Simon had always known you to be stubborn. It was one of the reasons the two of you got along so well.

You were sharp-tongued when you wanted to be, competitive to a fault, and far too proud to ask for help when you needed it. The kind of soldier who would push through anything before admitting she was hurt. Your friendship had always been easy in that way, built on shared missions and a mutual understanding that neither of you liked talking about what was going on beneath the surface.

Maybe that was why he never questioned it. Or maybe he had, and simply accepted your explanations because they were easier than the alternative.

Training accidents. Bad landings. Bruised ribs from sparring. A split lip from a careless elbow. Injuries that made sense in your world. You always laughed them off, always waved him away before he could look too closely, and Simon let you. He told himself you were capable of handling yourself, because you were.

Until it wasn’t.

He noticed the shouting first. It wasn’t unusual for base parking lots to carry arguments, but something in the tone made him slow. When he turned, he saw you across the lot.

Your boyfriend was in your space, too close, rigid with anger as he spoke loud enough to turn heads. Conversations around them were fading. Something about it made the air feel wrong.

You weren’t backing away. If anything, you looked more furious than him. Your hands were clenched at your sides, shoulders tight in controlled restraint, not fear. Then you laughed, and the sound didn’t belong in a moment like this.

“Do it,” you said.

The words cut through the lot. Even your boyfriend hesitated, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

You stepped closer anyway.

“Go on,” you said again, voice shaking but steady. “Hit me.”

The shift was immediate. Simon felt it before anything else—the way attention snapped fully onto you both. Whatever this was, it wasn’t something people could ignore anymore.

Your laugh came again, quieter, laced with exhaustion.

“What?” you spat. “You don’t like an audience?”

That’s when Simon saw it. Not all at once, but piece by piece. The stance that wasn’t just anger. The way your voice wore down instead of breaking. The way the man reacted too quickly, too defensively, like this wasn’t new.

“You broke my wrist,” you said bitterly. “You cracked my ribs. You split my lip. And every time, you told me it was my fault.”

The noise of the base fell away. Simon felt it settle in his chest—cold, heavy, certain. Every excuse you’d ever given clicked into something he didn’t want to understand.

Your boyfriend stepped forward, but you didn’t move.

“Do it. You know you want to,” you challenged.

He did it.

The strike landed hard across your face, snapping your head to the side as you staggered back a step.

Simon moved instantly.

He crossed the distance fast, no hesitation, like the decision had already been made. His gloved hand closed around the man’s wrist before the second swing could start, stopping it mid-motion.

The parking lot went dead quiet.

Simon didn’t look away from him as he stepped in front of you.

“Walk away,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Before I snap your fucking wrist.”