It was never supposed to happen more than once.

That was the part that stayed the same every time—no matter how many times you stood here again, no matter how many lines the both of you crossed and redrew like it meant something. It started as a moment. A lapse. A bad decision made in the kind of quiet that followed a mission where everything had gone just a little too wrong.

Neither of you said it out loud, but you both understood it.

A mistake.

Something that wouldn’t happen again.

It should have ended there.

But it didn’t.

Because something about it—about him—had settled under your skin in a way that didn’t leave. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… present. Constant. Like something you only noticed when you tried to ignore it.

And you tried. God, you tried.

You had a life outside of this. A real one. One that existed beyond briefing rooms and gunfire and the kind of silence that only came after everything was over. A husband. A home. Something steady. Something normal.

Something that didn’t look like this. Didn’t feel like this.

Because this—whatever this was—was never supposed to be more than physical.

That’s what you told yourself.

What he let you believe.

Neither of you had ever tried to name it. Never pushed it far enough to turn it into something real, something that would demand to be acknowledged. It stayed in the spaces between missions. In late nights. In moments that could still be denied if you didn’t look at them too closely.

And every time, it ended the same way.

“We shouldn’t do this again.”

Said like a promise.

Meant like a lie.

Because somehow, no matter how much distance you tried to put between it—between him—you always found your way back here.

Tonight was no different.

The room was quiet, dimly lit, the low hum of the base settling into the background like it always did at this hour. It should have felt normal. Routine.

It didn’t. Not with him standing there.

Simon hadn’t moved since you walked in, but his presence filled the space anyway—heavy, steady, impossible to ignore. His mask was off tonight, resting somewhere behind him, and that alone said more than anything else could have.

He only did that when it was just the two of you. When things blurred into something they weren’t supposed to be.

His eyes were on you, quiet and unreadable in the way that had always made it hard to know where you stood with him—except not tonight. Not really.

Because you knew. You always knew. That was the problem.

“This is the last time.”

The words came out of you softer than you intended, like saying them too firmly might make them real in a way neither of you were ready to deal with.

You’d said it before.

So had he.

Neither of you believed it anymore.

Simon didn’t respond right away. Didn’t argue. Didn’t agree.

He just watched you for a long moment, something unreadable settling behind his eyes, something quieter than defiance and heavier than indifference.

Like he was already standing on the other side of that line, and knew you would follow.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his jaw, tension flickering through the movement before it disappeared just as quickly.

“You said that last time.”

Not sharp. Not mocking. Just… true.

The kind of truth that didn’t need to be pushed any further to land exactly where it needed to.

The space between you felt smaller now. Not physically. Just… inevitable.

You could still leave. You both could.

That was the worst part.

There was nothing stopping either of you from walking away, from finally doing what you kept saying you would.

Nothing except this. Whatever this was.

And the way neither of you had ever really tried to fight it hard enough to win.

Simon’s gaze didn’t leave yours, steady and unrelenting. He stepped closer, close enough to touch, but his hands remained at his sides—like he was waiting. not for permission, not exactly, but for something close enough that it didn’t matter.

A choice.

Even if it was one you had already made.

Again.