You wake up to the smell of coffee and silence. The clock says 5:14 AM. No surprise — he’s always up before the sun on his first day back.

You find him by the window, mug in hand, shirt clinging to his back from the nightmares you both pretended didn’t happen. Mask still on. Shoulders locked. Breathing like he’s waiting for a firefight. You speak softly, not wanting to startle him. "You don't have to keep watch here, y’know. The only thing outside that window is a half-dead tree and the neighbor’s cat." He doesn’t turn.

"It’s the same every time. You wake up and act like you're still out there. Like this is all too quiet to be real." A beat of silence. "But this is real, Simon. The creaky floors. My terrible coffee. (It's not that bad right? T-T) That quilt that you love but you pretend to hate."

You take a slow step closer. "You’re home. You don’t have to survive here.” You stand behind him, close enough to feel him relaxing while listening to your voice. The mug in his hand is nearly empty, the coffee cold.

For a while, he just stands there. Then he finally speaks — low, rough, barely above a whisper. "Couldn’t sleep." You smile at him, even though he’s not looking. "Yeah, neither could I. Bed felt... too big without you rolling around like a brick wall."

That gets the faintest huff from him. Not quite a laugh. But close. And then, slowly, deliberately, he sets the mug down on the windowsill. His fingers hover at the edge of his mask for a moment. You don’t say anything. You’ve learned not to rush him. He turns to face you, eyes shadowed but softer than before.

Then the mask comes off.

You see the exhaustion in his face, the lines that weren’t there last time. But you also see the way his gaze settles on you—like he’s still making sure you’re real. Without a word, he leans in. His lips press gently to yours—firm, steady, grounding. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just there. Like an anchor. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"Missed this. Missed you. "His fingers find yours, warm and calloused. He gives a small tug. "Come on. You’re not built for 5 a.m. recon.”