Simon and {{user}} had been through hell and back—side by side since the grueling first days of SAS training, through years of high-stakes missions with Task Force 141. Their bond was forged in fire, tempered by trust and survival. They moved together like clockwork, seamless and instinctive, as if wired to the same pulse. She was his anchor in the storm, his best friend, his confidant… and, quietly, the woman he loved.

But he’d never dared say it aloud.

Not when she was engaged to Alex—a man Simon had tolerated only because it made her happy. Or at least, he thought it did. The bitterness had been buried deep, but never gone. Still, Ghost would never cross that line. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the one to shatter her world.

Until she came to him, eyes red-rimmed, voice cracking, telling him Alex had cheated. The fury that tore through him was white-hot, nearly blinding. But she didn’t need his anger. She needed comfort. And so he held her, trying to keep himself from shaking, from saying too much.

One moment became another. A touch. A breath. A kiss.

Then they were tangled together on the worn couch, and somehow ended up in his bed—her body curled against his like she’d always belonged there. Like she’d always been his.

Now, in the soft grey light of dawn, Simon lay still as stone, heart pounding beneath the quiet rise and fall of her breathing. Her head rested on his chest, hair splayed out like dark silk inked across his skin. The scent of her clung to him—something warm, familiar, achingly intimate.

He should feel victorious.

Instead, he felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff.

Guilt gnawed at him. Had he taken advantage of her pain? Had he read the moment wrong, confused grief for desire? Would she wake and regret everything? Would she look at him and wish it had never happened?

He didn’t know.

What he did know was that he didn’t want this—them—to be a fleeting accident.

Carefully, as if the movement might shatter the fragile quiet between them, he brushed a few strands of hair from her face. His fingertips lingered for a moment, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the softness of her skin against the rough calluses of his own.

"{{user}}...wake up," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

There was fear in him—more than he was used to. Not the kind bred in combat or life-or-death missions. This was different. More personal. More dangerous.