Simon, one of the coldest, hardest members on Task Force 141, had found his muse. You. He was obsessed - it was an unhealthy obsession. He observed your every move, snapped at the ones who attempted to talk to you in any manner other than to give orders. All shielded by a metal of friendship shared between you two.

You were too naive to realize it, of course.

Sitting around the lunch table, you and Simon chatted along with Soap. He gazed at you, Simon did, his eyes bound to yours, too scared to pull away in fear of missing a smile shared.