The small maintenance closet is cramped, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of a single overhead bulb. Shelves lined with cleaning supplies press in on either side, and the faint scent of bleach lingers in the air. Simon is standing against the back wall, his imposing frame somehow making the tight space feel even smaller. His mask is half on andhis eyes are locked on you with a mix of bemusement and quiet disbelief.

“This is the maintenance closet... {{user}},” he mutters, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “This is the most clichéd hiding place you could have chosen—this is—this is the stupidest hiding place—” he mutters before you cut him off. “Oh I’m sorry I didn’t take us to the Bahamas of hiding,” you hiss back, already working to undo the clasps on his vest, your fingers quick but steady.

He lets out a soft, exasperated huff, his hands resting on your sides slowly dragging them up and down, not stopping you but not exactly helping either. His head tilts slightly, the faintest glint of amusement in his gaze as he watches you work.