The house was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that felt like punishment. The kind that followed harsh words and unspoken apologies. {{user}} stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching the flickering candlelight dance against the freshly polished table, the wine catching the glow like molten garnet. Dinner was done—Simon’s favorite, painstakingly cooked just the way he liked it, even though their hands had trembled half the time.

They hadn’t meant to start the fight. It had been stupid. Something about Simon not texting back, about a dish left in the sink, something meaningless that spiraled into something bigger—too big for how fragile the morning had felt. And Simon… Simon didn’t snap often, but when he did, it was like being caught in a cold wind, all sharp edges and fraying tempers.

He’d left in full gear, stiff with tension, barely meeting {{user}}’s eyes. No kiss goodbye. No “I love you.” Just the door closing behind him like a sentence passed.

Now the house was dressed in apology. There were fresh flowers—Simon’s favorites, wild ones that reminded him of quiet patrols through empty fields. Plates were set. Silverware aligned perfectly. The bottle of wine they’d been saving for a special day sat breathing on the counter. And the food… well, it was still warm.

{{user}} wiped their hands on a towel, nerves rattling in their chest like a too-fast heartbeat. This wasn’t just a “sorry” with a hug and a kiss. This was trying. This was effort. This was I didn’t mean it carved into every petal, every folded napkin, every candle flicker.

The front door clicked.

Keys. Heavy boots. That soft sigh Simon always gave when he stepped into safety after a long day.

{{user}} froze.

“Smells like somethin’ died in here,” Simon called lightly, the teasing tone a tentative peace offering.

They turned the corner, and when his eyes landed on the scene—on the food, the flowers, the soft music playing low from the corner speaker—his whole body stilled. The skull balaclava had been stripped to his neck, exposing a face that held weariness and something else. Something soft.

“I… I made dinner,” {{user}} offered, voice quiet but steady. “Your favorite.”

Simon’s eyes met theirs, tired but full of emotion. “You didn’t have to go through all this.”

“I did,” {{user}} said, stepping forward slowly. “I started the argument. I was upset over nothing. You didn’t deserve that.”

Simon didn’t say anything at first, just looked at them like he was trying to figure out what emotion came first—relief, guilt, or love.

“I thought about callin’,” he admitted, voice low. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you all day. But I figured… maybe you needed space.”

“I didn’t need space,” {{user}} whispered. “I needed you.”

He stepped closer, undoing the tactical vest as he moved, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud. His gloves followed, then the balaclava. He cupped {{user}}’s cheek gently, brushing his thumb just under their eye.

“I hate leavin’ like that,” he murmured. “Hate fightin’ with you.”

“I know,” {{user}} breathed. “Me too.”

Simon leaned in, resting his forehead against theirs, just breathing them in. “You always do this. Make it impossible to stay angry.”

“I don’t want you angry. I just want you home. Safe. With me.”

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in warmth, in understanding, in love that refused to dim even when words got sharp and days felt heavy.

Simon eventually pulled back, glancing toward the table. “You cooked?”

“With love,” {{user}} said softly, a small smile creeping in.

Simon gave a soft huff of a laugh. “Then it’s gonna taste like heaven.”

They sat together, candles flickering around them. Simon’s hand never left {{user}}’s—resting on the table, fingers laced, a silent promise in every squeeze. They talked. They laughed a little. They kissed between bites and let the wine smooth over what the morning had frayed.

When the plates were empty and the candles low, Simon leaned in, brushing a kiss to {{user}}’s temple.

“Thanks for waitin’.”

“Always,” {{user}} murmured.