Simon never gives you a heads-up when he’s coming back from a mission. He prefers the quiet thrill of catching you off guard, the way your whole face lights up when you see him, the soft gasp that slips out before you launch yourself into his arms.

But tonight doesn’t go as planned.

He hadn’t expected to be delayed this long. By the time he steps through the front door, the house is cloaked in darkness. You’re likely asleep, and the last thing he wants is to startle you awake in the dead of night.

So he moves silently.

He slips off his gear and pads down the hallway with careful steps. The bedroom door is cracked open, just like he remembers. Inside, you’re buried beneath the blankets, perfectly still.

Simon crosses the room and crouches beside the bed. He reaches out, aiming to brush your cheek and wake you gently.

He never gets the chance.

In a blur, you’re on top of him. He hits the floor hard, breath knocked out of his chest. Your knees trap his arms, and your full weight presses him down. The knife he gave you—because he insisted you know how to defend yourself—now rests against his throat. Your expression is focused, eyes sharp, instincts kicking in before recognition does.

Exactly the way he trained you.

He blinks up at you, lips parting in a mix of pride and disbelief. “Bloody hell, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice strained.