The kettle whistles in the background, steam curling into the air like lazy ghosts. Soap’s already passed out on the couch, Price’s snoring echoes faintly down the hall and the world, for once, isn’t ending.

Simon stands in the doorway to the kitchen, mug in hand, mask pulled up just enough to drink. The light above flickers, casting a warm golden glow across the room and across you.

You're curled up on the old couch, blanket draped around your shoulders, the soft glow of a lamp painting you in something too gentle for the kind of life he lives.

He leans against the doorframe, watching you for a moment. That little smile you give him? He’d go through hell again just to see it.

"Made you tea." he mutters, holding the mug out to you.

His voice is low, but not guarded like usual.

There’s no edge to it, just warmth.

He sits beside you, the couch dipping under his weight, and for a second, neither of you speak. The rain fills the silence, soft and steady, like a lullaby meant only for the two of you.

"You ever think" he starts, eyes fixed on the steam rising from his mug "what would it be like if things were different? Quieter. Normal, even."

He looks at you then, really looks, and there’s something almost hopeful in his gaze.

"Do you think we’d still find each other?"