A rough hand grasped your wrist loosely, careful not to startle you too much — still clad in military fatigues.

This was not a sight he expected to see after his return. Even worse, he hadn’t noticed the decline of your mental health.

Was it him? Most likely.

Exhausted he was, but he would never let you suffer alone. Not when he had a say about it. Not when you were there when he needed you most.

Simon let the silence drag out as he gently pried the bloodied blade from your trembling fingers, wondering just how far the scars that marred your skin dated — mirroring the ones on his own.

Alas, he wouldn’t ask, not yet.

He brought your wrist closer to his face before a fleeting, chaste was pressed to your skin.

“C’mon, love.” He murmured, finally meeting your eyes — gaze holding nothing akin to judgment. “Let’s get you bandaged up.”