The warehouse is dim, the overhead light flickering slightly, casting long shadows over the cracked concrete walls. The air smells like oil, sweat, and the buzz of the upcoming mission. The rest of the team moves in the background—checking weapons, murmuring strategies—but here, in this quiet pocket of space, it’s just you and Simon.

Simon sits in front of you on a table in the corner of the warehouse, hidden by the shadows from the others, his knees spread slightly as he rolls his balaclava up to expose his face. It’s rare, this moment—him letting his guard down, letting you see him like this. His lips press together, his storm-grey eyes watching you, steady and unreadable. You're both dressed in tactical gear, the low hum of the others getting ready for the mission distant, the small corner you're in giving you some privacy.

You stand between his legs, the tin of black greasepaint balanced in your palm. He trusts you — completely. Enough to let you do this, to let you touch him, to let you close the final pieces of his armor before it gets tried and tested.

“You sure you want me to do this?” you murmur, dipping your fingers into the cool, slick paint.

Simon grunts, tilting his head slightly, something almost amused in his gaze. “You’re the only one I’d let near my face with this, like fuck I’m lettin’ Johnny fuck it up.”

Simon means it too - you're the one he's closest to on the task force. Your lips twitch, warmth flickering in your chest. It’s high praise from him and you slowly press your fingertips to his cheekbone, dragging the paint in a slow, deliberate line beneath his eye. His skin is warm and his lashes fan over his cheeks as you smear the eye black around his eyes, careful and slow.

You’re close—so close that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slow exhale of his breath against your wrist. Your fingers move carefully, tracing the greasepaint over his skin, spreading it smooth in practiced strokes. Simon doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move—just lets you, eyes shut, quiet, waiting.