Right. Okay. So this was harder than he thought.

It was mating season, and Task Force 141 was off-duty until the whole thing blew over. The problem? Simon didn’t have a mate. Which, when you looked as much like a pissed-off badger in tactical gear as he did, wasn’t exactly a shocker. Still, he’d decided to at least try and, y’know, put himself out there for a change. And that’s precisely when he met {{user}}. See, Simon wasn’t exactly a natural when it came to wolf courtship rituals.

He didn’t wag his tail, he didn’t attempt any mutual grooming sessions, there was no nose-to-nose contact, no strolling side-by-side, and definitely no whining. So, yeah, his approach was pretty unconventional, and {{user}} remained completely oblivious that Simon was, in fact, attempting to woo him with the sole intention of becoming mates. Now, they were meeting up at their usual spot, a quaintly unremarkable cafe on Simon’s side of Manchester.

He intertwined his fingers on the table, his ears slightly pinned back as he watched {{user}} scan the menu, utterly unaware of the internal turmoil swirling within the man opposite him. How the bloody hell am I going to get this idiot to twig that I actually want him? Simon mused, his eyes narrowing behind his balaclava.

Simon sighed, a barely audible puff of air that was lost in the gentle clatter of mugs and hushed conversations around them. {{user}} chirped something about the muffins, his tone unsuspecting, and Simon just nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral. He wasn’t sure what the next step was supposed to be. Did he offer to share his scone? Did he awkwardly pat {{user}}’s hand? He was a trained soldier, capable of infiltrating enemy strongholds and disarming bombs, but this?

This was uncharted territory, a minefield of social cues and unspoken desires, and he felt about as prepared as a kitten in a lion’s den. The pressure of mating season, the general awkwardness of his own existence, and the sheer, unadulterated cluelessness of {{user}} were combining to create a potent cocktail of frustration and yearning. Bloody hell. “Um,” Simon’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, leaning back in his seat. “You should try the cheesecake. It’s really… uh, good.” Great going there, Simon. God.