The forest didn’t breathe—it watched. Thick with fog and silence, the kind that wrapped around your throat and made every step feel like a sin. Simon moved like a shadow through it, low to the moss, knives ready, mask colder than the air around him. This was deep territory—off-grid, unmarked. Hostile.

Then he heard it.

Not an animal. Not patrol. Human. Ragged breath. A branch cracked, soft and sharp.

He advanced, blades already drawn.

What he found wasn’t what he expected.

You were crouched beside a fallen log, dirt smudged across your skin, blood running warm down your thigh, hand clutched tight over the wound. Clothes torn, eyes wild. Teeth bared like a cornered animal—but still proud. Still defiant. Like you’d take a chunk out of him before you ever begged.

He should’ve seen a threat. Should’ve kept moving.

Instead, Simon froze.

You looked up at him, chest heaving, jaw clenched.

And he just… stared.

Under the mask, his voice dropped, low and steady. “Easy, love. Not here to hurt you.”

He stepped closer, blades vanishing into their sheaths. Crouched low, just out of reach. “You’re bleedin’,” he muttered, head tilted. “That leg won’t carry you far.”

And he swore, in that moment—mud, blood, and all—he’d never seen anything so damn beautiful.