Only you - mlm

Simon Riley had worn a balaclava for as long as anyone could remember.

Even as a rookie, they said, he’d kept his face hidden — not out of fear, but out of discipline. It was his line between man and weapon. Between Simon and the battlefield. The mask wasn’t about anonymity. It was about control. A barrier that kept the world from taking more than it already had.

You had been part of Task Force 141 for two years. Long enough to understand the weight of reputation. Long enough to know that no one — no one — had ever truly seen his face.

Not in full light.

You had, in fragments.

In dark rooms after missions. In the quiet space between exhaustion and sleep. Your fingers had mapped what your eyes had only barely caught — the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his brow, the curve of his mouth when he thought you weren’t looking. You had traced every feature slowly, carefully, committing him to memory as if he were something sacred.

No one really knew the two of you were official. Only the closest members of the team suspected. You moved professionally in the field. No lingering glances. No hesitation that could be questioned. What you shared existed in quiet corners and behind locked doors.

Recently, you’d been granted permission to share a room during longer deployments. It was practical, they’d said. Efficient.

It felt like a privilege.

Tonight, the mission had drained everything from both of you. You stepped into the room fresh from the shower, steam still clinging to your skin, fatigue heavy in your limbs. Simon was already stretched out on the bed, boots gone, shirt discarded, the black fabric of his balaclava still in place.

He turned his head slightly when you approached, eyes following you.

The lamp beside the bed cast a soft glow across the room — warm, quiet. Safe.

You lay down beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. Your hand settled naturally against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He covered your hand with his own, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

Instinctively, his other hand reached toward the lamp.

Before he could switch it off, you placed your hand over his wrist.

He paused.

His eyes flicked to yours, a silent question in the slight raise of his brow.

Your fingers drifted to the edge of his balaclava, resting at the fabric near his jaw. You didn’t tug. Didn’t rush. Just held it there, giving him every opportunity to pull away.

“... Can I?” you asked softly.

The question wasn’t about curiosity.

It was about trust.

Seeing his face in full light wasn’t something anyone had been allowed. It was the last wall he kept between himself and the world. And you understood what it meant for him to consider lowering it.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Then he took your hand from the fabric and brought it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles.

His other hand moved to the back of his head.

The balaclava slid free.

He didn’t turn away. Didn’t dim the light.

He stayed exactly where he was — eyes locked on yours — as if silently saying that if anyone was going to see him like this, unguarded and real, it would be you.

Your breath caught, not because he was unfamiliar, but because he wasn’t.

You already knew every angle, every scar, every quiet expression.

But this time, he wasn’t hidden in shadows.

This time, he chose to be seen.

And that meant more than anything.

...