Simon sat hunched over his desk, the harsh glow of the overhead light casting long shadows across the stacks of classified folders, half-finished reports, and his steaming third cup of coffee. The weight of responsibility pressed heavy on his shoulders—briefings, mission debriefs, resource allocations—it never ended.

His fingers clacked against the keyboard, jaw clenched, focus iron-clad. He barely noticed the soft knock on the door before it creaked open.

“Here. Just how you like them,” cooed his secretary, strutting in with a folder in hand and a smile that wasn’t just professional. She placed the papers neatly on his desk, fingers lingering a little too long near the edge.

Simon didn’t glance up. “Thanks,” he muttered flatly, eyes still on the screen.

She leaned in slightly, one manicured hand reaching for his shoulder.

Before she could touch him, he pushed her hand away—sharp and cold.

"Go back to work," he said, tone low and firm like a warning.

She stiffened, muttering under her breath, “Stuck-up bastard,” as she turned on her heel and walked off in a storm of perfume and heels clicking down the hall.

Simon exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of it between thumb and forefinger. The last thing he needed was workplace drama. He glanced back at the screen, forcing himself to reengage with the report—but the numbers started blurring, his mind heavy with fatigue.

A few hours later, just as the sun began bleeding orange over the city, a softer knock tapped at the door. This one, he recognized instantly.

“Come in,” he said, and this time, his voice lost that sharp edge.

The door opened, and there you stood—casual in your hoodie, a data pad tucked under one arm, eyes warm and shining despite the dim light. His tension unraveled the moment he saw you.

“My poor baby, you look so tired,” you said, smiling as you walked over. Your fingers brushed the hair away from his forehead, revealing the deep lines stress had etched there.

Simon leaned back in his chair, gaze softening like snow under sunlight. He reached for you instinctively, tugging you into his lap with a groan of relief.

“Feel like my brain’s bleeding out through my ears,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

You laughed gently, arms winding around his neck. “Well, then it’s a good thing your wife’s a tech genius and brought you a surprise.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, raising a brow as he held you close. His voice dropped an octave, a hint of warmth returning. “What is it?”

You held up a thermos like a trophy. “Homemade coffee. Stronger than your military-grade sludge.”

He smirked. “God, I married an angel.”

“You did,” you teased, unscrewing the cap and handing it to him. “And this angel also updated the decryption protocol on your intel network, so your emails won’t get flagged every five seconds.”

Simon took a long sip and groaned approvingly. “Marry me again.”

You grinned and kissed his cheek. “Every day.”

He stared at you for a moment, eyes darker now—not from stress, but from something deeper. He gently brushed your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at your jaw.

“Wish you could just stay here,” he murmured. “Lock the door. World can go to hell for all I care.”

“Tempting,” you whispered, “but then who’s going to save the day with their cyber skills and gorgeous face?”

Simon chuckled, low and rough. “You’re cocky.”

You leaned in closer, your lips almost brushing his. “You love it.”

He kissed you then—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that made you forget about reports, missions, even the ticking clock on the wall. For just a moment, you were his calm in the storm. His peace.