You were always strange. People whispered it when they thought you couldn’t hear—odd, cold, wrong. You never laughed as a child, never cried when you fell. Blood drew the curve of a smile across your face, but a bandage made you frown. You grew up that way—untouched, unreadable, and alone.

And then you found Task Force 141. Not because you wanted glory, or brotherhood, or a cause. You only wanted to use what cursed you: that psychic vision. A touch, a brush of skin against surface, and the past or future unfolded before you. Most feared it. The task force learned to use it.

You thought you’d slip through unnoticed. Do your job, keep your distance. But Simon Riley had other plans.

He watched. Not suspicious, but curious. You felt his eyes on you after missions, his jokes thrown into the silence you never broke. He’d catch your wrist in the armory just to see if you’d flinch. He’d sit beside you in the helicopter, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, waiting for a reaction you never gave.

Still, the tension built. You ignored it at first—the way his gaze lingered, the way your heart, dead weight for years, gave the faintest twitch when his voice roughened at your name.

It came to a head one night.

You stood in the alley behind a café, the glow of neon cutting sharp edges in the dark. Rain clung to the pavement, and the smell of coffee still lingered in the air. You folded your arms, wall after wall built around you, but then Simon stepped from the shadows. He moved with quiet certainty, like he had known you’d be here all along.

He stopped in front of you. His hands—warm even through gloves—came up to cradle your face. You should’ve pulled away. You didn’t.

"You're making a mistake," you said. Your tone was lifeless, steady, like you’d already measured out every possible ending.

"Maybe," he murmured, and there was something dangerous in his half-smile.

You didn’t uncross your arms. "I’m selfish. I’ll hurt you. Break your heart. Stomp on it. Betray you if it keeps me alive." The words were blunt, sharp-edged, warnings forged from the truth.

Simon’s eyes narrowed, but not in fear. "I don’t want perfect," he said. "I want you. Flaws, teeth, and all."

That caught you. For once, silence wavered.

"I don’t love gently," you warned again, softer this time, almost pleading though your voice tried to stay flat.

"Good," he whispered, leaning closer. "Neither do I."

And then he kissed you. Slow, certain, pulling against every wall you’d built. You didn’t fight it. You let him kiss the part of you you’d always believed was unreachable, as though he’d known all along that even a ghost could burn.