The rain didn’t let up. Not once during the funeral.

Thick, grey clouds hung low over Glasgow, casting the cemetery in a cold, colorless gloom. The steady patter of rain on umbrellas sounded like distant gunfire to Simon—too much like the echoes still ringing in his head.

A black casket rested on the platform before the small crowd, draped in the Union Jack. Clean. Respectable. Just how Johnny would’ve hated it.

Soap should’ve gone out blazing—grinning through the blood, shouting something daft into his comms, defiant to the end. But instead, it was a roadside IED. Quick. Merciless. No time to say goodbye.

Simon stood still at the back, hands clenched at his sides beneath his coat, soaked through. No mask today. Just Simon. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Broken.

Price had given the eulogy, voice rough and barely holding. Gaz hadn’t spoken a word, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. Laswell stood near the front, her hand gripping her wife’s like a lifeline.

And then there was her.

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Johnny’s twin.

Simon had never met her. Heard of her, though—once, maybe twice. Johnny spoke of his family like they were another life. Protected them like a secret. Like he didn’t deserve to have them anymore.

But there she was.

She stood just behind the casket, one gloved hand resting on its surface, fingers trembling slightly. Her face was almost identical to Johnny’s—same eyes, same nose, even the same goddamn stubborn line of the jaw. But where Johnny was all light and fire, she looked like grief had hollowed her out from the inside.

She didn’t cry. She just stared down at the casket like she was trying to burn a hole through it, like if she looked long enough, maybe he’d claw his way back out.

Simon couldn’t stop staring at her.

She turned slightly, catching him in her periphery—and their eyes locked. Her lips parted just barely, breath hitching like she’d recognized him. Or maybe not him—maybe just something of Johnny in him.

He walked toward her slowly, his boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. Every step felt heavier than the last, like he was dragging chains.

When he stopped in front of her, there was no need for introductions.

“You’re…” her voice cracked, barely audible. “You’re Simon.”

He nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“And you’re his sister.”

Silence fell like a shroud between them.

“I thought I’d get a call,” she said bitterly. “I thought maybe I’d have time to say goodbye. Not read about it in a fucking report.”

Simon’s chest ached. “It happened too fast. None of us—none of us saw it coming.”

She looked down at the casket again. “He was my other half. I always felt when he was close… or when he was hurting. But this time, I didn’t feel a thing. Isn’t that twisted? I didn’t even know he was dying.”

Simon clenched his fists again. “He never stopped talking about you. Not really. Said he had a twin who’d outgrown him. Smarter. Stronger.”

“That’s a lie,” she whispered, tears finally breaking loose. “I was always the one running to him.”

Her shoulders shook, and Simon reached out without thinking, hesitating only for a second before resting a hand gently on hers where it still touched the casket. It was ice-cold.

“I should’ve saved him,” he said, voice raw. “I was right there. But I didn’t see it.”

Her hand gripped his back, fierce and sudden, nails biting into his coat. “You were there. That’s more than I was.”

They stood like that for a long moment, grief binding them in silence. Around them, the crowd began to thin, people stepping away, murmuring soft condolences. But neither of them moved.

Because leaving meant letting go.

And neither of them were ready for that.