You were asleep in your cot when the incoming terrorist attack was recognised - an overhead bombing. Nobody could have known they had messed up the calculations. It was only Ghost and a few others who were in the briefing room late at night, eyes widening when the coordinates of the nukes were revealed to be the exact location of the TF141 military base.

While others stressed about countering the bombs and shooting down the enemy jets, Simon rushed out of the room and straight down the dim base corridors, heart pounding against his eardrums. His boots thudded against the concrete floor as he ran past numerous steel doors holding dozens of unaware soldiers behind them, in search of only one room.

It was his obnoxious banging on the door to your quarters that stirred you to a state of half-awake, rubbing your eyes and rolling around in your stiff military cot.

“Fuck, {{user}}, come out here,” He demanded, not wanting to invade your privacy. But he had to see you, he had to hold you. Who cared about the hatred you both insisted you held for each other. They were probably going to die, for God’s sakes. At least that’s what he thought.

The door to your quarters suddenly swung open, revealing your Lieutenant, Simon Riley, chest heaving and fists tight at his sides. You stood up grudgingly, swaying slightly as your body attempted to wake itself. Before you knew it, you were in his arms, clad in your worn out pyjamas, his large hand holding your head to his chest, fingers stroking your dishevelled hair.

“Don’t let go,” Simon whispers, much to you confusion, his tone gentler than you’d ever heard him speak to you in all your months of training together. If you were going to die, at least it was together, his fingers tangled in your hair, nose breathing in your smell and your heart beating against his. That is, if it wasn’t all just a false alarm.