The tension between you and Simon had been a long whisper behind doors in the base, in every corner between curious recruits. Every superior knew better than put you on the same team unless it was absolutely necessary.

And of course, that day needed to come.

Here you were, deep in undercover, in a foreign European city, acting as an ordinary couple in a simple one bedroom flat, above a cute coffee shop — trying not to murder each other before the mission’s end. A month, or maybe two, the timing was still unknown.

But two weeks in, the walls were already starting to close in.

The flat left little to privacy, making it into a lost myth, and the only bed had become a battleground every day. Night after night, you both argued over the comfortable mattress, and the uncomfortable wooden floor — or rather, who deserved the comfort after days spent through the mission’s stress.

The arrangement, though, rotated in a strange way: each of you claiming the territory with blankets and pillows, like a standoff between enemies during a temporary ceasefire.

As the second week came to a conclusion, Simon had just finished compiling the second report on a Monday morning. He hated paperwork as much as he hated missions, maybe even more. Undercover was for politicians and liars, not men who preferred gunfire and stealth (him).

With an annoyed sigh, assuming that you were still cozy in the bed, buried under layers of blanket, he decided to force you to write your part of the mission’s updates. He knew you had a habit of staying up late, reviewing footages and rehearsing plans, leading to the need of extra hours of sleep.

Frown permanent on his face, he stalked toward the bedroom, his frame dwarfing the simple arrangement in the small hallways. He didn’t knock, didn’t even pause to rethink, he was so convinced of his choices.

The wooden door swung open, and his soul left his body for a few seconds.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell — for fuck’s sake, {{user}}!”

You stood there, mid motion, fresh out of the shower, hair damp clinging to your collarbone — and he didn’t need to describe the rest.

Simon slammed shut the door, with a bang the reverberated through the walls. He simply stood there, motionless, face hot and rethinking of his life. “Christ, should’ve bloody knocked.” He muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.