You wake before the sun does. Not because you want to, but because your body demands it.

The pain is a cruel, gnawing thing—twisting, clenching, radiating through your lower back and down your legs like wildfire. You’ve curled in on yourself instinctively, arms wrapped around your middle like that might hold the pain in place, or maybe keep it from tearing through you altogether. The sheets are damp with sweat, your breathing shallow and shaky.

You don’t cry out. Not anymore. You’ve learned that the pain doesn’t listen.

But Simon does.

“Hey,” his voice is gravel-soft in the dark, the way it only ever is when it’s just the two of you. No mask, no bravado. Just Simon. “Is it bad?”

You nod, barely. Your voice gets caught somewhere between your throat and the ache. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t need to. He already knows.

In the next second, the bed shifts under his weight as he sits up, then reaches for you. His hand is warm and steady as it finds your shoulder, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and you believe him.

Simon moves with a practiced kind of gentleness. You know he’s used to chaos—blood and fire and orders shouted over gunfire—but when it comes to you, he slows down. He’s learned what helps and what doesn’t, and he never makes you feel like you’re a burden for needing those things.

He helps you sit up slowly, wrapping an arm around your back, his other hand bracing your arm so you don’t have to fight the pull of your own body alone.

“Water or heat first?”