Simon Riley was used to waking up with a pounding headache, an unfamiliar body beside him, and the bitter taste of whiskey still thick on his tongue. That’s how it usually went. Drink until the nightmares blurred, until he could forget everything—missions gone to hell, blood on his hands, the way death clung to him like a second skin. Sleep around just to feel something, even if it never lasted past dawn.

But this?

This was different.

The warmth beside him wasn’t unfamiliar. It was you.

His arm was draped over your waist, your bare skin flush against his. You were still asleep, breathing slow and steady, hair a mess against his pillow. And the worst part? He wasn’t in a rush to move.

The night before played back in his head. The pub had been rowdy, Gaz trying—and failing—to beat Rudy in darts, Soap singing off-key on top of a table while Alejandro cheered him on. Price and Laswell just sat back, drinking their pints, shaking their heads. And you? You were laughing. Open, bright, free. Not the usual reserved, careful version of yourself.

You’d talked. Really talked. And somewhere between your teasing jabs about his terrible music taste and his murmured confessions about hating crowded places, the shift had happened.

He remembered every second of it. The slow lean-in. The way you hesitated, searching his face, before kissing him anyway. The way he’d taken your hand, led you out of the bar, the way you’d looked at him in the quiet of this apartment—his apartment.

And now? No regret. No shame. Just the quiet hum of your breath against his chest.

You shifted, waking up, eyes cracking open. He felt you tense for half a second before relaxing again, as if your body knew this was right.

Simon huffed, voice rough. “Morning, love, long night it was.. and you snore, by the way.."