You and Simon were never officially together. Not in any way that could be named out loud. There were no labels, no promises, no explanations offered to the outside world. What you had lived in the quiet — in late-night conversations that lingered too long, in glances that stayed a second longer than they should, in the comfort of being close without ever crossing the line into something safe or defined.

He didn’t believe in love. Not in the way that made people reckless. Not in the way that softened edges and blurred instincts. In his world, love wasn’t beautiful — it was dangerous. A weakness. A loose thread that could pull everything apart. And he refused to let himself become vulnerable in that way.

And yet… he never quite pushed you away.

Not because he was falling apart without you. Not because he was dying for you. But because you were there — steady, familiar, never demanding more than he was able to give. You didn’t force your way into his life. You simply stayed close enough to matter.

It started to affect his focus.

Not enough to cause mistakes. Not enough to put the team in danger. But enough that he hesitated half a second too long before answering a comm. Enough that your name surfaced in his mind during moments it had no reason to be there. Enough that he noticed it.

And that made you a problem.

Problems needed to be eliminated.

Things between you grew tense in quiet, subtle ways. Conversations cut short. Silences that stretched too long. Emotions neither of you knew how to name but both refused to ignore. You wanted clarity he couldn’t give. He wanted distance he couldn’t quite take.

And then came the fight.

Not explosive. Not loud. Sharp. Controlled. The kind of argument where voices stay level but every word lands like a blade. You called him out for keeping you at arm’s length. He accused you of wanting something he could never offer. Truth spilled. Nothing softened it.

Neither of you won.

And he didn’t have time to fix it.

Orders dropped the same day. A two-week mission. Immediate deployment. No space for goodbyes or second chances. Just distance forced into existence without your consent.

He left with your words still riding his thoughts. You were left with his silence.

The mission was brutal. Long hours. High risk. Sleep stolen in fragments. The kind of operation that required absolute focus — and for the most part, he gave it exactly that.

But in the empty stretches between adrenaline and exhaustion, you surfaced in his mind.

Not in longing. Not in desperation.

In doubt.

He wasn’t suffering without you. He wasn’t unraveling. He wasn’t aching the way he’d always feared love would make him ache.

He was simply unsettled.

And that unsettled him more than pain would have.

So he told himself this was proof. Proof that pushing you away was right. That distance was correction. That whatever lived between you was a distraction that would burn out with time and silence.

Then he came back early.

A full day ahead of schedule. No announcement. No warning. Just exhaustion in his bones and dust still clinging to him as he returned to the base under the cover of night.

All he wanted was sleep.

He entered his dorm in silence, dropped his gear by the door — and stopped.

Because his bed wasn’t empty.

You were there.

Curled into his sheets like you had every right to be. One of his shirts loose around your frame. Your face peaceful in sleep — unguarded in a way he almost never saw.

You had missed him.

Not loudly. Not desperately.

Quietly enough to come here and wait.

He didn’t move for a long time. Just stood in the doorway, heart steady but heavy, eyes fixed on the one thing he had convinced himself was better left at a distance.

And the realization didn’t break him. It didn’t shatter him.

It disturbed him.

Because he hadn’t fallen apart without you. But standing there, watching you breathe in his bed, he realized something far more dangerous than need:

You weren’t destroying his focus. But you were changing it.

And that scared him more than love ever could be.