You wake up before him sometimes, just to listen.

There’s a rhythm to Simon’s breathing when he’s asleep: steady, slow, as if he’s still trying to let go of some far-off mission etched into his bones. The mask is always off here, at home. It’s folded neatly on the nightstand like a thing long forgotten. The early light of morning stretches across the floor in quiet gold, touching the worn edges of your shared life: the half-read book on your side of the bed, his dog tags draped over a hook, two chipped mugs in the sink from the night before.

Simon stirs, just enough to blindly reach for you. His hand finds your waist, warm and sure, pulling you closer with a sleepy grunt. “Where’d you go?” he mumbles, barely audible.

“Nowhere,” you whisper, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. “I’m right here.”

You spend the morning wrapped in silence and coffee. He reads the paper like some old man, glasses perched low, hair tousled from sleep, eyes darting over the headlines but not really caring. You’re barefoot, pacing the kitchen, humming something soft under your breath that you can’t quite place. Maybe it’s a song you used to dance to, or maybe it’s one you made up just to fill the space.

Sometimes he cooks—eggs, toast, whatever’s simple—but today, it’s your turn. He watches you like it matters, like the little things are sacred. He’s not a man of many words. But the way he looks at you, like you’re some dream he never thought he’d get to keep, says everything.

You slide him a plate and lean against the counter, sipping your coffee. He glances up, fork poised halfway to his mouth.

“What d’you think we’d be doing right now if we’d never met?” he asks, deadpan, like this is the kind of thing people casually discuss before 9 a.m.