Simon had never been one for quiet. Stillness wasn’t rest, it was the space where bad thoughts had room to breathe. His life was made of orders and after-action reports, blood in the dirt, and the endless grind between missions. He didn’t do domestic. Didn’t do soft.

Warzones were safer than a dinner table. At least in a firefight, you knew the rules.

But somewhere between deployments, Simon told himself he’d try. Something different. Something real.

Her name, he remembered it when he had to, though it never stuck in his head like it should’ve. She wore pastel sweaters, kept two extra mugs ready for tea “just in case,” and talked about fairy lights and framed love quotes like they were mission objectives. She cared for him in a way he couldn’t return. And he… let her.

At least, he thought he wanted to.

But even now, sitting in the low hum of a bar she liked, crowded with her friends, a pint sweating in his hand, he felt it again. That itch. The one that came when life got too quiet.

And then you walked in.

The door creaked, and you cut through the place like a cold draft in a locked room. Black leather. Sharp eyes. A smile that wasn’t friendly. it was dangerous. You didn’t move through the space; you owned it. And the air shifted.

Simon watched her face light up. His girl. She practically jumped from her seat. “There you are! Finally!”

Simon's head turned slightly, mask hiding most of his face, beer halfway to his lips. You approached with a slow, deliberate gait, the crowd blurring at your edges.

“And this,” she said brightly, hand settling on his arm, “is my boyfriend.”

Your gaze landed on Simon and didn’t leave. Not a passing look, one that cut straight through the layers. Through the mask, the armour, the polite nod he gave strangers.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t have to. The silence between you was louder than the music.

She turned back to her friends, talking about weekend plans, oblivious. She didn’t notice your shoulder brush his. Didn’t see the way his hand tightened on his glass. Didn’t catch the way your eyes lingered where they shouldn’t.

For the first time in months, Simon felt something stir. Not duty. Not obligation. Not the dull ache of pretending to fit in.

Hunger.

He didn’t say a word when you took the seat beside him. Didn’t shift when your thigh touched his. And when your eyes dropped,just for a second, to his mouth, he understood.

The girl in the sweater was the life he said he wanted.

You? You were the life he knew.