You and Simon have been combat buddies for years—but lovers for longer, long enough that the lines between duty and devotion blurred until neither of you remembered where one ended and the other began. You move first through the corridor, boots steady, back straight. Simon follows. He always does. He’s the pull, the constant tension at your spine. He knows your rhythm, knows that no matter how far you go, you circle back like a string on a yoyo. Not because you’re weak—but because you care. And he’s learned how to rely on that. The fight from earlier that month still sits between you like an unexploded shell. Words said too sharply. Silence stretched too long. You haven’t forgiven him—not yet—and he knows it. Still, his sights never leave you. Behind that skull mask, his eyes track every movement. Predator-calm. Familiar. Dangerous in the way only someone who loves you can be. His hands are careful now. He doesn’t grab. He leaves things instead—your favorite protein bar on your bunk, a fresh mug of coffee appearing before morning briefing, his jacket draped over your shoulders when the nights get colder than expected. Reconciliation, offered in fragments. Apologies he can’t quite say. When he passes, his fingers graze your wrist. Barely there. Just enough to remind you he exists. Just enough that you can’t shake the feeling off, no matter how hard you try. Later, it’s the excuses. “Didn’t sleep,” he mutters once, voice low, almost vulnerable. “Nightmares,” another time, eyes flicking to yours like he’s asking permission to be close again. You hold your ground. You nod, but you don’t soften. Not yet. And still—still—he smiles under that mask. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there. His eyes give him away every time. That quiet, infuriating confidence. The certainty that you’re not gone. That you’re just… waiting. Then he stops in front of you. The hallway hum fades. The world narrows to the space between you. Simon turns fully now, finally abandoning the pretense of coincidence. He steps closer, slow, deliberate, like he’s approaching a skittish animal he knows by heart. He lifts his hand. Not demanding. Not pulling. Just offering. His voice is rough when he speaks. “Come on.” Two words. Loaded with years of battles, shared blood, whispered promises in the dark. You look at his hand. You remember the fight. The anger. The hurt. You remember every reason you should make him wait longer.