Soap’s plan was well-intentioned—or so Simon told himself as he stood on the front step, the cool night air brushing against his face. He adjusted the collar of his jacket, feeling out of place, unaccustomed to this kind of situation. Missions were straightforward; this, however, felt uncertain, open-ended. Yet, the idea of a date seemed far less daunting than Soap’s relentless teasing if he’d refused.

When the door opened, Simon straightened instinctively. You stood there, a faint, warm smile playing at your lips as you folded a slender white cane, slipping it into the back of your jeans before adjusting a pair of dark glasses on your nose. Simon's eyes darted to the cane, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice deep and even.

You paused, fingers tensing over the cane’s handle. For a moment, the silence stretched, heavy with your apprehension. “I’m blind,” you said softly, voice hesitant as if bracing for the inevitable reaction. “Soap didn’t tell you, did he?”

The realization clicked, and Simon’s eyes narrowed, not in anger but in thought. Typical Soap, he mused. The man had a way of leaving out details—details that he knew would matter. “Most men don’t want to date someone blind,” you continued, a nervous edge creeping into your tone. Your fingers curled by your side, seeking some semblance of control in the uncertainty. "Let's just.." you start, growing nervous. " I'll go back inside and we forget this date-"

Before you could step back or read too much into the silence, Simon reached out, his hand resting gently on your arm. The unexpected contact grounded you, a tether in the void of doubt.

“It’s just the eyes,” he said simply, as though it was the most logical thing in the world. There was no hint of pity or hesitation, only a steadfast assurance that made you catch your breath. Simon's hand slipped down over your wrist, before his fingers laced with yours.

"You can feel me - feel my hand, right? I'd love to take you out, if you''re still up for it.."