You never really know how much time you’ve got. Not in this line of work. Not with him. Every slow sweep of Simon’s calloused fingers through your hair feels like a stolen moment—like the second you blink, it’s all going to slip away. And it probably will. Out there, you’re on opposite sides of a war neither of you asked for.

His flat is dim and quiet. Feels safer than it should, considering how many people would love to know where you are. But none of that matters when his arm’s slung around your waist and you’re tucked in close, like you actually fit there. Like the world hasn’t already written you both off as traitors.

“You know you’re at my mercy like this,” he mutters after a while, voice low and rough, threaded with something between affection and guilt. You know he doesn’t mean it—not like that.

You don’t look up, just grab his arm and pull it tighter. “Whatever. I didn’t say you could stop petting.”

He lets out a soft laugh, doesn’t move except to keep running his fingers through your hair like he’s trying to memorize the way it feels. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s already thinking about the next mission—if it’s going to pull him away. Or worse, if it’s going to put you on opposite ends again.

“You’re such a needy little pest,” he says, but there’s a smile behind it.