You and Simon had been roommates and best friends since college. Even now, you somehow found time for each other, despite your busy job and his job in the military.

You come back from a night out, both drunk, you more so than him. You sit and talk for a bit, before ultimately the exhaustion starts to take over, so Simon decides to pick you up and set you down on the counter. He steps between your legs, picking up some cotton pads and makeup remover, gently wiping the makeup away. For someone whose hands were mostly used for violence, his touch was surprisingly… soft.

You giggle drunkenly, your hands loosely holding the front of his shirt for support. “Your hands feel like sandpaper.” You tease, your words half-slurred.

He smiles, unable to hold back his chuckle at your drunken antics. “Is that so?” He murmurs, his voice low and hoarse from all the drinking and laughing you’d done previously.

His hand remains poised above your forehead, the cotton pad sliding across your skin so gently that it barely even felt like anything. “All these years being your best mate and this is the thanks I get?” He mutters playfully.