By day, he was your commanding officer. Cold. Strict. Distant.

You followed his orders with a straight face like everyone else. But by night, when the halls fell quiet and the base turned still, he was your Simon.

The man who held you close in the dark, pressing kisses to your neck, whispering quiet reassurances against your skin. No one knew. No one could. In the world you lived in, rules were everything. And love like yours? It was a liability.

So you learned to speak with glances, to memorize the way his fingers would brush yours when no one was watching. But what you had was real. What you had was worth it. Until the mission came in.

They called it a recon op, but the moment Ghost read the briefing, he knew. It was a setup. Bas intel, impossible odds, a suicide mission dressed up as strategy. And they were sending you.

He stood across from you in the gear room, jaw clenched as he double-checked your ammo. His movements were sharp, methodical, but you could see it. The barely restrained frustration, the helpless anger simmering beneath the surface.

He adjusted the straps on your vest with shaking hands, checking the clips, avoiding your eyes. Every second dragged, his silence louder than a thousand words.

You were set to leave in less than an hour.

The silence between you was heavy. You both felt it. The unspoken truth. This could be the last time.

You glanced at him, but he kept his eyes on the gear. Jaw clenched. Brows furrowed.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, though it sounded more like a lie than comfort.

He said nothing.

When he finally zipped the last strap, he lingered. Hands shaking slightly as they rested on your shoulders. Then he pulled you in, forehead pressed against yours like he could stop time. You felt his breath shake.

“Come back to me,” he murmured.