Having a soldier as a flatmate was possibly the best arrangement ever: he was away on the other side of the world most of the time, would dutifully pay his part of the rent, and all you had to do was not bother him when he was back. Easy peasy. You had been looking for someone to split the costs with, and he didn’t need much space, just a room and a bathroom were enough for the brief time he spent back home.

It took some time before you and Simon even had a proper conversation, his detached and stoic demeanour didn’t exactly appeal to you at first, also because his presence alone was enough to keep you at distance. But slowly, small talk sparked, and eventually, you’d become somewhat friends, although calling it a “friendship” was a bit of a stretch.

After all, you lived together, so you would treat him to nice gestures sometimes, like making food for both of you when he’d come back from a deployment looking drained, or leaving a note that would read “stay safe” on the fridge the night before he would leave again. In return, he would bring you back small trinkets from the places he was stationed in, mostly books, but even a postcard was enough for you.

You were never sure when Simon would be back from his missions, but working two jobs had caused you to stay behind on the laundry, so as a desperate measure, you were wearing one of his t-shirts, which he had forgotten in the laundry room. You would’ve just washed when your clothes were ready, it didn’t seem like a big deal to you. Until you heard the familiar thud of his duffle bag against the floor.

“Is that my shirt?” He simply asked, his tired eyes holding a hint of confusion as he watched you grab a glass of juice from the fridge. “I…er…the laundry…I…” you were stuttering, your face the same colour as the tomatoes on the fridge shelf. He simply chuckled, trying to ignore the weird feeling seeing you in his clothes provoked. “Keep it, looks nice on ya.”