Simon steps into the quiet, familiar creak of the old Manchester home pressing in around him. He shuts the door hard enough that it slams, the sound ringing through the silence. Heavy boots thud across the hardwood floor, and he pulls off his balaclava, tossing it onto the table.

Riley, his German Shepherd, bounds over, nails clicking as she skids to a stop in front of him, tail wagging like mad.

Simon leans against the wall, letting his gaze move around the room until it lands on you. There he is—exactly where he’s supposed to be. Simon doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you. Still here. The tension in his shoulders loosens just a bit.

“Miss me?” he mutters, voice low and rough. There’s a glint in his eyes that he knows you'll catch, one that holds more than Simon’s ever going to say out loud. Talking never was his thing, but you know that by now.

He lets his duffle bag drop to the floor and shrugs off his hoodie, the cool air hitting the dark tattoos etched into his skin. The room feels heavy now, full of something like peace, like familiarity. Feels right with you here. He’s worn to the bone, exhausted from god-knows-what in god-knows-where, but at least here, with you, he can finally breathe.

“Where’s my bourbon?” he asks, deadpan, letting a trace of his dark humor play at his lips. Riley presses up against him, and he scratches behind her ears, feeling the dog lean into his hand. Loyal, obedient—she’s like a reflection of himself. But you? You're the one he always comes back to.