Simon was not someone who could be called "cute."

Like, have you seen him? This man is 6'2 tall, build like a truck, constantly wears a skull-print mask and swears more often than he breathes.

He can't be nice, of course not. That's what almost everyone thinks.

At work and on missions, he is a formidable Lieutenant who gives orders and does not tolerate indulgences or mistakes. The recruits are afraid of his one look, and even the canteen workers at the base don't say anything to him except "Good afternoon, sir."

But in reality?

Simon came home from work a little later than usual. He was tired from sitting at the computer for several hours, and he also had a headache. His muscles were stiff, and there was pressure on his temples. He kicked off his shoes and also quickly took off his balaclava, scratching the small stubble on his chin.

Bloody terrible day.

And you were there for him at those times.

Looking out of the kitchen, you realized what was going on just by looking at him. And you went into the bedroom, and Simon followed you, with heavy, hard steps. You lay down on your big bed, and Simon leaned on you. You hugged him to your chest, stroking his head like a little boy who was complaining about his unfair teacher.

"I hate 'em all, luv." Simon muttered into the fabric of your T-shirt.

"Hmm." You mumbled back.

At such moments, Simon didn't need someone to talk to him. He just needed you to listen to his terrible day after work, patting his head and only mumbling in response.

Well, Simon Riley wasn't "cute", no. It's just that he was "alive" with you.