The night air at the base always smelled like gunmetal and dirt—like sweat-stained uniforms and the kind of silence that only came after violence. It had been a week since the mission. A week since everything changed. The op had been clean, swift, almost too easy for the shit they usually dealt with. Everyone had been high on adrenaline and relief when they'd stumbled into that dusty local pub after the debrief. Laughing, drinking, voices too loud for the size of the room.

You remembered the heat of Simon Riley’s presence even before you’d had a single drop. He wasn’t in his mask that night—not fully, anyway. Just the balaclava pulled down to his nose, leaving his mouth and jaw exposed. A rare sight. A more dangerous one, it turned out.

He'd looked different without the skull.

You could still hear the rough edge of his laugh in your ears. Still see the way his fingers twitched against his pint glass like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to drink it or crush it. The man had been your CO for over a year. Always cold. Always unreadable. But that night, you saw something else behind those unreadable eyes. Something reckless.

The first kiss was messy. Off balance. Teeth clashed. You didn’t even remember who grabbed who first—only the crash of the door against the wall as you’d stumbled into his barrack like a pair of teenagers sneaking around behind a curfew that didn’t exist anymore. Heat. Hands. Skin. And then morning, and the sharp clarity of guilt mixed with something far more terrifying: want.

You told yourself it would be a one-time thing. He didn’t speak to you the next day beyond clipped orders. You kept your eyes down. Your uniform pressed. Your steps sharp.

But it didn’t stop.

It didn’t stop the next night, when he cornered you behind the supply depot like he hadn’t been thinking about anything else all day. Or the night after, when you ended up in the back of one of the armored trucks, breathing hard against each other, the windows fogged from more than just the cold.

Every time, it felt like a mistake. Every time, you swore it would be the last. But the thing was—every time just made you want it more. Want him more.

And the worst part? He let you.

A week later, it was past midnight, and you were standing outside his room again. You didn’t even knock anymore. Just slipped in like it was natural. Like it was allowed. He looked up from his desk when the door clicked shut behind you, that same unreadable expression on his face.

"You're late," he said, voice low, rough like gravel under boots.

You swallowed hard, heart thudding somewhere near your throat. "Had to finish a report."

He stood slowly, the chair creaking behind him, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The air was thick, heavy with everything unspoken between you. You knew this was dangerous. Knew it every time you touched him, let him touch you. But still—you came.

"You shouldn't be here," he murmured, voice softer now.

And yet, he didn’t tell you to leave.

You stepped further in, eyes locking with his. There were no lights on, just the faint orange glow of a desk lamp casting shadows across the sharp lines of his face. He looked tired. Older than usual. But he didn't look away.

You crossed the room slowly, boots quiet on the concrete floor, until you were standing just inches from him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to breathe him in.

“Then tell me to go,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

But he didn’t.

He just stared, jaw clenched, and after a long beat, he reached past you to lock the door.