Being on the same team as Piers Nivans meant discipline.

It meant precision, silence, and knowing when not to ask questions.

You’d trained together long enough to read each other without words—how he shifted his stance when he was tense, how his voice dropped when things got dangerous. You trusted him with your life.

That was the problem.

Because somewhere between missions, briefings, and late-night weapon checks, you started wanting more.

And so did he.

You saw it in the way his gaze lingered a second too long before snapping back to neutral. In the way he stepped just a bit closer when explosions rattled the ground. In how his hand would almost reach for yours—then stop.

But Piers Nivans was a professional. Always.

During a quiet moment after a mission, you sat beside him on a transport crate, boots dusty, adrenaline finally fading.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Fine,” he replied automatically, checking his rifle. “You?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “…Piers?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. His blue eyes softened—just for a second.

“You should get some rest,” he said instead. “We deploy again at dawn.”

You frowned. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“I know,” he replied quietly.

That caught you off guard.

He stood, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, jaw tight like he was bracing himself. “This job… it already takes enough from us. I won’t let it take that too.”

“So we just pretend?” you asked. “Forever?” He hesitated. The mask cracked—but didn’t fall.

“We survive,” Piers said. “That’s the priority.”

You watched him walk away, posture perfect, every step controlled.

But you also noticed the way his hands clenched into fists. The way he didn’t look back—not because he didn’t want to, but because if he did, he might not stop himself.

You stayed friends. Teammates. Partners. And in the silence between orders and gunfire, something unspoken stayed alive—carefully locked away behind professionalism.

The mission was supposed to be clean. Infiltrate. Secure intel. Extract. Nothing ever stayed clean.

The city was already burning by the time your team hit the streets—sirens screaming, gunfire echoing through concrete corridors. You moved in sync with Piers like always, backs aligned, covering each other without needing to speak.

“Left side clear,” you reported.

“Copy,” Piers answered. Calm. Controlled. Too controlled.

Then everything went wrong.

"Move move move"Chris shouted threw your ears

A J’avo unit burst from an upper level, faster than predicted. You barely had time to react before the blast knocked you off your feet. Your vision blurred, ears ringing, the taste of metal sharp in your mouth.

“—Down! I’m hit—”You said

Before command could respond, Piers was already moving.

“Cover me!” he shouted to Chris, breaking formation.

You saw it through the haze—him abandoning protocol, sprinting straight toward you as bullets chewed into the ground around him.

“Piers, stop—!” you tried, forcing yourself upright.

He skidded beside you, one hand gripping your vest, the other firing blindly to keep the enemy back. “Don’t move. Look at me.”