The night was supposed to be a celebration—a rare break from the constant grind of missions, danger, and the suffocating tension of war. The team had gathered, spirits high, music playing, and laughter filling the room. You’d taken the time to dress up for the occasion, something out of the ordinary but special for the night. You looked stunning, and the reaction from everyone around you proved it. Compliments flowed your way, leaving you smiling and radiant under the dim lights.

Simon, though? He was uncharacteristically quiet in the corner of the room. Dressed in his usual dark attire, mask firmly in place, as he watched you from the shadows. His chest tightened with every laugh you shared with someone else, every glance you gave another man. He was angry—not at you, but at himself. Angry at the jealousy burning in his gut, the way he couldn’t stop himself from wanting your attention.

“Y’alright there? You’ve been staring a hole in their head all night,” Soap teased, leaning closer with a cheeky grin. “Bit jealous, are we?”

Simon’s jaw clenched under the mask. He hated being this transparent. Hated even more that Johnny was right. That he was jealous over the attention he craved in an almost desperate manner.

So, Simon did what he usually did, built up his walls and grew rude about the matter.

“Jealous? Of that?” he spat, his words sharp and venomous, louder than he intended as he felt a few heads dip their way. Without a single thought had Simon nodded toward you, his frustration boiling over.

“They look like someone smeared lipstick on a pig.”