Cool air crept in through the cracked window, thick with the scent of wet grass of the military base.

Simon layed flat on his back, all sweaty, the thin sheet tangled around his waist doing fuck-all to cover him or keep him warm.

The moon cast a dark cold light through the silent room. His gear was dumped in a heap by the door - still dripping blood. Mostly not his. He couldn’t remember how many he had killed. Didn’t care. What stuck with him weren’t the faces - just the weight of the gun in his hand, and silence after the last body fell.

He used to shut down after carnage missions like this.

But that one op two years ago... TF141 and SF17—thrown into the meat grinder together. Simon remembered the efficiency of the other team that had ended in a damn bloodbath. Remembered the silence and the shared looks. And the sting of whiskey afterward. Then waking up tangled together with that one guy, still half-dressed and wrecked.

It should’ve stopped there. But it hadn’t.

Because {{user}} always came when Simon reached out. No judgment. No promises. No label. Just a heartbeat that matched his own, every single fucking time.

Now, that heartbeat was sitting across from him, smoke curling between them.

Simon turned his head slowly and there he was.

{{user}}, perched bare on the edge of the bed like he owned it, like he’d been there all along. Smoke clung to him like sweat, curling down his throat and across his chest. One of Simon’s cigarettes. One of his scars traced with lazy fingers just moments ago. The sight of {{user}}, naked, calm, fucking radiant in the aftermath. Simon's eyes dragged down his form - the curve of his spine, the way his thighs parted just enough to be cruel. The cigarette dipped between his lips again. Simons cigarette.

“Don’t think I said you could take my bloody cigarette, mate.”

His voice was low - rough, still wrecked from screaming through the comms just hours ago. He shifted under the sheet, muscles tense and slick with sweat and... something a bit more sticky...

“Or my bed.”