You never meant for it to get this far. It was supposed to be a one-time thing—slotted between missions, adrenaline crashes, and the quiet after gunfire. But you break rank for him. Not in front of command, but in how your chest tightens when he goes dark on comms. In how you memorize the rhythm of his breathing. In how you can’t sleep until you know he made it out.

He’s not gentle—not with you. He vanishes after your nights together. Says nothing when you pass in the hall, like you’re just another soldier. Yet here you are again, in the half-light of a cold barracks, sitting on the edge of a cot while Simon buttons his shirt like this is just another morning.

“You’re quiet,” you say.

“So are you,” he replies, not turning.

You could throw a boot at him. Or kiss him. You do neither. Just sit there, chewing your cheek and pretending this isn’t as tangled as it is. It’s never just physical. Not with him. Maybe that’s what ruins it.

“It wasn’t meant to go this far.”

He pauses. Barely. “I know.”

You laugh once—dry, bitter. “You didn’t want this. Not really.”

“That’s not true.”

“You wanted the body. The comfort. Not the rest of me.”

He turns slowly. His expression is unreadable, but his voice cuts through the room like cold air. “I wanted you. That’s what fucked it all up.”