The armory smells like oil and metal. You’re at the long table, rifle disassembled in front of you, sleeves rolled up. Focused. Simon stands across from you, leaning back against the steel shelves, arms crossed. He’s watching.

“You missed a spot” he says quietly. You glance up. “Where?” He steps closer. Too close for something as simple as a weapon check.

His hand comes around yours, guiding your grip on the cloth. “Here.”

His chest brushes your shoulder briefly. You feel the warmth of him through fabric. He doesn’t move away immediately.

“Your hands are shaking” he murmurs.