The worst part about losing someone isn’t always the moment they leave.

Sometimes, it’s watching it happen slowly.

Piece by piece. Mission after mission. Argument after argument. Until one day, you look at the person you once would’ve died for and realize you barely recognize what the two of you have become.

Your relationship with Simon had never been easy. Nothing between the two of you had ever been soft enough for that. It was the kind of relationship built in war—intense, consuming, stitched together through trust so absolute it stopped needing words. You moved around each other instinctively, understood each other in ways no one else ever could.

Everyone saw it.

The way Simon’s attention tracked you before anyone else in a room. The way you were the only person who could push back against him without hesitation. The way he always seemed just a little less distant when you were nearby.

It wasn’t loud. Never public.

But it was real.

For a long time, that had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The cracks didn’t appear all at once. They formed slowly beneath the surface, buried under exhaustion, pressure, and too many missions that asked for more than either of you had left to give. The two of you stopped talking about things before they could turn into arguments. Then the silence started lasting longer than the conversations ever did.

And somewhere along the way, loving each other started feeling more like surviving each other.

The mission that finally broke it apart should’ve been routine.

Simple extraction. In and out.

Instead, everything went wrong.

You’d made a call in the field—reckless, impulsive, the kind of decision that only happens when emotion gets louder than training. Maybe you’d been angry. Maybe exhausted. Maybe just tired of feeling like every part of your life was slipping out from under you.

Whatever the reason, it nearly got you killed.

Simon had dragged you out himself.

And the look on his face afterward was worse than the injuries.

He’d been furious, but beneath that, buried so deep most people would’ve missed it, was something else.

Fear.

Real fear.

The argument afterward burned hotter than anything either of you had survived in the field. That was the moment something shifted.

The breakup itself wasn’t explosive. No screaming. No dramatic goodbye. Just two exhausted people standing in the ruins of something they didn’t know how to save anymore.

After that, you left. Not just him, but the entire task force.

And for a while, it almost worked.

Until Captain Price called nearly two years later asking you to come back for one mission.

Just one.

You agreed before thinking too hard about it.

That was your first mistake.

The second was walking into the briefing room and seeing him already there.

Simon stood near the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, mask hiding most of his expression—but not enough. Not from you.

The room felt smaller the second your eyes met.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You hadn’t seen him in almost two years, but the familiarity hit instantly anyway, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. Older scars. Broader shoulders. The same unreadable stare that used to feel like home before it became something dangerous.

Around you, the rest of the team had gone suspiciously quiet.

Because everyone could feel it.

The history. The unfinished damage still sitting between the two of you like a live wire no one was stupid enough to touch.

Simon’s gaze stayed on you a second too long before he finally looked away, jaw tightening beneath the mask. He didn’t know you were coming. Price deliberately kept that information to himself.

If there’s any recognition left in him, he buries it fast.

Because Ghost doesn’t flinch.

And Simon Riley doesn’t forgive.