The tent is quiet; the tapping of rain against it was the only sound. You sat on your cot, cleaning your gear with steady motions, but your mind was still on the mission.

The adrenaline’s faded, but the frustration bubbling in you hasn’t. Then, the flap rustles. Simon steps in, boots heavy on the floor, eyes locked on you. Soaked, tense, and silent at first.

“You weren’t supposed to go in alone,” he says, his voice low, controlled. But there’s something sharp under it, like the words cost him, coming from deep within. You don’t look up when you reply. “Got the intel, didn’t I?”

“I gave you an order,” he snaps, stepping closer. You slam the med kit shut. “And your order would’ve gotten the team pinned down. I made the right call.” There’s a tense silence, and when you finally face him, he’s only a few feet away. Closer than he needs to be.

Close enough that you catch the flicker in his eyes, the one he always hides behind rank and protocol. What he thinks is right, he’s older, your boss; he should be guiding you. Not feeling what he felt.

“You only care because it was me,” you say, voice quiet but steady. His jaw hardens like the truth hit him too close. “I care about every soldier under my command.”

You shake your head with a scoff. “No. You care about me, differently. And you hate that you do.” He bites down on his teeth again. For a second, he couldn’t speak. Then, Simon’s voice was strained and low. “Don’t make me choose between what’s right,” he mutters, “and what I want.”

The words hang there, heavy between you. Neither of you says anything besides exchanging your long, conflicted gazes. That was his confession. The confession that he was holding back.