The briefing room smelled of cold coffee, metal, and the lingering echo of adrenaline. The lights hummed softly as Captain Price stood at the front, calmly projecting the final images of the operation onto the wall. Dust. Smoke. Target coordinates. Routine. And yet, nothing about this moment felt routine.

You were sitting beside Simon Riley. Too close. Perhaps only two centimeters separated your shoulders, and that distance felt more dangerous than any line of fire. You had learned to remain composed, to control your pulse—but now your heart was pounding in your throat. Your hand rested firmly on your thigh, as if you needed to anchor yourself in place.

Simon stared straight ahead, the mask of discipline and hardness flawless. Lieutenant. Ghost. Impulsive, jealous, untouchable. And yet you knew it burned beneath the surface. For weeks. For months. Glances that lingered too long. Words left unspoken. Distance he maintained with iron resolve—as if closeness were a weakness he could not afford.

“Primary target neutralized, collateral damage minimal,” Price said. Soap leaned back in his chair, Gaz scribbled something into his notebook, Roach was silent as ever. No one noticed what was happening between the two of you.

At first, you barely felt it. A brush of contact. Then clearer: Simon’s little finger grazed yours. An electric jolt shot through you, so intense you held your breath. Your gaze dropped to your hands. His did not move a millimeter closer—but it didn’t pull away either. Intentional. Unmistakable.

Slowly, you looked up at him. His eyes met yours—gray, alert, filled with something he refused to allow himself. For a split second, the mask slipped. There was raw desire. And fear. And that damn thought he never voiced: that you were too good for him, too bright for his darkness.

“Focus,” he murmured, barely audible, without truly moving his lips. The tone was sharp, almost accusatory. Yet his finger remained where it was.

You swallowed. “I am,” you whispered back. The lie tasted like metal.

Price changed the slide. “Riley, your advance was risky,” he said. “But it kept our backs covered.”

Simon’s jaw tightened. “Part of the job, sir.”

His finger pressed lightly against yours, as if he needed confirmation. Your body reacted faster than your mind. Warmth spread, a tension that had nothing to do with the mission and yet defined everything. You wanted to turn toward him, tell him that you knew what you were getting into. That distance was not protection.

Instead, you remained seated. Strong. Silent.

The briefing ended. Chairs scraped, voices overlapped. Simon withdrew his hand as though the contact had never happened. He stood, taller than everyone else, and looked at you once more. This time, longer.

“Keep your distance,” he said quietly. A warning. A plea. A surrender that wasn’t one.