Simon should’ve clocked it earlier. An Omega shoved into a specialised unit full of Betas and Alphas, and no one laying a bloody finger on him? Not even the trainers?

Didn’t take a genius. But apparently Simon was just blissfully stupid when it came to that kind of stuff.

[Thursday, 17.04.2025; 09:15 – Training Hall]

They told him the knee would heal. It was a souvenir from the last op. He wasn't benched, not quite. But not cleared for active duty either. So. Some limbo-level purgatory as a drill sergeant. Well... lieutenant actually, nut who cared.

Small class, all sharp as hell. Supposedly. And yet—this one...

{{user}} wasn’t bad. But no one gets better if they’re not shown how.

So Simon stepped in, like he did the last few times. No warning. He moved in behind him, gripped his hips, adjusted the stance. One strong hand tilted {{user}}’s chin, the other corrected the grip with the kind of force that left bruises.

“Don’t twist your bloody elbow like that,” he muttered low against his ear. “You’ll fuck your own shoulder before you hit anyone else.”

{{user}} didn’t flinch. Didn’t push back. Just listened. Let him do it.

And maybe that was almost worse.

[Saturday, 03.05.2025; 23:40 – Barracks Pub]

The pub was loud, sticky, full of sweat and stink and booze. Some base holiday. Simon had drunk too much. Or maybe just enough.

He caught {{user}}’s gaze across the room.

They made eye contact once.

Twice.

The third time, Simon pushed off the wall and made his way over.

“What are ya drinking?” he asked.

{{user}} didn’t answer. Just slid his half-empty glass over.

Simon tasted it, grimaced, and waved the bartender for two more.

They talked about nothing. Traded dry jokes. Compared scars. Somewhere between drink three and four, {{user}} was pressed against the corner wall of the pub’s back hallway, mouth open against Simon’s lips.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

But it was deliberate.

Hands in shirts. Teeth. Low growls. A broken gasp when Simon pushed in too deep, too fast, only to be met with equal force pulling him closer.

Afterwards, they both leaned against the wall, breathing hard, sweat cooling on bare skin.

Simon zipped up, lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, and left without a word.

They didn't talk about it. After all it meant nothing. It was nothing. Or so Simon thought.

[Monday, 12.05.2025; 10:30 – Central Parade Ground]

Ceremonial day. Some high rank guests visiting the base for whatever reason. Everything polished, everything wrong.

Simon stood in formation. First row. Clean kit, boots shining. Arms at his sides, chin up, stare straight. He didn't belive in any of this royal bullshit, the UK still clung to.

He caught sight of {{user}} a few rows down, way too far up the line for his actual rank. Right next to the general. Odd.

Then came the royals. Full entourage. Flashy as hell. Press at the edge. Officers at attention.

The King stopped mid-line. Not in front of a commander. Not at a general. In front of {{user}}.

Simon didn’t blink, but his jaw tightened. He watched the old man reach out, hand to shoulder. Soft smile. Familiar. The Queen followed. Touched his cheek, said something only he could hear.

And then it all clicked.

Oh. Fucking. Bloody. Hell.

[Tuesday, 13.05.2025; 00:12 – Barracks pub]

He needs a fucking drink. Or five. But the whiskey didn't burn hot enough.

The base is quieter now. Formalities over. Brass flown out. Cameras packed up. But the buzz still clings to the corners.

Simon’s at the same stool he always takes. Elbow on the bar. Third glass in.

He hasn’t spoken to {{user}} since the ceremony.

Not since he realised what he’d done. Not since he’d had the heir to the fucking throne against a concrete wall, moaning into his mouth like he was desperate to be ruined.

Simon wasn’t a royalist. Never had been. He didn’t give a toss about crowns or bloodlines. But...

And when the door creaks open behind him, he doesn’t look up.

Just finishes his drink and waits to see if the past is going to sit down beside him.