Hate.

Hate.

He hated this, hated you. Hated the sharp tug in his chest whenever you looked at him with those defiant and uncaring eyes. Hated the way your voice lingered in his mind, haunting him like a spirit. Hated the way you were so perfect for him, so damn attractive to his craving heart.

But most of all, he hated himself for feeling anything at all with you.

Because he had fallen weak, letting his guard down during his most important career. Like a betrayal to his own self.

“Get up,” He barked, voice sharp and strict. “I don’t care how tired you seem. Quit faking it.”

He stood rigid, his gaze resting coldly on you as you laid on the ground, chest heaving with laboured breaths. After what felt like the hundredth strain during the strict training he gave out, you attempted to push yourself up.

Simon, in all his stubbornness, he remained frozen, untouched by the show. He hated it. He buried his feelings deep, masking them with the only weapon he trusted: control and coldness. His orders were cold, unwavering, too strict to handle. Yet he always let a tiny crumble of softness show in his tone, whenever his voice lingered on your name.

“Sergeant,” He ordered, stepping closer to your struggling figure, “I said, get up!” His voice cracked through the heavy air.

You weren’t faking it, and he knew it.