The safe house is small—cramped, dimly lit, walls lined with peeling wallpaper and the lingering scent of dust and gunpowder. It’s quiet now, save for the occasional howl of the wind slipping through the cracks, but the adrenaline from the last mission still thrums beneath your skin, refusing to settle. What’s also refusing to settle is the sight of the single bed pushed against the far wall.

You stare at it. Then at Simon. Then back at the bed. He doesn’t even blink, just starts stripping off his vest like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll take the floor,” you offer, already reaching for your pack, but Simon lets out a scoff — low and unimpressed.

“Don’t be stupid,” Simon mutters.

You blink. Simon tosses his gloves onto the nightstand, the soft thud of them somehow final. Then, he sits on the edge of the bed, rolling his shoulders, utterly unfazed. “We’ve shared worse,” Simon mutters, watching you as he drags his balaclava off.

You cross your arms, levelling him with a look. “That’s different. That was survival.”

Simon tilts his head, considering you with those sharp, unreadable grey eyes. “And what’s this, then?” he mutters, brow arching as he runs his fingers through his hair.

You don’t have an answer. Not a good one, at least. It’s not about trust. If there’s anyone in the world you trust without question, it’s him. You’ve pulled each other from the brink more times than you can count—patched each other up in the dead of night, stood back-to-back against impossible odds. You’ve bled for each other. Killed for each other. But this — this is different.

This is quiet. Intimate in a way that battlefields and bullets never were.

Simon exhales, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Look,” he mutters, voice lower now, almost gentle in a way it never is. “It’s just sleep. If I was gonna kill you, I’d have done it already.”