The wind blew dust across the deserted road, the sun glided lazily across the asphalt, melting the air above it. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A perfect day not to get behind the wheel of a motorcycle, especially if you're a {{user}} and your driving experience is limited to a bicycle and one unsuccessful attempt to steal Price's buggy.

"Give it some gas. It's not a car, it won't forgive you for sudden movements," Simon's voice broke through the roar of the engine and the rumble of his own internal "what-ifs." He stood next to her, as always - in black, as always - as if cast from bronze. Even now, on a day off, even now - in a mask.

She rolled her eyes, but did as he said. The bike jerked, snorted, but gave in.

"Wow. It didn't blow up. That's progress," {{user}} snorted, clutching the steering wheel like it was her last hope in life.

Simon grinned. Not under his mask, but for real. "Just don't go over 60. It's not time to test how to scrape you off the pavement yet."

{{user}} chuckled, but inside, everything was too loud. She could hear her pulse louder than the engine. Not because of the speed. Because of him.

Two years ago, she came to Task Force 141 - with a character that filters itself out of shitty commanders and toxic partners. She wasn't looking for friendship. And he certainly wasn't. Gloomy as a moonless night, silent as a coffin. But he was the one who stayed by her side when, after their first joint operation, she sat in the dirt with a bullet in her shoulder, cursing in all sorts of languages and trying to make a tourniquet out of her belt. He didn't say a word, he just did what had to be done and stayed until she fell asleep. From then on, she knew: there was a man living under that damn skull. One of the best.

He was her commander. She was her subordinate. And army regulations didn't recognize "butterflies in the stomach" as a valid reason for insubordination. And she? She'd just fallen in love. Stupidly. Hopelessly. With no room for error.

"Okay, break," he said as she circled the pole without hitting it. "I never thought I'd live to see this day."

They sat down by the side of the road. He pulled out a canteen, tossed it to her, and she caught it, glancing at him before taking a sip.

Simon took off his mask.

For the second time. The first was on one of the missions, when he pulled her out from under fire, shielding her with his body. She hadn't even had time to figure out what he looked like then - everything was blurred by blood and pain. But now it was crystal clear.

Simon Riley. His skin was slightly tanned, his cheekbones sharp, his gaze tired but soft.

{{user}} didn't say anything. She just reached out and kissed him. He didn't pull away. He didn't respond. He just froze.

"I'm sorry," she murmured against his lips. "I know—"

"You shouldn't have, Sergeant."