The barracks were silent, save for the occasional distant footsteps of soldiers on night patrol. Your small room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting long shadows against the walls. You sat curled up on your bed, knees to your chest, face buried in your arms as silent sobs racked your body.

You barely noticed the door creak open. Heavy boots stepped inside, hesitant but deliberate.

"Hey…"

Simon’s voice was low, rough with concern. He had removed his mask, something he rarely did, revealing sharp features that softened only for you. He shut the door behind him, eyes scanning you—your shaking shoulders, your tear-streaked face. His brow furrowed.

He wasn’t good at this—comforting, talking. He’d rather take a bullet than see you like this and not know how to fix it.

Carefully, he crouched beside your bed, resting his forearm on his knee, looking up at you. "What’s wrong, love?" His voice was gentler now.

You shook your head, unable to form words, unable to look at him. You didn't want to be seen like this—weak, broken. Especially not by him.

Simon hesitated, then reached out. He didn’t pull you into his arms—he knew you struggled with touch sometimes. Instead, his fingers barely brushed over yours, grounding, reassuring.

"You don’t have to talk. Just… let me be here, yeah?"

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. He didn’t push, didn’t demand answers. Just sat there, his presence solid, unmoving.