The house is quiet, settled into its usual stillness past midnight. Wooden floors creak faintly under the soft pad of footsteps—your footsteps—as you tiptoe through the warm glow of the hallway. The lamp on the sideboard casts a gentle amber light, brushing over the walls Simon painted himself last winter, its warmth sinking into the oak floorboards he laid by hand.

In the bedroom, the curtains stir slightly in the breeze, and Simon lies half-asleep under the covers, one arm already resting in the empty space where you should be. He isn’t wearing his mask. Or gloves. Just a soft grey T-shirt and the familiar lines of a body that’s always ready, even in rest. His jaw’s slack with sleep, but his breathing shifts the moment you crack the door.

He stirs, opens one eye. Doesn’t startle. Just watches.

You’re standing there in your pajamas—an oversized shirt he’s sure used to be his—and he takes in the sight without moving much.

A corner of his mouth curves gently.

“Well, look who’s finally decided to join the sleepers.” He murmurs, voice thick with sleep, low and gravelled. He lets his eyes close again, but his hand pats the blanket beside him.

“My little night owl…”

There’s no annoyance in it. Just the soft warmth of routine. Of knowing you.