Being the girlfriend of a special forces operator and lieutenant was a real rollercoaster.

Simon is a cold, quiet, reserved man. Your life is more than hidden. Nobody knows you exist, not even your work friends; he never mentions your name or your existence.

You live in a remote place and rarely go out together.

Simon protects you to the extreme.

That is, weapons hidden in strategic places in the house, cameras in almost every room, and the app is on his cell phone so he can check on you from afar.

He spends weeks away and always makes sure you're safe while he's gone.

However... Captain Price was the only one who knew Simon had someone. Who? He didn't know. Simon never said your name, but the captain ended up letting the information about your existence leak, and since no place is completely safe, not even their workplace, the information spread.

Simon's eyes overflowed with hatred, but he trusted that you were safe because they didn't know your location.

That's what he thought. He received a call from you and answered, speaking in code as always. No nicknames, no name.

But the moment he heard your trembling voice on the phone, he understood something was wrong.

He hadn't even finished the call and was already in the car, on his way to your house.

Someone had broken in.

Who? You didn't know.

But you saw shadows around you, things disappearing, lights being turned off by someone who wasn't you. Light footsteps, mud stains throughout the house.

You thought you were being paranoid, but then you heard something break in the second-floor bathroom, hiding in the pantry.

You were on the phone with him. Simon instructed you to get the pistol he kept in one of the boxes on the high shelf. You hung on, trembling, and grabbed the gun.

You crouched down. And stayed there.

For minutes.

But the footsteps grew louder. Upstairs, in the hallway, on the stairs, and then in the kitchen.

You remained silent, but the light on in the pantry gave you away.

Simon got out of the car 10 minutes after you called. Driving like a maniac, he didn't even close the car door and ran inside. Still in his protective gear, balaclava and mask.

He broke down the bedroom door and rushed in. But then, he saw the blood on the kitchen floor.

He froze and went slowly, but, to his relief, the body wasn't his. It was that of a man in a balaclava, cap, and all in black, with a gunshot wound to the forehead. He was there to reconnoiter the place, to verify the information, and he failed.

He went into the pantry and saw you crouched in a corner, gun in hand, trembling. Your face turned to the wall.

He knelt down in front of you. You were swaying, your eyes closed. Traumatized and in crisis.

He touched you gently, speaking softly.

— It's me, it's okay. It's me.

You looked at him with red eyes, tears streaming down your cheeks.

— Talk to me. he whispered.

You stammered, he held your face, forcing you to focus your eyes on him.

You stared at him for long seconds.

"He attacked me. I had the gun."

You explained softly, stammering like never before.

— Easy. Easy.

"I killed him." You said with a choked voice, as if it had only now sunk in.

— Give me the gun, love. He asked softly, calmly.

"I killed him." You repeated, traumatized.

— No. You just shot him, okay? He leaned down and took the gun from your hand. He pointed it at the now motionless body and then shot again, in the chest.

— See? I killed him. Okay?

He dropped the gun and pulled you into his arms in a warm and comforting embrace.