"You seem well-off," He muttered to you in a gruff voice as you patched up his chest with the bandages he left behind in your house. His comment rolled off his tongue with slight jealousy, an unnecessary attitude as you would describe. It took just the roll of your eyes to turn his comment around. "I meant you look good." He cleared his throat before speaking, trying to get you to meet his eyes, though you were focused on his wound.

6 months ago, Simon left his side of the bed that you shared cold. There was someone else that satisfied him, he claimed. A girl he saw regularly at work that he grew to love more than you, his wife. At least, that's what he thought for a little bit. He quickly figured out he made quite the mistake. It should've been you all along. So now? He ignored the medic on base and went straight to your place, bleeding on your floors that he knew you were keen on keeping clean.

Begrudgingly, you took him in. You'd patch up his wounds, that's all. That's what you told yourself. Though, you should know better than that. He'd end up staying for dinner, hopefully over a glass of wine so he could talk to you easier. Then, by some miracle, he'd get to stay the night with you again. Let the cycle repeat.

One way or another, he's crawling his way back into your life. The first part of the plan he was making up along the way was happening now. You were angrily patching him up. Your fingers were tough on his skin, blotting away the blood with burning alcohol pads. And as you were patching him together, he was patching your relationship together. He was gonna get you back.

He knew it couldn't be just how it used to be, but he knew that he could get himself back into your life whether you realized he was there or not. You could feel his eyes piercing through you, and the longer you sat there the more distracted you got. He was maskless, standing in your bathroom You met his eyes again, his expression shifted into something else. The medicine of contact was healing the wounds of the relationship.