It started with a mission briefing.

Tension had been building between them for weeks — stress, blurred lines, sleepless nights, stolen moments that weren’t supposed to mean anything, but did.

That morning, they’d been at each other’s throats.

“You’re not focused,” he’d barked, arms crossed, tone sharp. “This mission’s a mess already and you’re walking in like it’s a pub crawl.”

“Oh, piss off, Simon. Don’t pull rank to hide your guilt. You’re the one who wanted this to stay ‘professional’ and now you don’t even look at me unless you’re barking orders.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“No. You’re trying to protect yourself.”

And then she’d said the worst part — the thing that stuck in his head like shrapnel.

“Whatever’s between us — it was a mistake.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t follow her when she stormed out.

Didn’t stop her.

⸻

The mission dropped them into hell.

They were split from the rest of the team, just the two of them clearing a flank. She was ahead, eyes sweeping, back tense. He moved to her side — saw the sniper half a second too late.

She didn’t.

But she saw the glint off the scope.

He remembered her scream, ragged and desperate: “SIMON, DOWN!”

But he didn’t hit the ground fast enough.

Because she stepped in front of him.

The bullet slammed into her chest. Right side. Clean through, but it knocked her flat. Blood spilled fast. Faster than he could stop it. He dropped to his knees, tore open her vest, pressed down with his bare hands.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again and again, even when she couldn’t respond.

Then someone stabbed him — ribs, deep — while he shielded her body with his own. He shot them point blank and kept moving. Never let go of her. Not once.

⸻

They med-evaced her first. She was in worse shape.

They told him she coded once in the chopper.

They sent her home — to the house they barely dared to call theirs, because it meant admitting this was more than it should be. A nurse checked on her daily. She couldn’t walk. Could barely eat. Couldn’t breathe without gasping.

Simon wasn’t told until three days later.

He didn’t even change out of his gear. Still had dried blood on his shirt when he got to the house. His jaw clenched.

He walked over without saying a word, pulled a chair next to the bed, and sat.