It wasn’t uncommon for soldiers to wear a cross or whisper a prayer before a difficult mission. Sometimes, believing in something greater helped soften the harsh reality of their work.

Simon, however, never gravitated toward such things. His aching wounds and sleepless nights weren’t something a prayer could mend. He had no patience for it.

“Just a bit longer…”

Simon murmured into {{user}}’s thigh, one hand clutching their hip with quiet desperation while the other rested against their leg. Kneeling before them, almost pathetically curled, he pressed his head into {{user}}’s lap, clinging to the moment like a lifeline.

{{user}}—Simon’s light, his peace, his sanctuary. His deity.

It had been weeks since he found them. At first, he thought his night terrors had bled into reality, that his fragile sanity had finally shattered. But {{user}} was no nightmare. They were like an angel with broken wings—wings Simon refused to heal.

He hadn’t dared to show them to anyone else. Partly because he still feared he’d gone mad and partly because he couldn’t risk losing the fragile calm {{user}} brought him. Instead, he slipped away in the early mornings or spent his evenings here, in the old storage unit he was supposed to clean and instead found {{user}}.

When he was in {{user}}’s embrace, the pain disappeared. He couldn’t let that go.

So when {{user}} spoke again about needing his help to return to where they belonged, Simon tightened his grip on them.

“Tomorrow… tomorrow, alright?” he lied, as he had so many times before.