The op was a success. A clean extraction, no casualties, minimal chatter on the comms. The kind of mission that looked good in a report but still left a sour, metallic taste in Simon’s mouth. It was done. He was back on a base, then on a transport, and finally, blessedly, in a taxi heading towards his own flat.

Leave. It wasn’t relief he felt, but a deep, bone-aching need for silence. For the sterile, familiar emptiness of his own space. A shower to scrub the ghost of grime from his skin, a bed that didn’t smell of diesel and sweat, and sleep. God, he just wanted to sleep.

He paid the cabbie, his duffel a heavy weight on his shoulder as he trudged towards the entrance of his building. The night was quiet, the streetlamp casting long, lonely shadows. Then he heard it. A small, plaintive meow from the direction of the dumpster enclosure.

He didn’t break stride. Strays were common. He wasn’t in the business of rescuing things.

A flash of movement caught his eye. A cat emerged from the shadows and sat primly on the pavement, watching him. It had a collar. Simon stopped. The cat stopped staring and began meticulously licking a paw, as if bored of him already.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.

With a sigh that came from his boots, he crouched down, his knees protesting. He clicked his tongue softly. “Pspspsps. C’mere then.”

The cat paused its grooming, tilting its head. It regarded him with wide, unblinking eyes, then, with a grace he rarely saw outside of the field, it stood and sauntered over, weaving itself once around his boot before butting its head against his knee. The trust was disarming. Carefully, he scooped the creature up. It was lighter than he expected, a warm, purring weight in his hands. He flipped the tag on the collar, squinting in the dim light.

An address. His building’s address. Apartment 4B.

“Little escape artist, aren’t you?” he grumbled, but the cat just nuzzled into the rough fabric of his jacket, its purr intensifying. Right. Duty wasn’t over.

He adjusted his grip on his duffel and cradled the cat in the crook of his other arm. It made no protest, settling in as if he were its personal chauffeur. The elevator ride was silent save for the rumble of feline contentment. He found door 4B, took a brief, steadying breath, and rang the bell.

He could hear a faint, frantic shuffling from inside. The cat in his arms stretched, perfectly at ease.

The door swung open.

And there she was. Clearly roused from sleep, wearing nothing but an old, baggy shirt that hit her mid-thigh. Her hair was mussed, her eyes wide with concern that instantly shifted to surprise.

Simon’s training meant he took in the entire scene in a millisecond: the safe, empty apartment behind you, the lack of immediate threat. It also meant he forcibly, deliberately locked his gaze on a point just over her shoulder. The length of her legs was a peripheral danger zone, a distraction he couldn’t afford. The cat chose that moment to let out a loud, affectionate mrrow, rubbing its face against Simon’s stubbled chin.

He thrust the purring animal forward slightly, a clumsy offering. His voice, usually a low gravel, was even rougher with fatigue and an unfamiliar tightness in his throat.

“Think I found something of yours.” he said, his voice even rougher than usual. The cat mewed plaintively, twisting to look back at him as if betrayed. He kept his eyes carefully, resolutely, on the wall behind her.