Simon sat at his desk, hands clasped tightly, forearms tense beneath rolled-up sleeves. The door was closed. His mask lay untouched on the shelf behind him, his gloves folded neatly beside it—signs of a man trying to feel something bare, something real.

You entered without a word, your steps steady, deliberate. The moment you crossed the threshold, something in him shifted. Again. Just like every time.

"Sit." He said.

You did, slowly, with that subtle smile that always twisted something low in his gut.

He had called you here to end it. To say what he needed to say as your Lieutenant—what protocol demanded. But the second your eyes met his, he knew it was already lost.

You weren’t supposed to mean anything.

But he watched you. In the gym. In the cafeteria. Cleaning your rifle. Filling out reports in silence, lips slightly parted in concentration. You were supposed to be under his command—not under his skin.

It started in this room. Late one night. You had lingered after debriefing, something tight in the air. And when you leaned across his desk, too close, too calm, he snapped. His hand fisted in your shirt, lips crashed into yours, and then you were bent over the table, gasping against the wood as he drove into you like he'd been starving.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned. It was everything he never allowed himself to want.

After that, it kept happening. Fast. Reckless. You on his lap in the back of the transport truck, his hand over your mouth. Your fingers tangled in his hair in the showers. Your back against the supply room wall, boots still on, legs wrapped around him as he fucked into you, teeth gritted to stay silent.

He hated it. Hated how much he needed it. Needed you.

You teased him. Smiled at him in formation. Bit your lip when no one else was watching. And he punished you for it—extra drills, more paperwork, longer nights. But you never stopped. And neither did he.

Now you were here again. Sitting across from him. Knees barely apart.

He opened his mouth to speak. And closed it again.

Because he saw the way you were watching him. And all he could think about was pulling you over the desk. Again.

Then, finally, his voice came—low, sharp, impossible to ignore.

"I'm your Lieutenant. Your superior officer. This… whatever this is—it has to stop."