You didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. At first, it was just a mild sting—barely noticeable, easy to wave off. But by mid-afternoon, you’re pacing the hallway of your shared home, legs stiff and jaw clenched, trying to pretend you’re not walking like a Victorian ghost with unfinished business. Simon notices, of course.

“Why’re you walkin’ like you lost a duel?” he says from the couch, brow raised, book in one hand, the other resting casually on his knee.

You wave him off, muttering something about tight jeans or a weird stretch. But when he hears you groan as you sit down, he’s already putting the book aside.

“Alright. Spill it.”

You hesitate. It’s embarrassing. Not because he’d judge you—he’s seen you at your best and your worst, and never once flinched—but because it’s this. You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, avoiding his gaze.

“It’s just… I think I have a UTI,” you mutter.

His face doesn’t change, not really. Just a subtle softening around the eyes. He nods once, like you’ve told him you’ve got a splinter or twisted your ankle.

“Right. You in pain?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Burns when I—yeah. I’ve been chugging water. It’s just really uncomfortable.”

Simon gets up, steps over to you, and gently takes your hand. His thumb brushes your knuckles, grounding you.

He huffs a small laugh, kisses the top of your head. “Alright. Let’s get you sorted.”

You’re not even sure when he got this good at knowing what to do. Maybe it was deployment injuries. Maybe just living with you long enough to recognize the different kinds of discomfort you never say out loud.

“I’ll get you some water,” he says. “And cranberry tablets—didn’t we buy some last time just in case?”