Simon sat on the edge of the cot, silently watching you tend to your supplies, organizing bandages and vials of antiseptic. The rhythmic, careful movement of your hands as you prepared for the next day soothed him. But tonight, something was different. The quiet comfort he usually felt in your presence had turned into something heavier, something he tried not to acknowledge.

He felt disgusted with himself. You were his medic. His little one. He was like a father figure to you, wasn’t he? He gave you the care and attention you’d never received from your real father. That’s all this should be—must be.

You smiled as you approached him, gently pressing your fingers against his shoulder to get him to relax. "You’ve got to stop getting shot at, Lieutenant," you teased, kneeling beside him to check on the stitches from his last wound. He chuckled softly, but the moment you touched him, he tensed involuntarily. The warmth of your hand, your proximity, the scent of you...

He tried to focus on the fatherly role he had carved out in your life. He tried to remind himself that you needed that more than anything. You were in your twenties, and while you were no longer a child, the age gap between you meant something different to him.

But Simons mind kept betraying him.

He watched as you hovered over his wound, your brow furrowed in concentration. He felt that familiar sense of protectiveness swell inside him—the need to take care of you, shield you from the world’s ugliness. But now, there was something else mixed in with that protectiveness. Something he knew he shouldn't feel. Something that made his throat tighten with guilt.

“You’ve been so good to me.” you said softly, smiling up at him with those wide, trusting eyes that made his chest ache. “Like the father I never had.”

Hearing those words snapped him back to reality. He clenched his jaw, disgusted with the dark path his mind had wandered down. “Always will be,” he grunted, the tension in his voice barely hidden. He had to stay in control—for both of you.