You were a Sergeant, a sniper, precise to the point of cruelty—and far too soft for what you felt for him. Everyone on the team knew it. Simon did too. He had made it clear: no relationship, not with him. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he would not survive losing you.

The flight back to base was quieter than usual. The roar of the rotors drowned out thoughts, but not the disappointment. For weeks you had been tracking Makarov—shadows in foreign cities, breath held, triggers counted. And once again, he had slipped away.

The common room smelled of cold metal and cheap alcohol. Soap stared into nothingness. Roach sat with his arms crossed. Gaz downed one shot after another. Captain Price said little, his gaze heavy. Simon Riley said nothing at all. The Lieutenant of Task Force 141 was, as always, a blade: sharp, cold, lethal. You knew that silence. You knew him.

The alcohol made the conversations louder. Less filtered. Simon hadn’t moved since you arrived, yet his gaze followed you across the room without him realizing it—or admitting it.

The alcohol made Gaz talkative. Too talkative. He leaned against the table beside you, his laughter a little too loud, the distance a little too small.

“Do you have any idea how damn dangerous you are?” he said with a grin, lifting his glass. “Not because of the sniper stuff. Because of the rest.”

You roll your eyes, try to brush it off, but Roach joins in, one arm resting loosely on the back of the bench behind you. “He’s right. If we weren’t on the same team…” He laughs, crooked, drunk. “You’d be real trouble.”

It’s meant harmlessly. Stupid. Drunk. But you feel it immediately.

The temperature in the room shifts.

Simon is suddenly there. You didn’t hear him approach. He says nothing, but his hand settles firmly on Roach’s shoulder. No pressure—not yet. Just a reminder of what that hand is capable of.

“Roach. Gaz. Enough,” he says quietly.

Gaz raises his hands defensively. “Easy, Lieutenant. Just kidding.”

Simon’s gaze doesn’t move. His eyes are dark, dangerously calm. Possessive in a way he had never allowed himself to be with you—and now can’t hide.

Just before midnight, you all head outside. The cold bites, the sky is clear, the stars sharp and distant. Fireworks bloom over the city—faraway bursts of light. For a moment, even the inner wars fall silent.

You feel him behind you before you see him. Simon stands close—so close that his presence warms your shoulders. His lips find your ear, his breath smelling of alcohol and something unspoken.

“I would really like to kiss you right now.”

The words hit harder than any recoil. There it is again—that longing for closeness, for something tangible. For proof that you were more than orders and scars. You don’t turn around. If you did, you would fall. And Simon did not fall.

Behind you, Soap and Gaz count down the seconds. Roach grins crookedly. Price raises his glass. A new year begins with thunder and light. Simon remains where he is, his hand close to yours, not touching. Possessive, yet restrained. Jealous of a life he would not allow you to have—because he himself was never allowed to want it.

You’re not sure how to respond, but he—and you—need an answer.