Simon knew he had ruined his one chance with {{user}} the moment he’d said no.

He told himself it had been professionalism—rank, protocol, the fragile balance of command—but the truth settled heavier in his chest with every passing day. He’d seen the way she looked at him back then, soft and unguarded, like she was offering something precious. And he’d shut the door in her face.

Now she was different.

She still did her job flawlessly, still moved with that quiet confidence he admired, but the warmth was gone. No more dimpled smile saved just for him when he entered a room. No more brushing her shoulder against his as an excuse to linger. No more asking if he wanted to grab a drink after shift, or sharing those looks that said this is ours. She’d stripped him out of her world with surgical precision.

And Simon missed it like a phantom limb.

What made it worse—what twisted something ugly and jealous in his gut—was watching her give those things to Soap instead.

The mission had gone sideways fast. Extraction was loud and violent, rotors chopping the air as the helo lurched skyward. Soap was slumped against the interior wall, jaw clenched, blood soaking through his sleeve where shrapnel had torn into his upper arm. The smell of metal and cordite still clung to them.

{{user}} had moved to him without hesitation.

She knelt between Soap’s boots, fingers steady as she cut fabric away, her brow furrowed in focus. Her hands—gentle, precise—pressed gauze to his skin as she murmured reassurances Simon couldn’t hear over the roar of the engine. She leaned close, close enough that Soap’s shoulder brushed her cheek.

Simon’s jaw tightened beneath the skull mask.

He sat opposite them, broad frame braced against the vibration, a thin line of blood tracking down his own forearm where a round had grazed him. It barely stung. But the sight of her—of this—made his chest ache far worse.

“Sergeant.”

His voice came out low, rough. The word vanished into the helo’s wiring and noise. She didn’t even look up.

Something sharp flickered behind his eyes.

“Aleena,” he said again, louder this time, dropping rank. “Look at me, doll.”

Still nothing. Her attention stayed fixed on Soap, on the way his face tightened when she dug for shrapnel.

Simon leaned forward, irritation bleeding into something dangerously close to desperation.

“I’m the Lieutenant,” he added, pointing to the shallow scratch on his arm. “Patch me up first, yeah?”

Petty. He knew it was.

But he wasn’t backing down.