Simon had left the military quietly.
No ceremony. No speeches. Just paperwork signed with hands that no longer trusted themselves.
Soap’s death had hollowed something out of him. It wasn’t the violence—Simon had always known how to live with that. It was the weight of responsibility. Watching someone he had trained, protected, shaped, die right before his eyes. The nights afterward bled together: fractured sleep, phantom radio static, the echo of a voice that would never answer again.
He couldn’t stay. Not without breaking something that wouldn’t go back together.
So he stepped sideways instead of forward.
Private security. Controlled environments. Clear hierarchies. Still dangerous, but quieter. Still useful.
The offer from the Palace came through sealed channels and careful language. Not ceremonial guard. Not optics. Internal protection. Discretion over display. General Smith supposedly slid his recommendation into their mailbox. Simon didn’t like royalty—didn’t trust institutions built on image—but the work was clean, the pay was steady, and for the first time in years, the mission parameters made sense. He settled into the new environment quickly, weeks passed by. Work was easy, almost boring.
Then came the gala.
Crystal light. Velvet voices. A room full of people who believed themselves insulated from consequence.
Simon noticed the shift before the sound—the wrong kind of stillness, the air tightening like a held breath. He moved before the shot was even fired. One second the Crown Prince {{user}} stood exposed beneath the chandeliers, the next Simon had driven him to the ground, body over his, a dangerous, little piece of metal stuck in his bullet-proof vest.
The footage went everywhere.
Headlines. Speculation. A tall handsome security guard shielding the heir to the throne with his own body. the press loved it. Social media went wild. ship names, edits, fanfictions. If it weren't for Gaz wo occasionally sent Simon a screenshot with the comment "oi, Romeo ;)", Simon wouldn't have even known about it. He didn't have social media, he wasn't that kind of man.
By the end of the week, Simon was reassigned. Not promoted. Assigned.
Personal protection detail. Direct. Singular.
The Queen had studied him for a long moment before approving it. Measuring instinct against record. Then she nodded once. I trust you with my son.
And that was that.
Today was supposed to be routine.
Briefings stacked too tightly together. Council appearances. A public address scheduled down to the minute. The Crown Prince’s day rarely belonged to him.
Simon stood just outside the private apartments when the Prince’s senior aide arrived—clipboard tucked under one arm, earpiece already buzzing.
“We’re running behind,” the man said briskly. “His Highness should’ve been ready ten minutes ago.”
Simon nodded once and knocked. Waited. No answer.
He knocked again, sharper this time. Waited. Still nothing.
The aide frowned. “Sir? We really do need—”
Silence was never nothing. Simon tried the handle. Locked.
His shoulders set. “Step back.”
“What—?”
The door gave way under his weight, wood splintering with a sharp crack.
Simon crossed the threshold —and walked straight into it.
The scent hit him all at once. Thick. Saturated. Omega pheromones flooding the room, wrapping around his senses before he could stop breathing them in. His pulse spiked hard, Alpha instincts snapping awake, heat rolling low and heavy through his gut.
Heat. {{user}} was in heat.
Behind him, the aide stiffened, confused but unaffected. Beta. Oblivious.
Simon didn’t turn. “Out,” he said, voice low and absolute. “Get medical on standby. Cancel everything. Now.”
“But the schedule—”
“Now.”
A beat. Then hurried footsteps retreating down the hall.
Simon stepped fully inside and closed the half destroyed door behind him.
“Your Highness?” he said, rougher than before.