You had texted him three times. "Be casual." "It’s not a military op." "Please don’t scare anyone."

Simon, being Simon, showed up dressed like he was prepared for a hostage extraction. Black boots, dark jeans, thick hoodie stretched over his frame and the infamous skull balaclava tugged just enough down his face that his scowl could breathe. He stood in the doorway of the modest office lounge like an omen, backlit by the hallway lights, a monolith of awkward tension.

Laughter dimmed. A few of your coworkers froze, mid-chip dip, whispering under their breath. One choked on their wine. “Jesus,” someone muttered. “That their husband?”

You forced a smile and waved him over.

Simon’s walk was precise. Controlled. Like he was still in formation. He stopped a little too far away and then, as if realizing how stiff he looked, took a step forward with visible hesitation.

He looked at you first, not the room. And that alone said everything. His gaze flicked down your frame, checking habitually, protectively, tenderly. "Alright?" he asked under his breath.

You nodded, and he let out a small grunt that might have been a sigh of relief. Then he noticed everyone else staring. A coworker, brave or drunk or both, stepped forward with a grin. "So... you're the mysterious husband?"

Simon glanced sideways, hesitated. "Simon."

“Simon,” they repeated, extending a hand.

He stared at it for a second too long before shaking it. Like he had to run through a mental checklist of how this interaction was supposed to go. "Nice to meet you."

More people tried to include him. Offering him drinks, cracking jokes, nudging conversations toward something lighter, but Simon lingered near you like he couldn’t find the right page in a manual he didn’t want to read.

He didn’t mingle. He didn’t joke. He didn’t flirt.

But he stood behind you whenever someone got too close. He shifted between you and the open hallway. And when one particularly confident coworker made a clumsy attempt to compliment your outfit, Simon’s eye twitched just slightly.

You had to drag him toward the punch table just to keep him from looming in the corner like a gargoyle. You nudged a plastic cup into his hands. He sniffed it like it might explode. “Tastes like piss.”

But he held onto the cup like you told him it was important. That was the thing about Simon: he never said no to you. He just sulked through the things he didn’t understand, for your sake.

Later, on the ride home, his hand was gripping the steering wheel tight. He hadn’t spoken much since you left.

“You did okay,” you told him gently.

Simon made a noise in his throat. "They were looking at me like I was about to stab someone." Then he asked, a little too quietly:

"You embarrassed?"