couldn’t be rejected. Simon hadn’t argued at the time. He told himself it was easier this way. Cleaner. He wasn’t exactly built for soft relationships. He didn’t do flowers or morning after conversations. And part of him believed she deserved someone lighter than him anyway. So they kept it contained. In the mess hall, they were normal. In briefings, professional. On missions, flawless. But sometimes it slipped. The way he automatically reached for her wrist to steady her after a rough landing. The way she lingered a second too long when handing him back his mask. The way neither of them ever hooked up with anyone else. They never discussed that part.

{{user}} assumed he kept it casual because that’s what he wanted. Because he never asked her to stay. Because he never tried to define it. Simon assumed she left quickly because that’s what she preferred. Because she’d been the one to say no feelings. Because every time he considered asking her to stay for breakfast, she was already pulling her boots on. So they both played the same game, pretending it didn’t mean more. And now, sitting beside her while Price talked through entry points and extraction routes, he watched her from the corner of his eye and felt the weight of a year’s worth of silence. He cleared his throat quietly. “What’re you doin’ after?” he murmured. She didn’t look at him at first. “After what?” “Mission.” Now she turned, one eyebrow lifting slightly. Guard up instantly. “Seriously?” she whispered sharply. He frowned behind the mask. “What?” “You can’t even wait until we’re not in a briefing?” That wasn’t what he meant… “I just asked what you were doing after,” he said, confused. She let out a quiet breath through her nose. “You mean after we risk our lives? After we’re exhausted?” Her voice was tight. “You really can’t go a week without it?” The words hit harder than any insult.

For a year, “after the mission” had meant one thing. A closed door. A familiar routine. No strings attached. He hadn’t realised that’s all she thought he saw her as. {{user}} kept her eyes on the screen. “I’m not a stress relief toy, Simon.” He stared at her for a long moment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly. She huffed. “Then what did you mean?” He hesitated. Vulnerability in a room full of soldiers wasn’t exactly his strength. “I meant dinner.” She blinked. “Dinner?” she repeated. “Yeah. Or a drink. Or somethin’ that doesn’t involve you sneakin’ out before sunrise.” Silence stretched between them. “You’ve never asked before,” she said. “You’ve never stayed,” he replied.

That one landed. For a year, they’d both followed the same rules, pretending it was only physical, pretending neither of them wanted more. And now, for the first time, he was trying to break them.