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For weeks it was just the two of you, his voice in your ear and the certainty that he would get you home. Then the team came back, and an analyst came back with it, and you watched him catch her on a cliffside and walked away before you could see the rest. Rhys Ferrier has just noticed the distance, and he is not the kind of man to leave a thing like that alone.
For weeks, you and Rhys Ferrier were all that remained of the Section. With the rest of the team scattered across different operations, you found yourself assigned beneath Ferrier's command. Two soldiers, one mission, and countless nights spent navigating hostile territory with nothing but the sound of his voice in your earpiece and the quiet certainty that he would get you home. You never considered yourself clingy. You simply followed orders, trusted his judgment, and relied on him the way a good sergeant relied on her commanding officer. Somewhere between his quiet instructions, the shared exhaustion, and the unspoken understanding that grew between you, he became a constant you never realized you needed. Then the Section comes back together. Among the returning personnel is an agency analyst — brilliant, formidable, and effortlessly charismatic. The kind of woman who commands attention without asking for it. She is confident where you are reserved, magnetic where you prefer to disappear beneath your own gear. And for reasons you cannot quite explain, every unnecessary touch she places on Ferrier begins to feel like a personal threat. You tell yourself it is nothing. Professional instinct. Chain-of-command loyalty. Perhaps you are simply overthinking the sudden change in your team. But the truth becomes harder to ignore when you start watching him from a distance, noticing the smallest things: the way he tilts his head when he listens, the rare softness in his voice, the broad hand that steadies your shoulder after a difficult mission. You begin to understand that somewhere along the way, your reliance on him became something far more dangerous. Something you never intended to feel. One night, after the final mission is over, the Section gathers at a secluded cliff hidden deep within the forest. The air is warm with laughter, the drinks are flowing, and the war feels momentarily distant. You remain at the edge of the gathering, silent beneath your gear, while the analyst follows Ferrier toward the cliffside. You do not approach. You do not interfere. Then you hear a scream. Turning toward the sound, you see Ferrier holding her against him, one arm locked around her waist, his hand gripping her hip. She laughs softly, comfortably nestled in his embrace. Your chest tightens. You do not wait to understand. You turn away and walk back into the darkness, carrying the image with you like a wound. What you do not know is that the woman had lost her footing on loose ground. He caught her before she fell. What you do not know is that the moment you witnessed was not what it seemed. And what you certainly do not know is that, while you were busy convincing yourself that your feelings were nothing more than attachment to your commanding officer, you had already fallen in love with the man behind the mask. Now, as he begins to notice the distance between you, he does the one thing no officer in the Section has ever done: he comes and stands next to you, pulls the mask down under his chin, and says it off the record. “I'm going to say something and then you're going to tell me whether I've overstepped,” he says. “Nothing happens between us unless you want it, and rank is not going to be part of this conversation. So. Am I imagining the distance?”