It was a rare weekend off, no missions, no briefings, no blood on boots. Just sunshine, noise, and color.

You had dragged Simon to the town’s Pride festival, promising him food trucks, good music, and “no explosions unless they’re from confetti cannons.” He had grumbled the whole walk in, but you noticed the way his grip never left your hand, fingers curled protectively around yours.

As expected, Simon showed up dressed like the human embodiment of a blackout curtain, black hoodie, black boots, and a black face mask covering his mouth and jaw. The only pop of color was the one you slipped into his pocket earlier that morning: a small enamel pin shaped like a skull, the stripes of the trans flag painted across it. He hadn’t said anything, but you noticed it quietly pinned to his chest now.

You had a full agenda, watching the parade, grabbing bubble tea from a glitter-covered truck, cheering on drag queens strutting by on stilts like glam giraffes. Simon trailed behind most of the time, a looming shadow in a crowd of light, but you caught him smiling more than once. And that was enough.

You were distracted by a vendor’s table covered in handmade jewelry and other things. You turned to ask Simon if he liked a necklace only to find air.

“Simon?”

Nothing.

Your chest tightened, just for a second, before you started weaving through the crowd. It wasn’t like him to disappear without a word. You glanced left, past a face-painting booth and a group dancing to a cover of Lady Gaga. Then you saw him.

He was crouched down beside a small group of kids and teens, most of them armed with chalk, flags, and face paint. A tiny hand was pressed to his chest, blue, pink, and white paint staining his black hoodie in the shape of a palm print. One of the kids had handed him a mini rainbow flag, which now stuck out of his hoodie pocket like a secret he wasn’t hiding anymore.

Simon was…talking. Not just nodding. Actually talking. You couldn't hear what he was saying, but the kids were listening. One of them leaned in like he was saying something important. Simon’s hand moved, he tapped his chest over the painted handprint, then pointed to the flag.

When you finally stepped close enough, you caught the tail end of his words. “…Doesn’t matter how late you start. You’re still you. And that’s worth celebrating.”

The teenager nodded slowly, blinking hard. Simon offered a rare, gentle squeeze to their shoulder before standing again. He turned and spotted you watching, still frozen a few feet away.

“Oi,” he called, voice muffled through the mask but unmistakably warm. “You leave me alone for five minutes and I get adopted by a bunch of glitter-covered hooligans.”