Simon had always known Johnny suspected. Soap’s eyes gave him away every time—watchful, sharp, lingering too long whenever Simon and {{user}} were near each other. In the mess hall, in the gym, even in the briefing room, Soap tracked their every word and glance as though waiting for proof. And Simon knew why. Johnny’s feelings for {{user}} weren’t subtle. But she hadn’t chosen Soap. She’d chosen Ghost.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Strictly professional—that was the line Simon swore to hold. But lines blurred, and what began as banter and stolen glances grew into something neither of them could put down. A secret, fierce and dangerous, hidden behind Ghost’s mask. He never spoke of it, because the truth would cut Johnny deeper than any blade.

That night at The Fox & Crown, the 141 filled the first floor with noise and beer foam, trading jokes and football arguments over the clink of pints. Simon slipped away, {{user}}’s hand in his, guiding her upstairs to the private rooms where the music faded into muffled thumps and laughter became distant echoes. She followed without hesitation.

Back downstairs, Johnny’s voice carried over the din—halfway through some rant about Manchester United.

“An’ that’s why their defence is absolute sh—hang on… Where’s Ghost an’ {{user}} gone?”

Gaz shrugged, lips quirking, while Price muttered into his pint without looking up. Johnny’s grip tightened around his glass until it slammed down on the table, froth spilling over the rim. His chair scraped back violently as he stood.

Simon could almost feel the footsteps pounding across the first floor, the search cutting from table to table. Too careless. He cursed himself when he remembered—his coat tossed on the stair rail, one sock left by the landing. A breadcrumb trail. And Johnny followed it, rage quickening his stride until he reached the second floor.

The door burst open.

Soap froze in the threshold.

Simon was on his knees before {{user}}, his chest pinned beneath the stiletto heel she pressed into him like a brand, whimpers leaving his lips involuntarily when she tried to move. His bare torso bore the marks of her mouth, lipstick smeared across flushed skin. The skull mask lay discarded on the floorboards, leaving Simon stripped of the persona, reduced to the man beneath—unmasked, undone.

His lips, swollen and raw from her kisses, parted around shallow breaths. His tie hung loose around his neck, held tight in her grip like a leash. His hands wrapped weakly around her ankle, not resisting but pulling her closer, clinging. His eyes—clouded, reverent—lifted up to her, devotion written plainly in the way he looked at {{user}} as if she were the only thing tethering him to earth.

The silence cracked with the rasp of his voice, hoarse and unsteady.

“…Soap.”