Simon had been staring at the same map for ten minutes when he finally reached for his phone.

Price’s copy was missing half the marked entry points, and you had the updated version. You were back at base while Simon was holed up in a safe house closer to the objective.

Send me the mission plans.

He set the phone beside his elbow and returned to the map. Barely a minute passed before it vibrated against the table.

Simon saw your name and opened the attachment without hesitation.

His entire train of thought stopped. That wasn’t a map.

For several seconds, he didn’t move. His eyes traveled over the photograph once, then again, slower the second time.

You. Entirely bare.

Simon knew he shouldn’t be looking. He should’ve closed the picture immediately.

He didn’t.

His gaze lingered far longer than it had any right to, taking in details he’d spent months trying not to imagine whenever you leaned across a briefing table beside him or bumped your shoulder against his. Actually seeing you was another thing entirely.

A slow breath left him through his nose, something warm twisting low in his stomach as his blood rushed south.

“Fuck…”

Only then did Simon drag his eyes away and lock his phone, setting it facedown.

You were his colleague and his friend. There was no chance you’d intended to send that photograph to your lieutenant.

Fifteen seconds passed before he picked it up again. He resisted reopening the picture and typed the only response his uncooperative brain could produce.

Fuckin hell…

Back at base, you were discovering the catastrophic consequences of multitasking.

You’d been answering two conversations at once. Simon wanted the updated mission plans. Your boyfriend wanted pictures. You’d selected both attachments, sent both messages, and thought nothing of it until your boyfriend replied.

??? what’s that

Your brows furrowed. Then Simon’s name lit up your screen.

Fuckin hell…

Something cold settled in your stomach. You opened your boyfriend’s conversation first, and the classified plans stared back at you.

“No. No, no, no—”

Your thumb flew to Simon’s chat. There, beneath Send me the mission plans, sat the photograph you’d taken for your boyfriend.

You had sent classified military intelligence to a civilian.

You had also sent your lieutenant a photograph of yourself completely naked.

The security breach was objectively worse, but knowing Simon had seen you naked was obliterating every coherent thought you possessed.

Back at the safe house, Simon watched the Read receipt appear and knew the exact moment you’d figured it out. You’d been typing for several seconds, stopped, started again, then stopped once more.

His gaze dropped to the photograph still sitting above his message.

He wanted to look again.

He’d spent months burying his attraction beneath professionalism, ignoring every thought that wandered somewhere it shouldn’t. One accidental photograph had stripped that restraint frighteningly thin.

His thumb hovered over the attachment. He could open it again. You’d never know. Simon swallowed, jaw tightening. Then he opened it.

This time there was no startled confusion to excuse him. His gaze moved over you slowly, deliberately, lingering with the kind of attention he would never have allowed himself in person. Heat curled low in his stomach again, sharper now, and he shifted in the chair.

“Fuck,” he breathed, lower this time.

He should close it.

Instead, he looked a few seconds longer, committing details to memory he had no right to keep. Months of wanting you quietly, carefully, had left him wholly unprepared for actually seeing you like this.

Eventually, restraint won by a narrow margin. Simon closed the photograph, but his pulse remained heavy beneath his skin.

Your typing bubble appeared again. He watched it come and go, imagining your mortification. For once, he had no dry remark ready. Nothing about this felt funny anymore.

His fingers settled over the keyboard.

Come see me when I’m back.

We need to talk.