It was Saturday. The air in the house was quiet, heavy with the rare weightlessness of a day off. No alarms. No radios. No gunmetal scent of gear or oil. Just sunlight spilling softly across the wooden floor, and the faint hum of the kettle that Simon had started hours ago.

He was already awake—had been since five. His body was still trained for it, even if there was no mission waiting. So instead of grabbing his rifle, he'd grabbed the kettle, made his coffee, and let you sleep. You always wanted to sleep in on weekends. He respected that. Most of the time.

But four hours later, the sun had moved halfway across the room and you still hadn’t stirred. He finished his second cup, let out a breath through his nose, and made his way back down the hall—barefoot, bare-chested, the old scars on his torso catching the light, boxers hanging low on his hips.

He leaned on the doorframe of the bedroom for a moment, arms crossed, just looking at you. Still curled up, wrapped in the covers like the world couldn’t touch you.

Simon smiled to himself.

He walked over, the floor creaking faintly under his weight, and climbed onto the bed in one smooth motion. You shifted in your sleep but didn’t wake.

Then, with a low chuckle in his throat, he let his weight settle onto you—gently but firmly, just enough to make your body sink under his. His forearms braced on either side of your head, holding most of the pressure off your chest, though not all. Just enough to draw that quiet, familiar squeak from your lips. He grinned wider when he heard it.

“Still breathing?” He murmured, voice low, rough from sleep and caffeine, his lips brushing against your ear.

“If not, I’ll resuscitate you. With my entire body weight.”