You met Simon Riley on the base by accident—or at least that’s how it felt at the time. You were only supposed to be there for a single mission, temporary clearance, temporary quarters, temporary everything. He was higher rank, untouchable, known for the skull mask and the way his presence alone could silence a room. You noticed him before he noticed you. He noticed you because you refused to flinch.

Working together was seamless. You moved like you’d trained together for years—wordless communication, shared instincts, mutual respect earned under pressure. Lines blurred slowly, dangerously. A glance held too long. A hand steadying your shoulder after a firefight. Late-night debriefs that turned into quiet conversations when everyone else had gone to sleep. Falling in love with Simon Riley was not dramatic—it was inevitable.

Two years passed. You never left the base.

You told yourself it was because you were needed. Because the work mattered. But the truth was simpler and heavier: you stayed because of him. Together, you were efficient. Deadly. A unit people trusted with impossible odds. And that’s when the enemy learned your name.

You became his weakness.

They took you fast. Clean. One moment you were there, the next you were gone. No body. No blood. Just absence.

Weeks passed. Simon didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Worked every lead until his hands shook and his voice went hoarse from barking orders. He buried himself in missions, intelligence, planning—anything to avoid the thought that he might be too late. The men watched him unravel quietly, because Simon Riley didn’t break loudly. He just hollowed out.

When they finally found you alive, it was like watching a dead man breathe again.

Recovery was slow. Five months of medical evaluations, debriefs, nightmares you didn’t talk about and scars you didn’t let him touch at first. Simon hovered without meaning to, always watching exits, always positioning himself between you and the world. You understood his silence. You shared it.

Until tonight.

You tell him you’re ready to work again. Back in the field. Back to who you were.

The room goes cold.

Simon’s jaw tightens immediately, his shoulders going rigid like he’s bracing for impact. He doesn’t look at you at first. When he does, there’s anger there—sharp, controlled, unfair.

“No.”

The word hits harder than you expect.

You argue back, voice steady,trying to make him know that you’re capable, that staying idle is suffocating you. That you refuse to live like something fragile. Simon snaps, voice raised, accusing you of being reckless, of not thinking, of pushing too hard too fast.

“If you even think about walking inside that base ONCE,I will end things.”

What he doesn’t say is that every time you step out of his sight, his chest tightens. That every mission report with your name on it feels like a countdown. That the thought of losing you again still wakes him up at night, heart racing, hand reaching for someone who isn’t there.

Fear sits behind his anger, heavy and unspoken.