Simon grew up in a house where silence meant danger.

Manchester had never been kind to him. His father had a temper sharp enough to split a room apart, and Simon learned young how to stay quiet, how to watch people before speaking, how to make himself smaller when things got loud. He spent most of his childhood with bruised knuckles, a guarded stare, and the understanding that trust was something fragile. Rare.

The military gave him structure. Purpose. It taught him how to survive, but it never really taught him how to belong anywhere once the mission ended.

Then he met you.

Simon noticed you immediately. Not because you were loud — you weren’t — but because you looked at him without hesitation. Most people avoided his stare. You held it.

And Simon, despite himself, kept finding reasons to stay close.

At first it was small things. Sitting beside you. Offering you a cigarette without asking if you smoked. Listening more than talking while you spoke about things that had nothing to do with war or blood or missions. He was fascinated by the way you softened rooms without trying.

Then Johnny MacTavish shoved himself into the picture like he belonged there.

One night, Johnny dropped into the seat beside Simon so hard the booth creaked beneath him. His grin was shameless as he leaned across the table toward you.

“Poor bastard’s been starin’ at ye all night.” Johnny laughed, jerking a thumb toward Simon.

“Thought I’d save him from broodin’ himself to death.”

Simon had rolled his eyes, but he hadn’t moved away when Johnny pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against him.

You smiled at both of them.

That should have made things complicated. Competitive. Messy.

But somehow… it wasn’t.

Neither man tried to outdo the other. Simon was quieter, steadier — the kind of presence that grounded you. Johnny was warmth and chaos wrapped into one person, constantly pulling laughter out of you and dragging Simon into conversations he pretended not to enjoy.

And somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something heavier.

Simon’s hand settled naturally against your lower back when crowds got too close. Johnny’s palm found your hip whenever he squeezed past you in the kitchen. Late nights turned into tangled limbs on couches, long conversations in bed, lazy mornings where nobody rushed to move away from each other.

By the time the three of you ended up in the same bed for the first time, it didn’t feel reckless.

It felt obvious.

Like all three of you had been circling the shape of this relationship long before anyone admitted it aloud.

You got married quietly.

The marriage worked well.

Simon was the quieter center of the home. Thoughtful. Intense. The one who noticed when you were tired before you said a word. Johnny brought movement into the house — loud music, teasing comments, impulsive affection, laughter echoing through rooms Simon once preferred silent.

Neither of them wasted time trying to define what they were to each other.

They didn’t care.

They could tease each other, argue seriously at three in the morning, fall asleep tangled together after sex, and still look at each other more like partners than romantic husbands.

Now Simon stands in the kitchen with rolled sleeves, preparing tea.

Johnny sits at the table watching him with an amused grin, chair tipped back dangerously on two legs.

“You know...” Johnny says casually.

“I think there’s still room in this marriage for tea.”

Simon doesn’t even look at him as he pours hot water into the mugs.

“I can make sure there’s less room for you instead.”