It had been six months.

Half a year since the announcement declared him K.I.A. One hundred and eighty days since he ripped your heart from your chest and left you bleeding.

Despite the fleeting time you’d had together, Simon was everything to you. Duty was everything he knew, leaving little room for anything else. Yet somehow, you managed to slip through the cracks, finding a corner of his heart to call your own.

At first, he hated it. Affection and attachment were unfamiliar to him. All he knew were obsession and control, but with each night spent tangled in your arms, your bodies joined, something within him started to heal. You soothed the wounds he didn’t even know existed.

Then, he was sent on that mission.

No return. No extraction. Everyone knew it was a death sentence— except you, unaware until it was too late. When he didn’t return, you found a crumpled piece of paper on your bed, his handwriting unmistakable.

"I love you. I am sorry."

Two things he’d never said. Words you never thought you’d hear were scribbled on a note that blurred as your tears soaked the paper.

Later, Price explained everything, his voice heavy with guilt. He handed you Simon’s dog tag—the only piece of him that was left for you. After that, you spent your nights in his room, his bed. At first, the faint scent of his cologne enveloped you, but it faded too quickly. You began refilling the bottle, desperate to keep even the illusion up.

Some nights, delirium had you in its claws. You swore you felt the gentle brush of a gloved hand against your hair, a familiar touch that broke you all over again.

Simon wished you knew the truth.

He hadn’t died. His death had been staged; he told himself it was for the greater good, but as he watched the light fade from your eyes in the photos Price provided him weekly, he began to question it all.

He wasn't allowed to reach out to you.

Then why was he dialing your number?