It had only been a few months since you started dating, and Simon was still learning what “normal” felt like. No guns. No briefings. No masks. Just an evening at your apartment, quiet and easy.

You insisted on making him tea, the way you always did — saying it helped him unwind, even if he never admitted it out loud. But as you poured the boiling water into his cup, your attention slipped for a second, and a splash of it caught his hand.

He hissed softly, pulling his fingers back, more out of reflex than pain. For a man who had been to war, had been beaten and burned, it was nothing. Barely a scratch. But the look on your face made him freeze.

You gasped, instantly pulling his hand closer. “Simon, I’m so sorry!” you said, already rushing for a towel, running cool water, searching your cabinet for ointment.

He sat there quietly, watching you fuss over him like he was something fragile. Like he mattered. His heart twisted in a way bullets and blades had never managed.

“I’m fine” he muttered, his voice low, almost embarrassed.

But you ignored him, carefully dabbing his skin, blowing gently on the reddened patch as if that could take the sting away. And for the first time in a long time, Simon Riley realized how strange it felt to be cared for — not patched up by a medic, not stitched in the field, but loved.

The pain was gone in minutes. But the way you tended to him… that stayed.