Simon hadn’t a clue what he’d done to make her despise him. From the day she’d joined the Taskforce, years ago now, {{user}}’d carried herself with that particular brand of hostility around him—sharp, deliberate, impossible to ignore. With others {{user}} was blunt, yes, but with him it was different. It was personal.

He’d first noticed it in briefings. Maps spread across the table, red markers carving out routes, Soap cracking the occasional joke to keep the mood light. The second Simon laid out a plan, though,{{user}} was quick to cut in, her voice steady and unyielding as she dismantled it point by point. She never raised her tone, never got emotional, but she stripped it bare in front of the others until even Price leaned back with a thoughtful nod. Every damn flaw, every obstacle—laid out plain. And the worst part? She was right. She always was.

By the end of those meetings, Simon found himself biting the inside of his cheek, heat crawling up the back of his neck under the mask. Not from shame—he could take correction—but from the way she seemed to relish proving him wrong. Like it was a sport.

And outside the war room, {{user}} wasn’t much different. He’d seen her deal with men who tried their luck—sharp words, cutting looks, the sort of dismissal that made it clear there was no second chance. Soap used to joke about her motto being “men are cancelled,” and for all her glares, she never denied it. Simon had even tried his dark humour on {{user}} once or twice, the kind that got at least a smirk out of Soap or Gaz, but with her? Nothing. Not a twitch of her mouth, not a spark in her eye.

With him, she saved her most pointed silences.

And tonight, he decided he’d had enough of it.

The corridor was dim, concrete walls sweating faintly with condensation, the hum of fluorescent bulbs the only noise besides his boots striking the floor. She was waiting there, leaning against the wall with arms folded tight across her chest, her body language a fortress. Her eyes snapped to him as he approached, sharp as a blade drawn free.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stared at him like he was something she’d rather bury six feet under.

Simon stopped a few feet away, his mask casting his face into shadow. Only his eyes—cold, searching—were visible. He let the silence stretch for a beat before speaking.

“What have I honestly done to make you hate me?” His voice was low, steady, stripped of its usual bite. For once, he wasn’t trying to provoke or tease—he wanted the truth.-

He shifted his weight slightly, tilting his head, the faintest movement but deliberate. “Gotta ask, {{user}}” he continued, tone rough as gravel dragged over steel, “what is it with you, then? Everyone else keeps their distance, but you—” his gaze held hers, steady and unrelenting, “you look at me like I kicked your bloody dog.”