Simon never wanted to believe what his teammates said about you. That you were actually the mole. He simply didn’t want to believe it. You would’ve never done something like this to him, wouldn’t you?

So, the next time you were on leave, he decided to prove them wrong. After all, you loved him, didn’t you? You possibly couldn’t be the one betraying the team. He’d fought with every one of them, defending you, crossing his own friends for you.

There you were, in a small cafè of your hometown, your nose buried in a book; 1984, to be exact, the very book he had suggested to you, to convince you that dystopian novels were actually a good read, a nice change of pace from your romance novels.

The edges of his balaclava twitched into the smallest of smiles, before he felt his heart sink.

The target they had been chasing for months, with two cups in his hands, sitting right beside you. You put the book down, accepting the cup from him with a smile, before he cupped the side of your face and pressed a chaste kiss to your temple.

And that’s when you saw Simon outside the window.