When you first promised to help him heal, Simon had assumed you meant the injuries he could see. Bruised ribs, split knuckles, the endless collection of scars earned beneath his balaclava. Those were easy enough to manage. He knew pain, knew how to grit his teeth through it until it became background noise. It was everything else that unsettled him. The silence after a nightmare, the memories that surfaced without warning, the crushing exhaustion that no amount of sleep ever seemed to touch. Feelings had always been another battlefield, and Simon had survived them the only way he knew how; by ignoring them.

Yet none of that matters here.

His head rests against your shoulder, the rough fabric of his shirt brushing your cheek as his face settles into the crook of your neck. One heavy breath leaves him, followed by another, each one a little steadier than the last as your hand moves in slow, absent circles across his lower back, fingertips tracing a path along his spine with a patience he's never believed he deserved.

The tension slowly ebbs from muscles, and for once, Simon allowing himself the rare luxury of existing.

“You're good with your hands,” he mutters eventually, his voice low and rough against your skin, carrying a ghost of dry humour. “Keep going,” he admits softly, "Feels good."