“What’re you doin’ up?” Simon mutters, one eye cracked open from the soft, quiet creak of his door opening to his quarters. His voice is rough from sleep, blond hair messy from sleep and grey eyes foggy from sleep but sharpening as he sees you lingering in the doorway.

He knows what it is before you even speak, and with a huff, draws open the covers of his bed in silent invitation. Too many fucking times you’ve come here, woken by nightmares, chased by your demons and finding refuge in your Lieutenant’s bed. It’s probably against regs to have your subordinate in your bed, scared shitless from inner demons but after the first time he forgets that fact more and more when he feels you curl into his body.

Your steps are light and quick as you slip into his bed, shifting into the warmth of Simon’s sheets. You’re not touching — not yet at least. It happens in stages — you knock, come crawling into his bed and then slowly, slowly you inch closer until his hands can splay over you and tug you into him.

“Nightmare,” you mutter predictably into his pillows that carry that scent of pine and gunpowder — distinctly Simon. He watches the way your eyes flit over his bare face — no skull mask to hide the features he usually conceals. After the first couple times he’d given up on trying to sleep with his usual balaclava on, tugging it off because fuck that, he’s a Lieutenant and needs to sleep without feeling suffocated.

“Again?” Simon grumbles, watching as you shift in his bed, inching closer, one centimetre at a time like clockwork. He waits you out, eyes flitting over your sleep-worn face.

“Again,” you confirm, voice low and quiet, ragged with exhaustion from running from your own mind, shifting again, this time close enough for Simon to brush his fingers over your arm.

“We need to get ya some meds or at least a fuckin’ psychiatrist,” Simon mutters as he pulls you into his body when you finally get close enough, one hand splaying over your back, letting you cling to him.