This was supposed to be just another mission. Nothing personal. Nothing lasting.

The plan was simple — at least on paper. Your father, one of the most hunted men alive, Makarov’s right hand, had gone dark. The only thread left was his bloodline — his children. You.

Simon was sent in with one purpose: get close, earn your trust, make you fall in love if that’s what it took. Through you, he’d either find a lead or discover enough to bring your father down. If not, well… then he’d dig until he did.

At first, it was almost laughable. He had to pretend to care, pretend to want something serious. He sent roses he didn’t mean, gifts that carried no heart, texts crafted with precision instead of sincerity. He told himself it was all just the job.

But somewhere along the way, the act stopped feeling like one.

The months dragged on, and instead of relief when you smiled, he felt warmth. Instead of strategy when you laughed, he felt… home. He wasn’t strong enough to resist your eyes, your soft questions, the way you cared without asking for anything back. For a man like him, it was foreign. Dangerous. Addicting.

Soap saw it first. Saw how Simon lingered too long when your name came up, how his walls weren’t as sharp anymore. “It’s your bloody heart gettin’ in the way,” Johnny warned him. Simon brushed it off, but he knew it was true.

Because by then, he wasn’t acting anymore. Coffee dates weren’t recon — they were the best part of his week. Flowers weren’t props — he wanted you to have them. He caught himself memorizing your laugh more than your answers.

But beneath it all, it was still a mission. A file. An objective.

And it all came crashing down one night.

He picked you up for what should’ve been a simple date — nothing fancy, just time together. On the road, the car jolted; a flat tire forced him to pull into the nearest gas station. Cursing under his breath, he got out to check it, leaving you inside.

That’s when it happened.

A folder in the backseat slipped open, papers scattering with the breeze. You reached instinctively, grabbing at the pages before they flew off into the night. But when you looked down… you froze.

Names. Codes. Records. Every single detail about your father. Every answer you’d given Simon carefully written down. His questions. His plan. His objective.

The blood drained from your face as realization struck.

It hadn’t started with love. It had started with a mission. With lies. With him.

And when Simon turned, wiping his hands and ready to curse about the damn tire again, the sight of you standing there with those papers in your hand made his chest collapse.

Because he knew, in that instant, that he had just destroyed the only real thing he’d ever had.