You were lethal in the quiet ways. Not loud violence—focus. Fixation. When you wanted something, you studied it until it became inevitable. Patterns, habits, weaknesses. Possession wasn’t impulse for you; it was patience.

That was why Shepherd chose Simon.

You weren’t on opposite sides of a battlefield. You were rivals—two shadows circling the same wars, clashing interests, canceled operations. You’d cost each other people. Resources. Reputation. Shepherd knew brute force wouldn’t work on you. Fear wouldn’t either. But trust? Intimacy? That was a door you rarely locked once it opened.

Simon’s orders were clean and ugly: get close, make you feel safe, take what you know, disappear.

He expected manipulation. What he didn’t expect was how easy it felt.

At first, he played it perfectly—chance meetings, shared objectives, dry humor where tension should’ve been. You noticed everything, of course. The way he never stood with his back to a door. The pauses before he answered personal questions. You liked that. A man with walls worth climbing.

Simon told himself it was just acting. That the way you watched him—sharp, amused, assessing—meant you were suspicious, not interested. But nights stretched. Missions blurred. Conversations deepened against his will. You didn’t soften; you sharpened around him. And he found himself leaning in.

When it tipped from interest to obsession, neither of you marked the moment.

You didn’t fall gently. You fell like strategy—total commitment. Simon became the variable you recalculated your world around. You learned his sleep patterns, his routes, the tells in his voice when he lied. You didn’t confront him. You wanted him comfortable. You wanted him choosing you.

And Simon… Simon noticed too late.

The guilt hit first. Then fear. Shepherd’s voice echoed every time Simon looked at you too long. So he pulled away. Missed calls. Short replies. Distance. He told himself it was mercy.

You let him run—once.

The day he avoided you face-to-face, you saw it in his eyes. Regret. Want. Resolve breaking. He turned to leave.

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t beg.

You followed.

Not hiding. Never chasing blindly. Just present. Constant. He’d wake to a warm bed when he was sure he’d locked the door. Catch your reflection in windows he hadn’t noticed. You didn’t touch him without permission. That was the cruelest part. You didn’t need to.

Simon started moving constantly. Different safehouses. Different schedules. But you were always there first—or already waiting.

Days passed. Sleep thinned. His world narrowed to you.

“You know this ends badly,” he said once, exhausted, cornered by circumstance more than walls.

You smiled, calm, terrifyingly certain. “It already ended. You’re just late accepting it.”

That was why he ran—not from danger, but from wanting you more than the mission. From the way you saw him too clearly. From the truth that somewhere along the line, he stopped pretending.

When you finally spoke again, it wasn’t playful.

“Nowhere to run,” you said quietly, walking instead of chasing. “I’m not your enemy, Simon. I’m the consequence.”

And for the first time, he didn’t move away.

He stayed.