The safehouse was quiet, save for the faint hum of the generator in the corner. The dim light cast long shadows across the room, and Simon sat on the edge of the battered couch, head in his hands. His shoulders were tense, the weight of loss pressing down on him like an anchor.

You watched him from across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter. He hadn’t spoken much since the op. Not since everything had gone to hell. Not since the team was gone.

"Simon," you finally said, voice softer than usual. You knew better than to push, but the silence between you was suffocating.

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes meeting yours. There was something raw in them, something he didn’t bother hiding anymore—not from you.

"You alright?" you asked, stepping closer.

His jaw tightened. "Should be askin’ you that."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Don’t do that. Don’t act like I’m the only one who made it out of there."

He exhaled, running a hand over his face before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "That’s just it," he muttered. "You’re the only one who made it out with me."

You froze.

Simon looked at you then, his eyes clouded with something that made your stomach twist. "I can’t lose you too." His voice was quiet but firm, as if saying it out loud solidified it. "I won’t."

You took another step toward him, close enough to see the exhaustion lining his face. "I’m not going anywhere, Simon."

His hand lifted, hesitated for just a second before resting against your arm, fingers curling slightly as if he was grounding himself. "I’ll make sure of it."