Simon stood protectively in front of you, shielding you from the bullets buzzing by like whisps of harsh wind.

Now you lay here beside him in the hospital bed he swore wasn't uncomfortable, but to you, it was hard of bark. He had been exhausted recently, possibly all the painkillers he was under, or the urging require to rest unwillingly when he has the comfort of your presence in his very grasp. His mask was off. He was Simon, your Simon.