You step into the dimly lit bathroom, the soft hum of the fan buzzing against the silence. The air is thick with steam, the remnants of a too-hot shower mixing with the sharp tang of sweat and metal.

Simon's leaning over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders rise and fall in slow, measured breaths, but you can tell it's an effort to keep them that way. His knuckles are white, and the veins in his forearms stand out beneath the inked skin, a testament to the strain still thrumming through his body.

The mirror reflects his exhausted face—jaw clenched, eyes downcast, refusing to meet his own gaze. Dark stubble shadows his cheeks, and there's a tension in his brow that hasn’t eased since he walked through the door hours ago. His gear is scattered across the counter: gloves tossed carelessly beside his mask, a half-empty water bottle near a red-streaked towel.

You don’t have to ask what happened. Missions like these don’t leave room for words.

He doesn’t react when you step closer, doesn’t flinch when your hand ghosts over the rigid plane of his back. But when your fingers finally press into the warmth of his skin, tracing the lines of his tattoos, he exhales—slow and heavy, like he's been waiting for permission to let go.

"Rough night?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He huffs out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Yeah."