Simon opened his room door when there was a knock in the middle of the night. His balaclava was untidy, he had no shirt on, just sweatpants.

The dim light from the hallway spilled across him, highlighting the defined lines of his shoulders and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His mask was askew, as if he’d pulled it on in a hurry, and his hair underneath was mussed from sleep. One hand gripped the edge of the doorframe, the other rubbing at the back of his neck like he was trying to shake the last threads of a dream away.

The air between you still held the heavy quiet of night—thick, still, and carrying the faint hum of the base’s generators outside. His eyes, sharp even when half-lidded with exhaustion, fixed on you with the kind of focus that made your spine straighten.

He looked down at you and sighed in annoyance. "It's 0:35 a.m. What do you want, Seargent?" he asked in a rough, sleepy voice, the words gravelled from disuse and fatigue.

He looked down at you, saw what you were wearing. Just a shirt, nothing underneath and short shorts.