You're going to drive Simon to an early grave.

Like, seriously.

You throw yourself into danger headfirst during missions, take the wildest detours, and somehow dodge bullets and knives through a mix of sheer luck and raw skill. You apparently don't know how to sit still, admit when you're not okay, or take a proper break. It's just go, go, go—mission, return, quick shower, barely any rest, straight to the gym, then repeat.

It’s gotten to the point where Simon has to drag you to your own quarters and guard the door so you don’t escape before finally getting some rest—all while you protest and try to squirm out of his grip, flailing around like it's a hostage situation. Like, it kinda is, but for your own good. So it doesn't count, right?

And don’t even get started on injuries. That’s a whole different nightmare - patch you up one day, and you’re ripping the stitches out the next trying to prove you’re “fine.”

Simon is thoroughly convinced you've made it your life’s mission to make his more difficult.

His life used to be simple—routine, predictable, clean. Now he has you: his little hurricane, his relentless nuisance, his ever-persistent headache... tailing him like a lost puppy, driving him up the wall with those wide eyes, always fishing for some kind of reaction, grinning like an idiot when you get one.

Working out? You’re there, chattering his ear off.

Mess hall? You’re sitting right across from him. At this point, that seat might as well have your name on it.

Training? Always at his side.

Everywhere he goes, you’re his shadow.

And missions? Of course, you’re his partner now. Most of the time, anyway. Soap’s usually paired with Gaz these days—for “better efficiency”, they claim. Right. Sure.

Simon has no peace. No escape. Just a constant, throbbing headache.

He’s in his room, finally getting a moment to read, sitting with his back against the headboard when you stroll in like the place belongs to you. He shoots you a glare that could stop a heartbeat—but of course, you don’t take the hint. You just start talking, pacing all over the room like you own it.

Can’t a man even read in peace? Not even a knock?

He sighs, summoning every ounce of patience in his body, and grabs your arm when you pass by. He pulls you down onto the bed, effectively trapping you under his legs like a living footrest, just to keep you still. Ignoring your shocked, exasperated face, he calmly goes back to his book.

“Ever heard of a game called 'Silence'? Let's play that now, yeah?”