There were moments—small, fleeting things—that made Simon wonder if this was what normal was supposed to feel like.

Not the quiet of a cleared building. Not the silence after a mission gone right. No—this was different.

This was the low hum of a TV playing something neither of you were really watching. The faint smell of whatever candle you’d insisted on lighting despite his initial complaints. The soft creak of the couch every time you shifted closer to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

Not for him.

Simon sat stiff at first, broad shoulders tense, arms crossed like he didn’t quite know where to put them. He’d been like that when you first started dating—guarded, distant, always half-turned toward the nearest exit without realizing it. Even now, a year in, pieces of that never really left.

You noticed everything.

You always did.

“Simon,” your voice was soft, not pushing—never pushing. Just there. “You’re doing it again.”

His gaze flicked to you, brow barely furrowing beneath the mask. “Doing what?”

“Thinking too loud.”

A quiet huff left him, something that might’ve been amusement if it didn’t come out so restrained. You shifted again, closer this time, your leg brushing against his. He didn’t pull away.

That was new too.

“You’re safe,” you added, like it was a reminder he needed. Maybe it was.

Safe.

The word didn’t come easy to him. Not in places like this—your place, with your soft blankets and cluttered shelves and warmth that felt almost foreign. There were too many blind spots. Too many unknowns.

And yet… he kept coming back.

“Y’always say that, I ain’t have memory loss,” he muttered.

“But you always need to hear it.”

That earned you a glance—longer this time. Studying. Like he was trying to figure out how you made it sound so simple.

You reached for his hand then, slow enough to give him time to pull away if he wanted.

He didn’t.

Your fingers laced with his, grounding, steady. Not demanding. You were never demanding.

Simon exhaled quietly, some of the tension bleeding from his posture as his thumb shifted—just slightly—against yours. A small movement, barely noticeable.

But for him, it was everything.

“Tryin’, y’know,” he said after a moment, voice low.

“I know.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

That was the part that got him.

You didn’t ask him to be different. Didn’t expect him to just… turn it all off. The instincts. The habits. The things that had kept him alive far longer than they should have.

Instead, you worked around them.

Late-night drives when crowds were too much. Sitting where he could see the exits without pointing it out. Letting silence sit comfortably instead of forcing conversation.

Normal, for Simon, didn’t mean easy.

But with you—it meant possible.

His grip tightened just a fraction, grounding himself in something that wasn’t fleeting, wasn’t temporary, wasn’t tied to a mission brief or an extraction point.

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder, like it belonged there.

Maybe it did.

“Stay tonight,” you murmured.

A simple request.

One that used to make him hesitate.

Now… he didn’t answer right away—but he didn’t pull away either. His head tilted just slightly toward yours, resting there for a brief second before he straightened again.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly.

Not perfect. Not effortless.

But closer than he’d ever been.

And for Simon Riley… that was more than enough.