The rain pounded against the windows as Simon Riley turned his back on you. Not because he was strong. But because otherwise he would have held on to you.
“You’re suffocating me.” Three words. A lie he told himself.
He heard your smile behind him — that damned smile with which you always tried to make everything right. He heard it, and it made him angry. At you. At himself. At that weakness in his chest that tore open every time you came too close.
He left before he could change his mind.
Three days.
Three days without your voice. Without your laughter. Without your calm hands that kept him from sinking back into old battles at night.
On the third day, he watched your signal disappear from the map.
No dot. No location.
His stomach tightened.
“Damn it,” he growled quietly. He knew you had planned to go to a club with your friends.
He called you. Once. Twice. Ten times. No answer.
Anger crept up his throat, burning hot. Not the cold fury of combat — this was worse. Personal. Uncontrollable.
Scenarios flooded his mind. Strange men. Dark streets. Alcohol. Hands touching you.
He clenched his fists. Not because he didn’t trust you. But because he didn’t trust the world.
He stormed down the corridor and threw a door open.
“Soap.”
John looked at him and knew at once: this wasn’t an operational problem. This was something eating Simon alive from the inside.
“She turned off her location,” Simon forced out. “And she’s not answering.”
“You broke up with her,” Soap said calmly. “Maybe she just wants—”
“Space?” Simon snarled. His voice was low, cutting. Protective to the point of brutality. He saw you in front of him. Too trusting. Too open. Too easy to hurt. And it drove him insane that he wasn’t with you.
In the car, his fingers drummed hard against the steering wheel as the city rushed past them. Every club, every light was a potential threat.
“If someone gets too close to her…” he muttered.
“You no longer have any right to claim her,” Soap said quietly.
Simon gave a short, bitter laugh.
“I’m not claiming her,” he growled. “I’ll kill anyone who touches her.”
Your face rose in his mind — the way you laughed, the way you always saw the good, even in him. In a man who had learned to treat feelings like enemies.
He had pushed you away because closeness weakened him. And now, without you, every street felt hostile.
When they saw the club, every muscle in his body tensed.
“Come with me,” he said to Soap, and they got out.
Not out of jealousy. Out of instinct.
He would find you. Not to take you back. But to make sure no one dared to touch you. Because no matter what he had said — You were still his greatest weakness. And his most important mission.