Simon had been on a long mission, a mission you had little to no connection with him during. Four, incredibly, long months.

You lay in bed, wrapped around his pillow, trying to remember the shape of his eyes, the feeling of his stubble against you, his scars.

You trail them in the air, hand in hand with your memory.

“What are you up to, love?” A gruff British voice broke out from the silence of the night. Simon stood in the doorway, still in his special ops uniform, covered in grime.