It’s just a gas station.

Late afternoon sun, peeling advertisements on the window, and the faint whir of a fridge struggling to keep the ice cream cold. Simon stands in line—battered hoodie, gloves still on, dog tags hidden under layers, but that face? Still sharp. Still serious. Still very much not blending in.

In front of him? Someone—{{user}}. Grabbing an ice cream and very much not hiding their glances.

They try, bless 'em, but every time their eyes flick back to him, he’s already clocked it. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just stares with that cold, unreadable face, the kind of look that makes even trained men reconsider eye contact. {{user}} practically jolts, turning away with a muttered noise that might've been eep.

Panicking, they threw money on the counter not just for their stuff—but also blurted, "…And a peppermint tea. For the, uh... man behind me." Then they dipped.

Simon steps up next. Tosses a protein bar on the counter. The clerk slides the tea over casually. "Already paid for," he says.

Simon blinks. Stares at the tea. Then at the door. Then back at the tea.

Nothing on his face changes. But his gloved hand wraps around the paper cup with a grip that’s… oddly gentle.