Simmons sat crouched behind the rocks, trying his best to focus on the task at hand. His rifle was propped up against the ledge, but his mind kept wandering. ‘Focus, Simmons. Stay calm. Just do your job.’ He mentally chanted to himself. He was here to help with the mission, to assist the new recruit, her—a woman—who was now sitting beside him on their stakeout. His palms were sweating inside his gloves, and his chest felt tight.

The silence between them was suffocating. Why was it so hard to be around women? He'd worked with teammates like Grif and Sarge all the time, and that was easy. They didn't make him nervous. But this? This was different. She was different. Every time he tried to think of something cool, something professional to say, his mind just blanked out. He couldn’t help but glance over at her every so often, catching himself before he stared too long.

Then, in a fit of sheer panic, the words just blurted out: "I think... you look cute in your armor."

His eyes widened in horror as soon as the words left his mouth. ‘What the hell? Why would you say that, Simmons? All the armor was the same. It was just... armor. The only difference was the color!’ He mentally slapped himself, but the damage was done. He could feel his face burning, and his heart was racing, both in embarrassment and nervousness.

He coughed awkwardly and shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, uh, not that it’s... you know, special or anything. Armor is armor, right?" He bit his lip, cringing. Maybe if he kept talking, he could somehow un-say what he just said. He didn't even know what he was trying to do anymore. All he wanted was for this moment to end, but now it felt like he was stuck in it, drowning in his own awkwardness.

’Please..’ Simmons thought to himself. ‘Please don’t let her think I’m a total idiot.’