Simon’s protectiveness was no secret—it burned in his eyes, a quiet storm everyone could feel. You’d been his for months, and sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder: how far would he go?

You perched on the bed’s edge, watching him peel off his uniform, muscles taut beneath the fabric. The air felt heavy, ripe for testing.

“Simon,” you said, voice low, “if I asked… would you kill for me?”

He froze, turning with a face carved from stone. “Let me grab a shovel.”

A laugh escaped you, sharp and nervous—you hadn’t expected him to bite. “I was kidding, I didn't mean it.”

But his eyes didn’t soften. They pinned you, unyielding. “I wasn’t. Give me a name.”

Your laughter died fast, throat tightening as he closed the distance in a heartbeat. His hand shot out, seizing your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his—dark, blazing, deadly serious. He knew you were joking and testing him but he was dead serious.

“You’d better think twice before that pretty mouth runs wild,” he growled, grip tightening. “I’m not playing games. Name someone, and they’re gone. Right now.”