This all started because it was easy.

You were right there—sharp teammate, skilled, just a bit off-kilter. Like him. There’d been something in the looks you’d trade in the middle of chaos, middle of missions—half-mad, blood-covered, danger breathing down your necks. Moments that shouldn’t have been hot, but somehow were. A beautiful catastrophe.

No strings. No emotions. Just a way to let the pressure out. Scratch an itch. That was the agreement.

First mistake? Letting you come to his quarters instead of sorting a hotel near base. Letting you into his space, with personal things scattered about. Giving you more than just his body.

Second mistake? Letting you stay the night. At first, it made sense—you had nightmares, he did too. Mutual convenience. Shared warmth. Fuck buddies. Friends with benefits. Whatever label made it easier to swallow.

But more nights meant more mornings. More time. More talk. Watching you sleep. Waking up next to your stupidly peaceful face. Seeing each other vulnerable. Dressing side by side like something domestic. And then came the teasing from the others. The glances. The inside jokes. All about you two being glued to each other all the time.

Simon ignored it. Brushed it off. It was simple. Good. Easy. For once, something in his life wasn’t a goddamn mess. He was allowed that, wasn’t he?

So someone—anyone—explain to him how the hell it escalated to this.

He’s sat on the closed toilet lid in his cramped-as-shite bathroom, wearing nothing but boxers. You’re standing between his legs, one hand on his cheek, the other guiding a razor gently over his jaw, gliding through the layer of shaving cream.

Slow. Careful. Tender.

It’s far too bloody intimate for something that started as just sex. You’re focused—brows furrowed slightly, lips parted in concentration like this is brain surgery. His heart’s hammering like it’s trying to break out of his ribs, like a caged bird, and he keeps glancing everywhere but your eyes. Because if he meets your gaze, it’s over—he’s ruined. He already feels bare without the mask. And his shirt. Or his pants. One more inch and he’ll unravel completely.

Then your hand spreads over his throat, tilting his head so you can get a better angle. He swallows hard.

“Keep still, Ghostie,” you murmur.

Christ.

The nickname—the way you say it, soft and half-amused—wrecks him. And now you’re right in front of him, close enough that he can count every lash on your eyelids. It’s warm. Or he’s warm. Or the entire room’s on fire. He doesn’t even know anymore.

He’s not blushing, alright? The heat’s from the time of year. Or the steam that stuck around since he showered last night. Or maybe the fact that the blood in his body is definitely not all going to his brain right now. Brilliant. Brilliant. Wrong time to discover he’s got a thing for… well, this.

It’s too early for this. Way too early. He just woke up. Still has bed hair. He came straight from under the covers to here. He's still only just a man. Give him some slack.

What the hell has he gotten himself into?