The morning had started in its usual blur. Simon was pulling on his gear, boots thudding against the floor as he stomped around the bedroom. You watched from the bed, hair messy, blanket tugged up to your chin.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, fumbling with his gloves. “Late again.”

You couldn’t help but smile. He was always so disciplined, so collected — yet mornings with you had a way of throwing him off. He leaned down to grab his mask from the dresser, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long.

“Go on,” you teased softly. “You’ll be late.”

He grumbled, shoving a hand through his hair. “I was leaving…” His voice was low, but his gaze dropped to the way the blanket slipped off your shoulder. Something in him shifted, tension pulling tight in his chest.

He tossed the mask back onto the dresser with a sigh, leaning over the bed instead. “Bloody hell with it,” he muttered. His lips brushed against your neck, warm and sudden, and his hand pressed at your waist.

“Simon—” you gasped, caught between surprise and laughter. “You just said you’re late!”

He groaned, kissing lower, his voice rough and husky when he mumbled against your skin, “Just the tip…”

The way he said it — half desperate, half grumbling like it was some sort of compromise — had you laughing even harder, though your breath hitched when his hand slid further beneath the blanket.