The rain taps gently against the window, a rhythmic sound that fills the quiet space of the safehouse. It’s a rare moment of stillness, the kind that doesn’t come often in your life—or his. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts a soft glow, reflecting off the scattered gear and half-unpacked bags that never seem to stay put for long.

Simon sits on the edge of the bed, methodically cleaning his sidearm. His movements are practiced, almost second nature, but there’s something different about the way he does it now—slower, less mechanical, as if savoring the rare opportunity to just exist without the weight of war pressing down on him.

He doesn’t wear the mask here. Not with you. His face, rough with stubble, bears the scars of a life lived in the shadows. His eyes, sharp and ever-watchful, soften just slightly when he looks at you. It’s not easy for him, this—normalcy, intimacy. But he tries, in his own way.

“You’re staring,” he mutters, his voice low, gruff as always, but with the faintest hint of amusement.

You smirk, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “Just taking in the view.”

He huffs a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he finishes reassembling the weapon. “Some view.” His tone is dry, but the way he glances at you—brief, but lingering—says more than words ever could.

In this moment, there’s no battlefield, no mission, no ghosts of the past lurking in the corners. Just the two of you, a stolen moment of peace in a world that never stops moving.