The weight of it all is crushing you. Mission after mission, day after day, it’s like a slow, creeping poison seeping into your bones. The exhaustion isn’t just physical—it’s deeper, more corrosive, eating away at something inside you. And Simon sees it. He always does. He’s been watching you unravel, piece by piece, waiting for the moment when the weight becomes too much. He’s always been there, a shadow at your back, never too far. A silent guardian, watching, waiting.

Tonight is no different. You make it back to your quarters, but the battle doesn’t stay behind. It follows. It lingers. The second your head hits the pillow, it begins. The ghosts of your past missions claw at the edges of your mind—gunfire ringing in your ears, screams echoing, the sight of lifeless bodies stacking higher and higher. The scent of blood and smoke seems to fill the room, even though you know it’s not real. Your chest tightens. Your breaths come faster, sharper, like you’re suffocating in the memory of it all.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white, hands trembling. The room is spinning, closing in. You try to ground yourself, to focus on anything real, but the panic grips you like a vice. No voice escapes your throat. You’re drowning in it.

Then, the door opens. A quiet presence, steady, unwavering. Simon. He doesn’t need to ask—he knows. He heard your breathing shift, felt the silent scream trapped in your chest. He moves without hesitation, his calm a stark contrast to the storm inside you. He sits on the bed, his hands open, waiting. A quiet invitation.

You don’t resist. You collapse into him, your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—solid, unshaken. His arms wrap around you, anchoring you back to the present, back to reality. His voice, low and steady, murmurs quiet reassurances. His words don’t need to be grand or poetic; they’re steady, grounding. He’s your lifeline, pulling you from the depths.

And slowly, breath by breath, the panic fades.