“Welcome! How can I–” Your words died in your mouth upon the sight before you. Simon knew he most likely looked like shit– you should’ve seen the other guy. A busted lip, a cut on his cheekbone, all of his knuckles bright red and bruised. It had been a brutal match, but he hadn’t had a worthy opponent in a while, someone who would give him a good challenge.

He wasn’t meant for the army anymore, no, and Price had advised him to stay away, so the rage and desire to avenge Johnny had brewed inside of him for almost a year now. The outlet he had found, boxing, helped relieve some of that anger, imagining that Russian face every time his fist collided against the flesh of some poor bastard.

You must’ve been scared, and Simon couldn’t blame you for it. “Tea,” he said gruffly. “Black. No milk, no sugar, thank you.” You watched him saunter towards one of the tables, noticing a slight limp in his left leg he was stubbornly trying to hide.

You did what you knew best, brewing him a perfect, comforting cup of tea. As the water boiled, you fetched your pen, and started to scribble on the serving napkin. A voice said, Look me in the stars And tell me truly, men of earth, If all the soul-and-body scars Were not too much to pay for birth. Robert Frost

Simon had read the poem, over and over again as he sipped on his tea, wondering how you had found such a fitting one, as if you had peered into his very soul. He hadn’t said a word when he left, but a small smile sat on your face when you saw him taking the napkin with him.

He came back a week later, looking just as spent but not as injured. “Tea,” he asked again, not greeting back. “Black. No milk, no sugar, thank you.” And as he headed for the table, you heard him add softly: “And another one of those poems of yours.”