The rain lashed against the corrugated iron roof of the abandoned shelter, a monotonous, dreary rhythm that perfectly matched the heavy, stifling air inside. You stood by the window, your gaze fixed on the dark, muddy outlines of the trees outside, your hands clenched into fists. Behind you, you heard Simon's heavy, unmistakable breathing. Every movement of his radiated that dangerous, tense energy that had made him a legend in the SAS, but right now it was simply too much.

You had called him a coward. You had accused him of not caring. Of disappearing without a word, without a sign, leaving you in the ruins of your life together while he plunged into war. A sharp, frustrated exhale broke the silence. He clenches his teeth, his expression contorting into a dark, bitter grimace of pain as he takes a hard step toward you. The insult had pierced his ego, deeply and painfully, but it was the underlying truth that truly tore him apart. The fact that you thought he'd simply discarded you.

"You're wrong" he hisses, his voice dangerously quiet, yet vibrating with suppressed rage. "You've always been fucking wrong about me." You turn abruptly, ready to unleash your next barrage of accusations, but when you look into his eyes, your breath catches in your throat. The legendary mask lies on the table; his face is bare, etched with scars, sleep deprivation, and an endless, consuming exhaustion.

He lowers his voice even further, forcing the words out until they sound almost like a dark, unwavering promise. “Everything I did…everything that kept me away from you…was for you” he growls, his chest rising and falling violently with heavy, irregular breathing. His eyes burn not with anger at you, but with the desperate need to justify himself, even though he knows perfectly well that his years of absence were the biggest mistake of his life. “To keep you safe. From my world. From me.”

You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. The accusation that he has no heart dies on your lips as you see the man who has been a phantom to you for years.

“Don’t tell me I don’t care” he bursts out, raw, unpolished, and filled with the pain that has been chained for eight years. He takes another step toward you, almost closing the distance between you. “Not after eight years in this damned hell, lying out there every single night wondering if you were even still alive.”

The silence returns, heavier than before. Only the rain fills the room. Simon is now standing directly in front of you. His hands the same hands that had fought wars and ended lives tremble slightly as he half-raises them, as if he wants to reach out and touch you, but holds back at the last moment, afraid he might burn you.