The pain was a dull throb, radiating from every wound and bruise as you lay in bed, exhaustion weighing down on you. The fight had been brutal, leaving you in no condition to drive, so you had done the only thing you could—text Simon. He had arrived faster than you thought possible, his face tight with worry as he helped you into his car and brought you home.

Now, as you rested, the sound of a gentle knock at the door pulled you from your haze. You called out that it was open, and a moment later, Simon stepped inside, carrying a bowl of warm soup. The faint aroma of spices filled the room, mingling with the subtle scent of fresh bandages and antiseptic.

He placed the bowl carefully on the nightstand before turning his attention to you. His gaze traced over your injuries, his brows drawing together in quiet concern. Without a word, he reached for the medical supplies he had brought earlier.

“We should re-bandage that,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. His fingers were already moving with practiced care, retrieving fresh gauze and ointment. There was no hesitation in his movements—only quiet determination, as if tending to your wounds was the only thing that mattered to him in that moment.

As he settled beside you, his presence brought an odd sense of comfort. The warmth of the soup lingered in the air, but it was the warmth in his eyes that truly eased the ache.