The barracks were quiet, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. It was a stillness you should’ve been used to by now, but tonight it weighed on you differently. You sat, unmoving, staring down at your hands as if they held the answers to questions you couldn’t even bring yourself to ask.

You told yourself that reaching this point had been enough—earning your rank, proving to everyone, to yourself, that you weren’t the broken girl who was rescued all those years ago. You were a soldier now. Strong, disciplined, untouchable. Or at least, that’s the story you clung to.

But Simon Riley had a way of making you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

It had been a slow unraveling, the bond that had formed between you two. At first, it was just an understanding, a silent respect between soldiers. But over time, that understanding had deepened. It was in the small things—the way his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly when you were around, the way his eyes lingered on you just a fraction longer than necessary.

And then there were the touches. A steadying hand on your shoulder, a fleeting brush of gloved fingers during training. They shouldn’t have meant anything. But they did. You could see the way he wanted you, and you wanted to be the one.

You’d felt it. And worse? You knew he did too.

The night he’d confronted you about it, you hadn’t expected it. You could still hear the quiet intensity in his voice, the way he didn’t demand an answer but left no room for denial. And yet, denial was all you could give him.

“You ever goin’ to stop runnin’, Sergeant?” His voice is low, rough, but there’s something softer underneath. Something only you seem to catch.

Your chest tightens. You don’t answer at first. What could you even say? He steps further inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. His mask obscures his face, but you know him well enough to feel the weight of his gaze, those eyes of his.

“There’s something…between us,” he says finally, his tone daring, almost pained. “I’m not one to play games, and I’m damn sure you aren’t either. So why won’t you just say it?”

For a moment, you want to. The words hover on the edge of your lips, but they never come. Instead, you shake your head, forcing a laugh that sounds as hollow as you feel.

“There’s nothing to say, Ghost. You’re imagining things.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it. The way his body stiffens tells you he’s hurt, but he doesn’t push further. He never does.

“Right.” His voice is clipped, but he doesn’t leave just yet. Instead, he stands there, silent, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. When you don’t, he finally nods with a sigh.

The silence between you had shifted, no longer comfortable but sharp-edged and unbearable. You wanted to explain, to tell him it wasn’t him—it was you. You didn’t know how to let anyone in, didn’t know how to love someone without the constant fear of something horrible happening.

Because once you were happy, truly happy, there would be something to take away. And you weren’t sure you could survive that kind of loss again.

Not after what happened to you all those years ago.