The rain had just started when you heard the front door click open. Simon stepped inside, peeling off his gloves, the faint smell of damp wool clinging to him.

“Picked up more tea,” he called, setting the bag on the counter. “And the good bread. Lad at the bakery gave me a free cinnamon roll - said he likes your ‘cheeky grin.’” He gave you a mischievous look.

You arched a brow, leaning against the kitchen doorway, “you told him I’m taken?”

“Told him you’re violent when hungry.”

“Fair enough.”

He smirked under the shadow of his balaclava, tugging it off before pulling you into a brief, damp hug. His jacket was cold, but his hands were warm against your back. It had been a week since he’d been home from deployment, and you were still relearning the rhythm - the way he moved so quietly, the way he scanned the windows out of habit.

You poured the tea, he sliced the bread, and the world outside blurred into the sound of rain on glass. For now, there was nothing but the scent of cinnamon and the steady presence of him in your kitchen - a man built for war, finding peace in the simplest of moments.