Simon calls the break without raising his voice.

The recruits scatter the moment the word leaves his mouth—boots hitting dirt, canteens cracking open, nervous laughter bleeding into the heat. He doesn’t watch them long. He never does.

His attention is already elsewhere. {{user}} stands under the lone tree at the edge of the training ground, arms loosely folded, posture relaxed in a way that’s misleading. She’s been there the entire session, observing the way she always does—quiet, watchful, eyes sharp enough to catch the smallest mistake. She’s watching him.

Simon sits on the bench, forearms resting on his thighs, and looks right back. For a few seconds, the world narrows. Noise dulls. Distance collapses. It’s just them—eye contact holding like a wire pulled tight between two fixed points.

She smiles.

Not sweet. Not soft. A teasing curve of her mouth that’s meant only for him. A look that says you’re doing this on purpose. His chest tightens in response, heart kicking once, hard. He doesn’t smile back. He never does. But his shoulders ease, just a fraction.

Then someone steps into her space. Simon sees it instantly.

The recruit hesitates first—young, stupid, emboldened by the break. He says something Simon can’t hear from this distance, leaning in just enough to be inappropriate. Too close. Too familiar. The boy grins like he thinks he’s earned it. Simon’s jaw sets.

He doesn’t move yet. He watches. {{user}} turns her head slightly. Her gaze flicks back to Simon—not asking, not worried. Just checking in. Then her eyes shift, pointedly, toward the recruit.

She rolls her eyes.

That’s it.

The signal is subtle. Anyone else would miss it. Simon doesn’t. He never misses her. Annoyed. Dismissive. Handle it. Simon stands.

The temperature around him seems to drop as he crosses the field. Conversations die as he passes. The recruits feel it before they understand it—something predatory, something coiled and released all at once.

He stops in front of the rookie.

The boy straightens. “Lieutenant.” Simon looks down at him through the skull mask, eyes hard, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.

“You lost?” he asks.

The recruit swallows. “I was just—uh—asking about medical rotations.”

Simon tilts his head slightly. A mockery of curiosity. “Funny,” he says. “Didn’t hear her ask for company.”

The recruit glances sideways, suddenly aware of every pair of eyes on him. “I didn’t mean anything by it, sir.”

Simon steps closer. “You will,” he growls. “If you don’t move.” That does it.

“Yes, sir.” The recruit backs away fast, nearly tripping over his own boots before disappearing into the crowd.

Simon watches until he’s gone. Until the problem is fully removed.

Then he turns back.

{{user}} hasn’t moved. Still under the tree. Still watching him like she always does—calm, unbothered, utterly certain he’d handle it.

He walks back and sits beside her on the bench, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. Almost. The space between them is intentional. Charged. Known.

“Break’s ten minutes,” Simon says casually. “You attract strays when I’m not looking.” Her lips twitch. Barely there.

Simon exhales through his nose, pulse finally settling now that he’s back where he belongs.

Across the field, no one says a word. They never do.

Everyone knows.