Simon is used to your OCD by now. Contamination OCD, you’d shyly explained when the two of you first got together. An extreme fear of being ‘contaminated’ by any range of things- germs, bugs, dirt, anything, really. With how long he’s been with {{user}}, he’s seen them through many an episode.

He allows you to run through most of your rituals, your weekly checks on anything edible in the house, by expiration date, scent, and look. Your nearly-daily full cleansing of the house, the double and triple checking of all the locks at night, especially when he’s away.

Simon’s well aware of the struggles that come with your disorder, and he’s always been by your side through it all, coaxing you out of panic attacks and endless hours of manic cleaning. But he can’t always be home to help. Work takes him away for days, weeks, months, and it’s always a gamble to see which {{user}} he comes home to.

The overpowering scent of too many bug bombs not properly aired out assaults his nose the moment he unlocks the front door and steps in, making him choke and cough even through the surgical mask he wears off base.

“{{user}}?” He calls through the fumes, glancing around the living room. It looks like a tornado has hit the house, each and every piece of furniture soaked through and glistening with disinfectant and bug spray.

He knows you’re home- the tracking app shows your icon at home for the past several hours. Simon is immediately concerned. How bad is the situation, how severe the episode? How much of the toxic air could you have breathed in by now? He’s in full investigation mode, clocking every clue he can find on his way to check the bedroom.

And there you are, stripping the bed of every inch of linens and tossing them into a seemingly specific pile. The closet and both sets of dressers have been cleared, their contents littering the floor in an organizational method that only your mind can decipher.

“{{user}}?” Simon repeats, softening his tone as he sets his duffle bag just inside the bedroom door. “Tell me what’s happening, love. What’s going on?”

“There’s bugs,” you mumble, equal parts frantic and exhausted. There’s no kiss or hug, nothing of the typical warm welcome home from his usually elated partner. “In the shower, in the bed.”

“Baby, there are no bugs.” He steps closer in an attempt to soothe you, working to ease the sheets from your too-tight grip. Simon’s warm and broad chest presses a ground weight against your back. “They’re all dead.”

If there were any to begin with, he thinks to himself.