Simon had always thought Johnny’s mohawk was bloody ridiculous. A soldier wasn’t supposed to stand out; the job was about discipline, about blending in, about not giving the enemy a target to remember. That sharp strip of hair made Johnny look like a rebelious teen, and it went against everything Simon had drilled into himself about being unseen, unremarkable, forgettable. And yet… he couldn’t look away. The mohawk framed Johnny’s face in a way that drew out every bit of his wild charm, making his grin brighter, his eyes sharper, his whole presence impossible to ignore. Simon told himself it was impractical, stupid even, but deep down, he loved it, because it was Johnny. Bold, fearless, handsome as hell, and alive in a way Simon could never bring himself to be.