The team always knew.

They’d rib you about it when you weren’t in the room—Soap grinning too wide, Gaz shooting you side-eyes, Price chuckling low under his breath whenever you and Ghost stood just a bit too close. The teasing never went further than a smirk or a nudge, but the unspoken understanding? That was always there.

You and Simon Riley had chemistry. Not the kind you talk about. The kind that simmers, unspoken, in glances that last too long and shoulders that brush just enough to make your breath catch. But pride was a heavy thing—yours and his both—and neither of you ever crossed the line.

Until tonight.

The bar was half-full, dim lights and cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. The mission was behind you. The scars were healing, the adrenaline finally drained. A rare night off, and everyone was feeling loose. Someone shoved a glass into your hand—something strong and golden—and you didn’t ask questions. You caught Simon’s eyes across the room more than once. And every time, he didn’t look away.

He was in civvies, black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, his usual mask traded for the simple shadow of stubble and narrowed eyes. Even off duty, he looked lethal. And maddeningly good.

A few drinks in, the teasing got louder. “Go on, just kiss already,” Soap half-shouted at the two of you, laughter in his voice.

You rolled your eyes. “In your dreams, MacTavish.”

But your gaze slipped to Simon again, and this time, he didn’t smile. He just nodded toward the back hallway—quiet, dark, away from the noise.

You followed.

The hallway outside the bar’s back door was cool, the brick wall rough against your shoulder as you leaned back and looked up at him.

Neither of you spoke. Not at first.

He stepped close—closer than usual, close enough you could smell his cologne and whatever whiskey he’d been nursing. The heat between you was a living thing now, pulsing in the charged space between your bodies.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t gentle.

It was everything months of restraint had buried. All that tension exploded in a mess of lips and teeth and desperate hands. Your fingers curled in his shirt, his hands gripped your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.

But you broke it. Pulled back, heart racing, eyes locked with his.

“What are we?” you asked, breathless. Not teasing, not coy. You needed the truth. Finally.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

“We’re about to find out,” Simon said, voice low and rough and sincere in a way that made your stomach flip.

And then he kissed you again—slower this time, like he was making a promise.

The world narrowed to his mouth on yours, the steady press of his hands, the way he held you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had.