You don’t hear the door open at first.

It’s late—well past midnight—and the house is quiet. That kind of stillness that makes every creak in the floorboards sound like a whisper meant only for you. You’ve been dozing on the couch for the past hour, wrapped in one of Simon’s old hoodies, your thumb absently brushing over the worn fabric at your wrist like it might somehow bring him home faster.

Then—boots.

Heavy. Familiar.

You jolt upright just as the door clicks shut. Your heart trips over itself. You know that sound. You know that walk.

“Simon?”

A duffel bag hits the floor with a dull thud. Then, finally, he steps into view. The light from the hallway spills across his frame—same solid stance, same broad shoulders, same piercing eyes that lock onto you like he’s been away too long and can’t quite believe you’re real.

But something’s different.

Your gaze catches on his face, and you blink, trying to place it.

“You grew a beard?” you ask, half-laughing, half in disbelief.

He huffs a low chuckle and rubs a hand along his jaw. “Yeah. My razor broke two days in. Figured I’d see what happened if I let it grow. You like it?”