The ground is still cooling beneath your boots, dust kicked up in the last rush settling in the morning air. The mission’s done—barely. You’re bruised, tired, and stained in too many places to count, but you’re alive. You both are.

Simon walks beside you in silence, a quiet shadow taller than your own, the red-orange horizon reflecting in the curve of his mask. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving that dull ache in your limbs, the kind that says, You did it, but it wasn’t easy.

“Sun’s up,” he mutters, voice low and steady. His gaze stays fixed ahead, but you can tell—he’s watching you in that subtle way he does. Always hyper-aware. Always reading the room, especially when it’s just you and him.

You nod, eyes squinting against the light. “Didn’t think we’d get to see it.”

“Neither did I.”

There’s a pause. Long, comfortable, laced with the quiet creak of your gear and the distant chirp of waking birds. The kind of silence that only comes after violence. The kind that means we made it.

Then you notice it—his hand reaching into one of the side pouches on his vest, the motion so casual it barely registers.

He pulls out a single protein bar. It’s crushed a little, slightly melted at the edge, but you recognize it. Your favorite. Stashed months ago, probably. You glance at him, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, just offers it up between two gloved fingers like it’s nothing.

“You forgot breakfast,” he says gruffly.

You take it slowly, blinking at the wrapper. Then you look at him again, suspicious. “You packed this?”

He gives a small shrug. “Might’ve remembered the date.”

The weight of everything you’ve just come through—gunfire, shouting, the rush of survival—sits heavier in contrast to the simplicity of it. A birthday. Your birthday. And Simon remembered. Not with cake, not with a party, but with the only thing that makes sense out here: a little gesture, tucked away and timed just right.

“Happy birthday,” he says quietly, finally looking at you. His tone’s flat, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Warm. Real.