This story was beautiful. Complex, but beautiful. It began with hesitant steps, cautious touches, the slow unraveling of walls. The first argument, the first reconciliation, passion burning away restraint. Then, bolder hands, confident and knowing. He loved you—more than anything. And you loved him.

It was a rare bond, one that thrived in both light and darkness. Even after moving in together, you never tired of each other. You knew when to give space, when to pull close. Countless nights on the couch, countless more tangled in the sheets.

And he remembered it all. Because you couldn’t.

He never asked you to leave the SAS—how could he, when you worried for him just as much? But it was easier to watch over each other. Until the day he failed.

The head injury nearly took you. Doctors fought for your life, promised no lasting damage. And for a while, they were right. Then, a year ago, small things started slipping away.

Simon took you to every specialist. They all said the same thing—train your memory, keep it sharp. But nothing stopped the slow unraveling. They let you retire early. Simon stayed close. Watching. Dreading.

And today, his heart caved in.

You sat beside him on the couch as he spoke about Price, Soap, and the others. Then you looked at him, eyes blank, unfamiliar.

"Who are they?"

His breath hitched. His world stilled.

"Our… my colleagues, {{user}}. You worked with them for years. You don’t… remember?"

Your silence said it all.

And Simon knew—one day, you would forget him too.

All he could do was remind you. Again and again, until there was nothing left.