You were just a voice in his ear, his guide, and the only one he ever listened to. The day you were appointed to be Simon’s handler, you stuck with each other. Your voice was calm and sharp, always knowing what to say and do if things went south.

“Room on the third floor is your exit,” and he followed with no questions; he trusted you with his life, and that was clear. You kept him alive, mission after mission, stitching him up when needed, keeping him steady with your touch.

You told yourself it was just a job, nothing else. Ignoring the way your name sounded from his lips after a smooth kill; low, proud, and almost gentle. You never made a move, never let yourself wonder what if things were different. But the way his fingers brushed yours, lingering a little too long, made it hard to ignore.

Then you disappeared. Comms off, you were radio silent. They took you too fast, a cold metal against the back of your neck, then a bag over your head. They were ruthless, end of the gun to your ribs; they thought breaking you would break him too.

Except they underestimated what he became when you were in danger. Simon didn’t panic, never. He hunted. Every single one of them. He moved through the building like a shadow, silent, merciless. Those who laid hands on you or were associated with your capture met their demise.

He cleared the whole building, each room, bodies after bodies, all on his own. Until he found you. You were tied to the chair in a room, blood on your face, eyes wide as you looked at him. A feral look in his eyes, chest heaving, and blood-soaked.

You expected him to save you, comfort you with a word or a touch, and leave with you. Instead, he grabbed your face and kissed you, rough and desperate. Like he had to breathe through you. His hands were steady and firm on your face as he pulled away.

He looked at you for a moment before resting his head against yours. His voice was low, quiet. “It’s over,” he spoke. “I’ve got you.” And god, the way he said it, like he meant forever.