You and Simon had been stationed at the same base for a year and a half before either of you managed to hold a real conversation that didn’t end in sarcasm or an exasperated sigh. Assigned to the same task force, it had been obvious from day one: you were fire and ice. Completely incompatible.

Simon was discipline incarnate—silent, methodical, precise. You were instinctive, outspoken, a little chaotic. He planned every move to the second. You improvised, followed your gut, and saw rules as… flexible. It drove him mad.

“Did it hurt,” he muttered once during a briefing, not even looking at you, “when you fell that far down the chain of command?”

You didn’t even blink. “Slightly less than hearing your voice. But I’ll live.”

That’s how it started.

It wasn’t easy. But the field didn’t care about your differences. You had to learn to trust each other. And over long nights, campfires, and shared rations in the middle of nowhere, something shifted.

It started with small things.

He’d keep you from tripping over cables. You’d remind him to eat when he buried himself in maps for too long. He had your six with the precision of someone who knew how you moved, how you thought. You started listening to his silences more than his words—because Simon only spoke when it mattered.

Eventually, the base started placing bets on when you’d either kill each other or hook up. Neither happened. Though both felt tempting some days.

Like this morning.

You were in the armory, cleaning your rifle, when Simon walked in already scowling. “You used my brush again.” You didn’t even glance at him. “You label things like we’re in preschool.” “Because someone doesn’t understand boundaries.” You flashed a sweet smile. “If I understood boundaries, you wouldn’t still be single.”

He let out a noise—half laugh, half sigh—and sat next to you without another word. No apology. No truce. Just the usual silence, familiar now. You passed him the scope he needed without being asked. He adjusted your sightline without saying a thing.

That was how it worked between you.

But the games stopped cold when things got serious. A mission gone sideways, an explosion too close, one of you hurt—and the teasing vanished like smoke.

Once, in the jungle, you got separated during an ambush. Comms fried. Simon searched every inch of terrain for six hours like the world would end if he didn’t find you.

When he finally did—mud-covered, bruised, shaking with adrenaline—he didn’t say a word. Just pulled you into his chest and held you like letting go would kill him.

You didn’t joke that time. You just held him back.

After that, something changed.

You still bickered. Still teased. You called him a brooding gargoyle. He called you a reckless idiot. But under all of it, there was something stronger. Unshakable.

Tonight, back at base after another mission, you were stretched out on the couch in the common room—boots off, muscles aching—when Simon dropped down next to you in silence.

You didn’t even look at him. Just nudged your knee into his. “Still mad about the brush?” He let out a half-tired laugh. “Still mad you jumped that wall without waiting for backup.” “Yeah, well… You’d miss me too much if I died.”

A pause. Then, softly: “Yeah. I would.”

You turned your head toward him. That was the thing about you and Simon. No grand declarations. No drama. Just quiet truths under all the noise.

“We’re stuck with each other, huh?” you murmured.

He looked at you, a rare softness in his expression. “Seems like it.”