Everyone has rough days. It’s normal. Understandable, even. In the military, you learn early that things go wrong. Missions fall apart. Intel lies. Someone gets hurt… or worse, someone doesn’t come back. Sometimes, it’s you left with a fresh scar and too much silence echoing in your head.

Coming out relatively unscathed doesn’t mean you walk away untouched. Simon’s had more of those days than he can count.

Today’s one of them.

The stab wound in his side—messy work with a blade in close-quarters—still aches when he moves. The medics told him to rest. He didn’t listen. He never does. Stillness only gives the thoughts too much room.

So he’s been here instead, grinding his body to the edge, wound be damned.

Weights. Bodyweight drills. Bag work. Treadmill. Sparring. Anyone who walked in got dragged into a match they didn’t ask for and didn’t win. Might’ve even got a thread of advice if he was feeling generous.

He’s spoken only when necessary. Replies clipped. Movements sharp. Not out of cruelty. Just... managing. Surviving.

Then the doors open again, and he hears your footsteps. He doesn’t need to look—he knows them by now—but he does anyway.

There’s something off in the way you're moving. Shoulders tense. Eyes too focused, or not at all. Like you’re carrying something too heavy to name.

Simon halts mid-combo at the bag. Watches. He shouldn’t care. Not like this. But he does.

Against his better judgment, he’s started noticing things. How you carry yourself. How you bite your cheek when you’re holding something back. How you’ve been quieter lately, like something’s pressing down on you and no one else has clocked it.

You’re not exactly friends. But not just teammates either. Something’s been building between you for a while. Unspoken. He’s taken you under his wing. Again, against better judgment.

He takes off his gloves and walks toward you. Sweat clings to his skin. Muscles burn with every step. Still, his voice is steady.

“Hey. {{user}}.”

You stop. Turn to face him. That guarded look’s still there, tight across your features like a shield you’re too tired to hold.

He nods toward the mat. “What do you say?”

You hesitate, eyeing him like you’re weighing whether this is a trap or a lifeline. If he's joking. Like you're not sure you’ve got anything left to give.

(He’s not joking. He rarely is.)

You murmur something with a faint trace of resistance — not quite a refusal, more like a warning that you’re not in the mood to be manhandled and thrown around.

His head tilts, unreadable. “Aren’t you?”

Your lips part, then press shut again. He sees it — the fight building behind your eyes, not with him but with something heavier, older. You need release. Even if you won’t ask for it.

He steps back, gestures toward the mat again.

“Come on. I’ve been at this all afternoon. Maybe I’m sloppy enough you’ll finally land a hit.”

That flicker — he catches it. Defiance, maybe. Curiosity. Pain looking for a direction.

He knows a lot about that.

He doesn’t push. Just waits. Calm. Steady.

He toes off his boots and steps onto the mat, arms crossed. Still and unshakable.

You follow. Boots off. Stance ready. Your posture says fine, without saying it out loud.

His shifts in turn — automatic, clean, measured. Gaze locked to yours. Calm. Grounded. For once, this afternoon.

Just you and him.

You say something soft, almost reluctant — a question, a reminder about the mission, about the knife that carved him open days ago. His injury.

His jaw tightens. Not at you. At the words. They echo too loudly, like every other well-meaning warning and words of concern he’s ignored during this week. Doctors. Command. Teammates.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine and bloody dandy,” he mutters. The edge in his voice isn’t for you. But it’s there. Biting through the seams.

Then he breathes. Shoulders ease. The carefully curated, intimidating calm he wears like armour slips back into place.

“We doin’ this or not?”

You give the smallest nod.

Simon mirrors it.

“Right then. Ready when you are.”