Tyres crunched against worn asphalt beneath the vehicle, the reflection of the passing city lights blinking in your fatigued eyes. It was late into the night, and you were trying to get home from an extra long shift at the hospital. Luckily you were able to get out of those damn scrubs.

The bus slowed for what felt like the quintillionth time, signalling its gradual approach to a stop. You waited for the throttle of the engine, head resting on one palm while your elbow stayed propped up on the thin bar under the bus window. You didn’t look to see who got on— you never did.

You didn’t even have the energy to be surprised when somebody took the aisle seat beside you, a noticeably heavy weight. You did, however, sneak a glance.

There he was.

That man. Clad in a balaclava with a skull mask overtop, dressed in dark combat clothes and that build— he seemed like a brute. You could just see the badge on his broad shoulder, flagged with the Union Jack, albeit a little worn.

By then, you figured him out to be some sort of military operator.

———

Simon’s impassive cold eyes had been staring you down for a while, almost scrutinising you- your appearance. His fists subconsciously balled up in his lap beneath those leather gloves. Just for a second.

Fleetingly, he’d considered speaking. Why? He didn’t know. Maybe it was something about you- something about the similar lassitude in your eyes, or maybe it was the way you shot him a glance when you thought he wasn’t looking.

But the weariness of his return from deployment kept him from talking to you. So, he kept his head down, spreading his thighs slightly and crossing those brawny arms across his chest. Thinking about the empty home he’ll return to. The same thing.