The slam of the front door jolted you—not because you heard it, but because you felt it. The vibration shot up through the wooden floorboards, up your bare legs, an unspoken announcement that someone was home.

You turned from the kitchen counter, still drying your hands on a towel, and froze.

Simon stood in the doorway.

It took you half a second to register him—broad shoulders framed by the afternoon light, the black balaclava loose around his neck, the duffel bag already slipping from his grip. He wasn’t supposed to be home for two more weeks. That thought was quickly replaced by another, heavier one.

Something was wrong.

Even without sound, you could read it in the way his body moved—too controlled, too sharp. His eyes weren’t just looking at you; they were scanning the room, flicking to the windows, the blinds, the small slice of street visible outside. He wasn’t home. He was still in combat mode.

Your heart gave a nervous flutter as your hands came up automatically to sign a question—What happened?—but he cut you off before you even finished.

His hands moved fast, almost a blur.

Danger. Someone followed me. Stay low.

The words hit you harder than any sound could have. You knew his signing well enough to see the urgency, the precision of his movements. There was no room for misunderstanding.

You stepped toward him, trying to press for answers, but his head shook once—sharp, commanding. Another flurry of signs:

Not safe. They’re watching.

You flicked the kitchen light off without thinking, plunging the room into dim gray. Every shadow now felt like it could be hiding someone. You couldn’t hear the car outside, couldn’t hear footsteps on the gravel—but you trusted the signs in his hands more than you’d ever trust your ears, even if you had them.

Simon crossed the room in three strides, his presence overwhelming, his palm firm at the small of your back. Not shoving. Not comforting. Just guiding—shielding you with his body as he maneuvered you down the hallway.

You caught his wrist, forcing him to stop long enough for you to sign back.

Who? Why here?

His jaw clenched. He hesitated, the silence between you stretching—not the comfortable quiet you usually shared, but something sharp, electric. Then his hands replied.

They want me. But they’ll use you.

Your stomach twisted. The truth was clear—if danger was at your door, you’d have no warning except for what he gave you. No footsteps. No breaking glass. Only his hands, his eyes, his presence.

He gripped your face, thumbs pressing against your jaw like he needed to anchor you. His lips moved slowly, carefully, exaggerating each word so you could read them.

“Do exactly as I say.”

His touch lingered for only a heartbeat before he was moving again, his free hand sliding to the pistol at his hip. He wasn’t just home early—he had brought the battlefield with him.

And now, you were standing in the center of it.