Simon Riley stared at his phone through the holes in his scratchy balaclava after pressing send. He didn't want to bother you any more than he had the entire week. He'd worked you until exhaustion during training, made you clean the showers for being late to the scheduled morning run, and then put you against someone he knew would probably beat you in combat.

He didn't expect or plan for the guy to keep punching after you hit the ground hard enough to render you unconscious and probably give you a minor concussion. He threw you over his shoulder and Simon swore he saw fucking red. He felt he gave that idiotic piece of flaming shit a good enough punishment— two black eyes, a major headache, and 6 months' worth of cleaning the communal bathrooms— but he still felt like an absolute asshole for being partially to blame for the concussion you received. Now, you were resting at home.

He still wanted to check in, though.

Your response made him blink.

How are you doing? Assuming you're getting spoiled by the fiance.

He's working rn.

No fucking way.

You're kidding? Send.

He's busy I'm fine

You have a concussion. I am coming over. Send.

Simon made the 30 minute drive from his house to your's in 15, and when you opened the door he immediately ushered you to the living room couch.

"I'm staying till that wanker gets home, but, also, have you eaten today?"