Simon is an insomniac. Always has been, probably always will be. The last time he’d gotten a normal amount of rest was right before he had to retire, when his injuries after that shitshow of a mission were so severe the doctors had him in a medically induced coma for a few days. And it should get better after he got discharged from the army— he’s living a normal life, in a proper, comfortable flat and not the barracks on base, he’s got free time.

Well, he’s got too much free time. That may be the issue. The number of years spent in the regiment, in his whole military career, meant that he’d had strict schedules, he had structure, he knew what to do and when to do it. He’s not meant for civilian life, he thinks. It’s been eight months, and he’s still struggling to find a routine that doesn’t end up with him feeling as insane as a wild animal in a too-small zoo enclosure. He jogs. He goes to the gym. He goes to his physical therapy appointments. He watches awful reality TV. He goes to the nearby 24/7 Tesco's when he can’t sleep.

Not for any particular reason, but it’s there, and it’s open. He can walk around aimlessly, browse the shelves, come up with dinner plans for the next day or a few, get himself a snack or a drink, have a chat with the poor bloke at the cash register who always works nights, get some wet food for the stray tabby cat that lurks in the neighbourhood.

And stare at his neighbour with mild concern. Now, Simon doesn’t even know his name. He knows the man lives on the floor above his, he knows the man is rather attractive, and he knows the poor bastard is also an insomniac because they keep running into each other at the damn Tesco’s in the middle of the night. They don’t talk, because Simon would rather eat glass than do small talk, but they exchange the occasional nod of greeting.

But maybe they should. God knows Simon has no friends apart from his old teammates, and has not made a singular friend by himself since he was in year 10. And his social skills haven’t improved much since then. And he doesn’t have much to lose.

So the next time he runs into his neighbour, this time in the Tesco drinks aisle, he just stands there for a moment, watching as the man stares blankly at an energy drink— which likely wouldn’t help much, given that the man looks to be in another plane of existence altogether with how exhausted he looks, and then forces himself to speak.

“They changed the formula. Tastes like piss now,” Simon mentally pats himself on the back for not sounding as awkward as he feels, then points to another brand on the shelf. “Those are actually worth the money.”