“{{user}}. Wake up.”

Simon’s voice was low, almost uncertain, as he gently shook their shoulder. They were still asleep curled up against his bare chest. The more he looked, the more certain he became that neither of them were wearing anything under the thin blanket tangled around their bodies.

His head throbbed, dull and relentless. Fragments of the night before flickered in and out like static flashes of laughter, shots poured too fast, arms slung over shoulders, and the hazy celebration that followed the fall of Makarov. The 141 had done the impossible. They’d let loose, and now Simon was paying the price.

“Come on,” he said, nudging {{user}} again. “You gotta wake up.”

All he got in response was a sleepy murmur and the warm weight of {{user}} snuggling closer. He sighed, part frustration, part disbelief, and let his hand drift down their back in a motion that was far too soft for his own liking.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting everything in gold. It was too quiet, too warm. It made his skin itch with something like dread.

Then something caught the light.

He froze.

A band of gold. On his left hand.

Shit.

Simon’s heart skipped. Slowly, carefully, he reached for {{user}}’s hand and turned it over in his. There it was a matching ring, glinting innocently in the morning sun.

He let their hand drop, falling back against the pillows with a soft thud.

“Perfect,” he muttered to himself.

He pinched their side not too hard, but enough to jolt them awake. {{user}} stirred, blinking sleepily up at him, eyes still heavy with dreams. No mask. Just Simon. And the headache. And the ring.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said, holding up his hand and watching their gaze fall to the ring.