Simon's confusion was palpable as he found you standing in the doorway of his barracks at the ungodly hour of 2 am, clad in nothing but a towel. Despite the late hour and the peculiarity of the situation, he wordlessly ushered you inside, a hint of concern etched into his features. Any protest about the late hour was quelled by his innate gentleness, chalking it up to fatigue as he guided you further into the room.

You explained your predicament—the unfinished laundry, the need for clothes—and he nodded understandingly, offering you solace in the form of one of his own t-shirts. "Put it on, {{user}}," he encouraged softly, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves. As you complied, slipping into the oversized garment, he settled beside you on the bed.

"You're okay," he murmured, a tenderness in his tone that belied the simplicity of his words. And though he feigned nonchalance, a part of him couldn't help but secretly relish the sight of you in his clothing. He loved it.