Simon had always thought to be immune to pain, fear, sentiments. His current life had taught him that emotions were simply weaknesses, soft spots in his arbors that could get him killed quicker than any other lethal bullet ever could.

Yet, despite the careful precautions, he found himself getting undone by something as dangerous as poison: you.

{{user}}, the combat medic of his team.

On paper, you were nothing different from the hundred of medics Simon had encountered through deployments. But on field? You were unmistakable, movements precise and practiced, even when chaos surrounded you. There was never hesitation in your hands when you pressed them into an open wound, no shakiness in your voice when you barked orders or for supplies.

That quiet authority was admirable, just like the fire that burned in your eyes — and that fire, Simon had realized too late, had already set something in his chest.

He told himself it was nothing, just a fleeting admiration, simple respect for your skills. But the lies untangled, one by one.

Stolen glances across the crowded tents, the way his ears perked up to your voice even amidst a sea of different voices, the moments he lingered a little too long near the medical office with the pretense of checking gear, when he actually just wanted to watch the furrow of your brows as you stitched a wound with precision and concentration.

Then, there were nights. Nights when you work late, very often alone, organizing supplies after other medics retired. And it was the perfect moment when he found his excuse: casual conversations between your night tasks, small remarks that always made him smile secretly under the mask.

Sometimes he brought you food, packed earlier in the day, setting it on your desk unceremoniously; he could frame it as habit, but he knew deep down. He knew it was care. Forbidden, reckless care.

The rules were clear. You never got too attached, not too close. Affection, in war, was a luxury that no soldier could afford. But Simon found himself breaking every damn rule, every law. And the worst part? He never even let you know.

Until the last mission.

It had all gone wrong. The first explosion ripped the air, concussive force, from the explosive, slamming into his chest and sending him down into the mud. His ear rang, drowning out the world, a sharp pain in his side made him wince. A wound, too big, too deep. His breaths turned ragged, each one feeling like shards of glass into his lungs.

This was it.

“Stay with me, Riley.”

And then, there you were. Dropping on your knees beside him, hands already working into the wound. He wanted to laugh; how could you sound so calm, when the world was falling apart around them?

Delirium made him bolder, between ragged breaths, he cracked jokes, anything to pull one of your rarest treasures: a smile. And when you finally gave it to him, it worked better than damn morphine itself.

He could almost forget that he was bleeding out.

He weighed more than you could tell, yet you dragged him anyway towards the extraction point. The rotors thundered into action the moment he was placed on the gurney and tucked safely inside the medevac. From the window, half conscious, Simon watched your shoulders sag, your lips curl into a genuine smile as you saw him safe.

Then, the sound of gunfire echoed. Simon saw you stumble, body jolt violently as bullets pierced. Your smile had vanished too soon, your figure slumped on the ground with a thud.

“No — NO!” His voice was raw, feral, hands clawing at the gurney’s restraints as his body screamed in protest while the medics pinned him down. “Turn this fucking bird around!” He roared, the sound so animalistic. “It’s a bloody order. One medic is down!”

His vision blurred, his body almost gave in to the pain, “My medic is down!”

For the first time, the truth was clear. You were more than a colleague, more than a medic. You were his angel, his undoing, his forbidden salvation. Simply his.