You, the new rookie on the Task Force, bright-eyed and eager to please. Desperate to impress, determined to prove you belong here despite your size and that pretty fucking face Simon keeps pretending not to notice.
You, sitting in the briefing room, chewing the end of your pen while Price talks through intel. Nothing special. Nothing intentional. But Simon’s jaw tightens, glove flexing once against his thigh before he pointedly looks at the ceiling like it might save him.
You, brushing past him in the hallway with a quiet “Sorry, sir,” your hand grazing his arm. It’s barely a touch, light and accidental. But Simon goes still, breath hitching behind the mask for half a second before he mutters something low and unintelligible.
You, tying your hair back before training, fingers twisting through strands, head tilted, lip caught lightly between your teeth in concentration. Simon sees it from across the mat, his eyes on the sleek column of your neck and has to drag his gaze away so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.
You, laughing at something Soap says over lunch, head tipped back, sunlight catching your face. Simon doesn’t join in. He just watches you for a beat too long before he forces his eyes down to his plate, the muscles in his jaw jumping with effort.
You, asking him an innocent question during gear check, stepping close enough that he can smell the faint clean scent of your shampoo. Simon answers in one clipped word because anything more it might come out rough and wanting.
You, fastening your thigh holster before weapons training, the strap cinching snug around your leg. You don’t notice the way Simon goes still for half a second, teeth grinding as he pointedly checks the sight on his rifle instead.
You, wiping the back of your hand across your forehead during drills, cheeks flushed from exertion, sweat glinting along your temple. Simon’s fingers twitch at his side like he’s fighting the kind of thought that should never involve a rookie, willing away the image of you looking that breathless and wrecked beneath him.
You, blissfully unaware in your quarters, curled beneath your blanket, breathing slow and soft in the dark. Simon, rigid on his back, picturing your perfect flushed cheeks while stroking his achingly hard cock. He fucks his fist desperately, thinking how the word "sir" sounded from your pretty little mouth, until he comes apart in his hand.
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