The cult of personality was something that Simon had always found difficult to understand.

He wasn't used to respecting people just for their name or status. Sure, he shook hands with generals at official award ceremonies, but that didn't mean he didn't stare at them with disapproval, knowing full well that their stupid policies had cost innocent people their lives. He needed to see the person in action, get to know them in panic and stress, in order to respect them for the qualities and actions that he saw himself.

But, without realizing it, he became the very person into whose personal life everyone was constantly poking their noses.

Damn mysterious aura.

Simon didn't do it on purpose. His reluctance to divulge information about his relatives or his partner was not intended to make it look playful. He actually believed that these facts about his personal life did not matter in the slightest when it came to planning an operation or landing in a war zone.

But that didn't stop people from speculating. Johnny was the one who was most interested in whether or not Simon has a partner. Of course, they were the best of friends, the best of those who could ever be at the unit. But Simon was good at keeping secrets, and his mouth was sometimes harder to open than Price's fucking vault with his favorite cigars.

Johnny never stopped looking for signs of a significant other in Simon's life. And although the words definitely wouldn't have told him anything, the letters had.

"Don't think there's a singer with that name, LT."

Simon froze in the middle of his speech when Johnny whistled and said something in his usual playful way. However, he immediately realized what it was about. The short sleeve of his T-shirt did not hide his arms, especially the forearm of his left hand, which was covered with tattoos. And damn the day he mentioned to MacTavish that every line has its own meaning.

"Bloody hell..." Simon exhaled, barely able to contain a growl.

Because the secret was revealed. Because he had your name on his arm.