Johnny had been running drills for hours, t-shirt soaked through with sweat, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. When he'd jogged over to grab water, Simon caught the scent—salt and musk and something distinctly Johnny that made Simon's focus slip completely.
He'd nearly missed his next shot.
That was three months ago. Now Simon was actively avoiding close contact, which was becoming a problem when your job required working as a team.
"Need you to check my work," Johnny said, sliding his chair closer to Simon's desk until their shoulders were almost touching.
Simon tensed. Johnny always ran warm, always smelled like he'd been working hard even when he hadn't. It was distracting as hell.
"Looks fine from here," Simon said, not looking at the paperwork.
"Come on, just a quick look."
Johnny leaned over, pointing at something on the page, and Simon caught a full hit of his scent. Sweat and soap and that underlying musk that made Simon's mouth go dry.
"Right, yeah. All good." Simon pushed back from the desk. "Need some air."
He could feel Johnny's confused stare following him out.
It got worse during ops. Confined spaces, adrenaline, Johnny's natural tendency to sweat under stress—Simon found himself distracted at the worst possible moments.
"Ghost, you copy?" Johnny's voice crackled through the comm, and Simon could see him thirty feet away, pressed against cover, breathing hard from their sprint across open ground.
"Copy."
"You alright? You seem—"
"I'm fine." Simon's voice came out rougher than intended. "Stay focused."
But he was the one losing focus. Every time Johnny moved close during the extraction, every time they had to press together in the transport, Simon caught that scent and had to fight to keep his head in the game.
Back at base, Johnny cornered him in the equipment room.
"What's your problem?" Johnny demanded, blocking the door. "You've been avoiding me for weeks."
"Haven't been avoiding you."
"Bullshit. Every time I get within three feet, you find an excuse to leave."
Simon busied himself checking over his gear. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" Johnny stepped closer, and Simon's shoulders went rigid. "Because it feels like you can't stand being around me."
The accusation hit wrong. Simon looked up, saw genuine hurt in Johnny's eyes.
"It's not that."
"Then what?"
Simon stared at him, at the way Johnny's shirt clung to his chest, at the slight sheen of sweat on his neck from the day's training. At the way he smelled—warm and male and absolutely fucking distracting.
"You smell good," Simon said bluntly.
Johnny blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
"I... what does that mean?"
Simon set down his rifle, turned to face Johnny properly. "Means I can't think straight when you're close. Means I nearly got us both killed on that last op because I was distracted by the way you smell when you sweat."
Johnny's mouth fell open slightly. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
They stared at each other across the small room. Johnny took another step closer, deliberately this time.
"So when you've been avoiding me..."
"I've been trying to do my job without getting hard every time you walk past."
The admission hung between them, honest and raw.
Johnny's breathing had changed, gotten shallower. "Simon..."
"This is fucked up."
"Yeah." Johnny moved closer again, close enough that Simon could smell him properly now—musk and heat and want. "Really fucked up."
Simon's hands clenched at his sides. "Johnny, don't—"
"Don't what?" Johnny's voice was rough now. "Don't get close? Don't let you smell me?"
Simon's control snapped. He grabbed Johnny's shirt, pulled him close, buried his face against Johnny's neck and breathed him in properly for the first time.
Johnny's sharp intake of breath was loud in the quiet room.
"Fuck," Simon muttered against his skin. "This is what I've been avoiding."