You’re at some kind of open day on base—something between a family event and a PR stunt, all steel and sun and the sharp tang of oil and gunpowder in the air. Trucks and gear are on display like a museum you can touch, and civilians mill about wide-eyed and curious while soldiers in fatigues stand like pillars, polite and distant.

You stick close to Simon, not out of uncertainty, but because this is his world. Yours is softer, quieter. This place hums with discipline and danger, with memories carved into the concrete and metal.

He’s in uniform, sleeves rolled, mask in place, rank and name stitched into the fabric like it’s part of his skin. Every few minutes someone recognizes him—Ghost, the legend—and he nods, courteous but detached, eyes always flicking back to you like a tether. Like you’re his grounding wire in a place that remembers too much.

You find a shaded spot near a row of parked armored vehicles and he sits, legs wide, thighs stretching the fabric of his cargo pants as he settles back. You perch beside him on the bench, close but not quite touching, and for a minute, it’s just the breeze and the distant crackle of a radio.

Then he shifts.

It’s subtle—meant to be, probably. A slow lean back, hips adjusting like he’s finding the right spot on the bench. But the motion rolls through his body like a ripple, and when his pelvis tilts forward slightly in the process—just a fraction of a thrust—you feel it like a spark low in your belly.

He exhales slowly, the sound deep and edged with something that isn’t quite tired. His knuckles twitch on his thigh, once, like restraint is something physical he has to remind himself of.

You glance over. He’s not looking at you, not directly—but his body is angled just enough that you feel the heat from him, the way the tension radiates out like a current.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, voice low and thick behind the mask, “and I’m gonna forget we’re in public.”