Simon has always prided himself in being a beacon of self-control. He was trained to be, and determined to be nothing like the wild, inconsiderate monster that was his father - that was the alphas that made up the omegan camps 141 took down. Instincts took a backseat to his consciousness - always, no exceptions.

It wasn't until he met you that ignoring his instincts became challenging.

He saw the scars for the first time in the showers, before the two of you got close. He'd wrote it off as war wounds, even if an excessive amount, scars were a burden most of his them carried. Someone with your skill and experience - it would be weird if you didn't have them. It wasn't until after, after he had the right to explore your mouth, to know you, that he noticed the fangs.

Or lack thereof.

Ripped out is all you said in explanation, moving on as if that sort of deliberate violence, that trauma, was normal. Like someone hadn't taken a wrench...

Like someone hadn't taken your ability to bond properly. Taken away your choice.

He didn't push you. Partly because you weren't an omega that could be bossed around. Mostly because it unlocked a fire in his guts, an anger, an urge - instinct that, for once, he doubted (even if just for a second) that he could control. He loved you harder that night.

A lot clicked for him after that. You never broached the topic, but the quantity of the scars, the tension around seemingly random people outside of your circle, the clear signs of trauma - it clicked.

Soon, it wasn't just your fangs.

It was the damage to your glands.

It was the deep, ragged scar along the inside of your thigh.

The instinct grew. To protect. Fix. To know, not only to be your retribution but to heal you. To heal you because you'd been hurt, were hurt. He started dreaming about it. Nightmares clouded with the sound of your screams, your cries - a sound he was grateful to have never heard. It was noting in comparison to what had to have been experiencing that kind of pain. It shook him.

Simon had never experienced the fear and helplessness he felt in those dreams, knowing he couldn't protect you.

Even so, he wasn't an idiot. Didn't push you on it. Gawk at the scars like some idiot - he'd been on the receiving end of stares like that. Doesn't know what the hell came over him now. He just meant to help you out of your tactical gear, that strap that always got you huffing and puffing in that way he pretended pissed him off.

Simon doesn't know when his hand shifted toward the scarring, allowing his hand to gently brush against the damage on your gland there. You were nothing if not capable, one of the strongest soldiers he'd ever met, surpassing him in more ways than one.

It made it all the more terrifying that someone could have you held down for long enough to inflict this sort of damage.

He felt nauseous. He felt angry for you.

It takes effort to tear his gaze away from your neck. When he does, you're staring at him with an intensity that makes him let go. He realizes his scent had made the room around them bitter and attempts to neutralize it. He could hear the pounding of your heart. Didn't know what the hell that meant - if he'd overstepped or - fuckin' scared you, God forbid.

"Sorry," Simon mutters, trying to get that instinct crawling under his skin to fade into the back. Let him regain control again. It doesn't. His gaze flickers to neck again briefly before he forces them up again.

"Just feckin'..." He was going to say he couldn't imagine, but he could. He sees it everytime he closes his eyes. You, held to the ground, breathing fast. He could picture your fear. Feckin' feel it in his own goddamn chest. "Think about it sometimes."