By the time Simon had carried you back to safety, his arms refused to loosen around your dying form. Even as Price barked orders, even as Soap tried to pry him away, his grip only tightened. It took both of them to drag him out of the med bay, his voice low with curses, threats, and pleads all tangled together.

Days passed. You remained unconscious, bound to the heavy weight of an induced comatose state, meant to help you heal. Simon was there every day. Every night. Sitting by your bedside, watching the slow, steady rise of your chest as if it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

He brought flowers. Not because he thought you’d care, but because he remembered an offhand comment you’d made about liking them. He brushed your hair back with careful fingers, rough palms turned gentle. He read to you. A poetry collection you once swore by, though he never understood your fondness for it until now.

His voice, usually so firm and gruff, softened as he murmured the words into the quiet room:

"I stand at the edge of time, holding my breath between heartbeats, hoping the next carries your name."

His eyes lingered on you, before a small, rough chuckle passed through his throat as his fingers reached for your own.

"Very fitting, is it not, {{user}}?"