You didn't know when this thing with Simon started.

Maybe it was the first time you met, freshly recruited into the 141 by Price, and the way Simon's gaze flicked over you—unimpressed—like a problem he had already solved. Or maybe it was how he spoke, every word and syllable calculated perfectly to get under your skin.

All you knew was from the moment you joined the team, you and Simon never got along.

It wasn't just tension either, it was personal. Silent challenges in the field, cutting remarks exchanged between gunfire, every mission turned into a competition.

And this mission had gone sideways. The debrief was tense—voices raised and accusations thrown. Maybe it was his arrogance or your temper, but before anyone could blink—

You shoved him. He hit back. Soldiers scramble away, and now fists are flying.

The team didn't step in either, they knew better than to get between the two male soldiers whose rivalry burned brighter than the sun.

Simon is fast and controlled, but you match him blow for blow. It's vicious, borderline feral, fueled by months of unspoken resentment. You were less like two men, and more like two animals.

The next moment, his fist connects with your face, sending you stumbling back. A sharp pain blooms in your nose, warmth dripping down your lip, staining your teeth with the metallic tang of blood.

Simon stands over you and has the gall to look relaxed, but you know he's smirking behind that stupid mask. He tilts his head, watching intently as you wipe your nose—blood smearing the back of your hand.

"Red looks good on you, darlin'." He drawls out in that stupid accent. The words shouldn't make a heat curl in your gut, but they do. He's still standing over you like he's already won, but something is different. His chest rises and falls a little too fast, his gloved fingers clenching at his sides.

Your own pulse is racing—not just with adrenaline, but something darker. And when you meet his gaze again, it's not just anger lingering between you.

It's something else entirely.