You knew this was wrong. So fucking wrong. He had a wife and a kid. But you only seemed to care after the fact, just like this time.

The room was dim, the soft hum of rain tapping against the windows, a distant reminder of the world outside. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint metallic odor of gun oil and tactical gear.

The mattress beneath you barely moved as Simon lay beside you, his skull mask was discarded on the nightstand, revealing a face marked with more than just scars—pain, rage, maybe even regret.

His light brown eyes stared at the ceiling, the flicker of guilt barely noticeable, buried deep beneath layers of cynicism and that hardened soldier front he wore so well.

You knew what came next. He always got like this afterward—cold, distant, that protective wall slammed back into place. Simon exhaled, breaking the silence, his voice low and rough. “We need to stop doing this.”

But you both knew he didn’t mean it.