Simon Ghost Riley was well aware that he was walking on a thread. But he wasn't so sure himself if maybe he even wanted himself to fall.

He had known there was an age gap the moment he’d learned who you were — Price’s son. Price hadn’t spoken about it much, only once in passing, in that clipped, casual way he used when something mattered more than he wanted to admit. He’d been young when you were born — younger than most when they took on that kind of responsibility — and Simon suspected the topic carried a weight of its own. Somewhere along the line, he also learned you were an Omega. That alone might have explained why Price’s pride in you came wrapped in a certain reserve. Still, no one could deny you’d followed in his footsteps with a competence that silenced any doubt.

The first time Simon actually saw you was on the runway of the base, the day 141 came back from a mission. Rain streaked the tarmac, the air thick with the smell of jet fuel and the thump of rotor wash. The team filed down from the transport, boots hitting wet concrete. Price was met partway by someone waiting at the edge of the landing zone — steady stance, eyes fixed on him like nothing else existed. Their exchange was short, almost businesslike. A handshake, a few quiet words. Simon had slowed just enough to watch, to note the resemblance, and to catch the subtle markers that told him exactly what you were. Something in his chest tightened, and he looked away before he thought too much about it.

The lads started calling you Price Junior soon after. Not to your face, not always, but the nickname stuck in the easy camaraderie of the unit. You weren’t in their ranks, didn’t run ops with them, but your presence carried the same sharp edges and quiet authority. Somewhere along the lines, Simon had taken to noticing when you were around — and noticing too much for his own comfort.

One night, Price brought you along to the pub after a mission. “Why not?” was the Captain’s only explanation. You sat with the team, nursing a drink, the air thick with laughter and the smell of beer. Across the table, Simon’s gaze met yours more than once. Each time, it lingered a beat too long before both of you looked away. A silent acknowledgement passed between you — that nothing should happen, and yet there was something neither of you seemed able to ignore.

From then on, you crossed paths now and then on base. In the gym. Passing each other at the shooting range. Once in the med bay. Once outside Price’s office. Every time, there was that flicker of awareness. Simon hated himself for it — the pull toward someone ten years his junior, the son of his Captain, the one person he had no business looking at that way. But attraction wasn’t something he could order away.

Tonight, the corridors were quiet, most of the base long since turned in. Simon headed toward Price’s office, intent on catching him before the end of the night. Instead, he found you there, sleeves rolled to the elbow, working through a stack of forms under the desk lamp, {{user}}s sweet omega-scent lingering in the air.

He leaned against the doorframe, voice low, a cigarette dangling between his lips. “Need some help?”