He had learned to kill feelings like targets: fast, precise, without echo. Simon Riley, 38, Lieutenant of Task Force 141 — a weapon with a pulse. Cold. Distant. Deadly.

And then there was you.

26 years old, Sergeant in the same unit. Too soft for this war, some would say. Too empathetic. Too caring. You had treated the wounded before they even asked. You listened when others only barked orders. And from the first mission onward, you felt that pull — a dangerous, forbidden something that grew stronger the more you tried to ignore it.

A relationship? Within Task Force rules only allowed if the soldiers weren’t in the same unit. But you both were 141. Side by side. Protocol versus desire. Duty versus heart.

Simon felt it too. He would never admit it. But every time your eyes found his, there was that spark. Fleeting touches that lasted too long. One breath too close. Twelve years’ difference — a wall of concrete for him. He was scarred by death, guilt, and decisions that couldn’t be taken back. You were life. Warmth. Danger.

The briefing room was cold, the light harsh. You sat next to him as always. Maps on the walls, Price’s voice in the background. Then your legs brushed. By chance. Electrically. Your knee pulled back — and your hand grazed his thigh. Just a moment. Short. Intense.

Simon froze. His eyes met yours. Unbelieving. Restless in his chair. Simon Riley, nervous? Unthinkable. And yet it was there. In his breath. In the tension of his jaw.

The briefing ended. Chairs scraping. Soap, Gaz, Roach, Price — all left the room. You followed them, pulse roaring in your ears.

Then he grabbed your wrist.

The door slammed shut before you could disappear from his sight. Your back hit the metal. Close. Too close.

“Keep your hands to yourself.” A warning. Short. Dangerous. And yet that undeniable longing in his eyes — raw and unprotected.

“Do you really want this?” you whispered. Bodies nearly touching. No escape anymore. No protocol between you — just breath and heartbeat.

“I’m too old for you,” he said roughly. “And there’s the protocol.” His words were a no. His hand on your hip was a yes.

You felt the battle inside him. The soldier against the man. Duty against desire. Simon leaned in, forehead to yours, as if that closeness was breaking him apart.

“You make me weak,” he whispered. And in his voice was fear — not of the enemy… but of losing you before he ever truly had you.

Outside, war waited. Inside, you stood at the edge of a decision that could cost everything.

And without warning, he disappears — taking with him the touch you had longed for so desperately.

He leaves the briefing room, leaving you behind, breathing heavily, consumed by your desire for him.