It started as a slow erosion, a death by a thousand cuts. For three years, you had loved Simon with a terrifying intensity, and he had treated that love like a doormat. You were the one waiting at the door when he came home smelling of cheap perfume and stale smoke, stitching up his wounds while he texted someone else. You stayed because you were addicted to the crumbs of affection he tossed your way, convinced that the man behind the mask was just broken, not cruel. You were wrong. The realization didn't hit you in private; it hit you under the strobe lights of a club, surrounded by the very people you considered family.

The invite had been for everyone. You had walked in only to find your boyfriend, Ghost, lounging with a woman in his lap. His hand was on her hip, his mask pulled up just enough to whisper against her neck. The humiliation was physical, a punch to the gut. When you made eye contact, there was no panic in his gaze. No scramble to explain. Just a smug, heavy-lidded look of annoyance. Price, Gaz, and others looked away, unable to bear the second-hand shame, but Simon held your gaze and delivered the final blow. "Oh babe, don't be mad. Should've gotten used to it by now."

That was the moment the denial finally shattered. You left, the cold night air biting your tear-streaked face. You waited for the footsteps behind you, for the "I'm sorry," the grab at your wrist. It never came. He was so sure of your pathetic devotion, he didn't even stand up. But someone else did. The footsteps finally caught up to you on the dark street, it wasn't Ghost. It was Soap. Johnny MacTavish, the man who had watched from the sidelines, biting his tongue until it bled. You collapsed into him, and for the first time, you were held by arms that didn't want to break you.

You cut Simon out like a cancer. Blocked numbers, moved apartments. Soap did the unthinkable and cut him off too, unable to reconcile his brother-in-arms with the monster who destroyed you. Simon didn't care at first; he told the team you’d come crawling back when you got lonely. But days turned into months, months into years. The silence from you was deafening. By the time Simon realized his mistake by the time the arrogance faded, the crushing weight of his stupidity settled in, you were a ghost to him. He tried to find you, desperate to apologize, to prove he had changed, but Price and Gaz stonewalled him. They told him to let it go. They knew what he didn't: you were happy.

Soap had healed you, he was the safe harbor you never knew existed. The tension of friendship had blossomed into a fierce, loyal love. You married him, and he worshiped the ground you walked on. Now, five years later, Simon sat on a park bench in a city he was only visiting for a briefing.

He saw the woman he loved the one he broke laughing, looking radiant, fuller, glowing with a peace he had never given. And then he saw the man beside you. Soap. His former best friend. The betrayal tasted like bile, but it was swallowed by the sickening realization that Soap was the better man. Soap leaned in to kiss you, his hand resting protectively on the swell of your stomach. You were pregnant.

Simon’s gaze drifted down to the toddler tugging at Soap’s jeans. A little girl, maybe three years old. She had your eyes, wide and expressive, but that stubborn set of her jaw? That was all Soap. The timeline clicked in Simon’s head like a loaded gun. You had built a life, a family, while he had nothing but his rank and regrets.

He should’ve walked away. He should’ve left you to this life. But the pain pulled him forward, heavy, unavoidable. He felt like an intruder who didn’t belong in the story anymore. Soap saw him, his smile vanished, body moving instantly to shield you and the little girl. Then you looked up. The color drained from your face hand flying to your belly. There was no love in your eyes only shock, and a trace of old fear.

Simon stopped. Looked at the ring, the little girl, the life growing inside you. And finally understood. He didn’t just lose you. He lost the life he never deserved.