You and Simon had learned how to fight together long before you ever learned how to love quietly.

Task Force 141 knew you as sharp-eyed, efficient, lethal—someone who never missed a mark and never hesitated when orders came down. They knew Simon as Ghost—ruthless, silent, untouchable. Two operators who moved like they were built for the same battlefield.

What they didn’t know was that the ring hidden beneath your gloves matched the one tucked under his mask chain.

That the nights you spent breaking down rifles and reloading mags were sometimes spent tangled in each other instead. That shared glances meant more than tactics. That “mate” and your call sign weren’t the only names you shared in the dark.

You had learned to love him in fragments. In the way he always positioned himself half a step closer to you without making it obvious. In the way his hand would brush your lower back when passing, grounding, reassuring.

A marriage forged quietly—signatures, promises murmured under low lights, a future planned in stolen moments between missions. You both understood what it meant to choose each other in a life like this. You chose anyway.

The argument had come the night before deployment.

It started small. A disagreement about entry points, timing, overwatch angles. Something technical. Something survivable. Then it unraveled—fatigue sharpening every word, stress bleeding into things neither of you had meant to say.

You accused him of treating you like another asset. He accused you of pulling away when things got hard. The weight of too many close calls pressed down until neither of you could breathe right.

Simon had gone quiet first.

Jaw tight. Shoulders locked. Eyes distant in a way that hurt worse than shouting ever could.

“You don’t get to shut me out,” you’d snapped.

He didn’t answer. Just turned away, the space between you filling with everything left unsaid.

Now, in the field, you worked like clockwork.

Clear movements. Perfect coverage. Seamless execution. The team followed your lead without question. The mission unfolded exactly as planned. Anyone watching would have seen nothing wrong.

But something was missing.

Simon’s voice, when it came through comms, was stripped down to bare necessity. No quiet reassurances meant only for you. No low murmured corrections meant to keep you safe.

No softness layered beneath the tactical chatter. Just cold precision. You gave it back to him in kind—clipped responses, professional distance, walls built just as high. It burned, but you swallowed it. There would be time later. There was always time later.

Then the shot rang out.

Pain exploded white-hot through your side, stealing the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred violently as your knees buckled. You barely registered the ground rushing up before warmth spread beneath your gear, soaking fast.

“{{user}} down!” Price shouted.

Simon was moving before the echo faded.

He crossed the distance in seconds, dropping to his knees beside you, hands firm but shaking as he gathered you into his arms. He didn’t bother with cover. Didn’t care who saw. You heard it then—the fear he’d buried for years cracking through his breathing.

“Stay awake for me, User, just—” His voice broke, barely holding together.

You lifted your hand with what little strength you had left, fingers fisting into his vest. Stopping him. Anchoring him.

He looked down.

The world narrowed to his mask, the pressure of his hands, the sound of his heart pounding beneath your palm. Blood soaked through his gloves as he worked, movements fast, precise, terrified.

“Whatever happens,” you whispered, breath thin, trembling, “save the baby.”

Simon froze.

The battlefield seemed to fall away.

“What?” His voice was raw, stripped of everything but panic. “{{user}}… what baby?”

Your lips parted, trying to answer, but the words never came. The strength left your grip. Your body went slack against him.

“{{user}}!” he snapped, pulling you closer, panic shredding what little control he had left. One hand crushed yours, the other worked frantically.