Chapter Text
Simon’s flat had mold. Or something like that.
To be honest, you’d stopped listening halfway through his explanation - something about damp walls, black spores and a useless landlord. You were too busy thinking about finally getting off base, out of uniform, and into your own shower.
Then you heard yourself say, “Yeah, that’s fine, you can stay at mine for a bit.”
And by the time you realized what you’d agreed to, it was too bloody late to take it back.
What were you going to say? Actually, Lieutenant, I was only half-listening and you staying with me might be weird. Not a chance. Not to Simon Riley.
You’d always had a soft spot for him - hidden somewhere between respect and whatever the hell sat in your chest every time he said your name and not your callsign. He was terrifying and magnetic in equal measure.
It was going to be fine, you told yourself.
And for the most part, it was.
Simon took the guest room next to yours. You’d shared safehouses before, dirtier ones with far less privacy. This was nothing new. He was quiet, neat, didn’t leave a trace. The only sign he was there was the deep rumble of his voice when he said “Mornin’” or the faint sound of the kettle at dawn.
You forgot he was there, sometimes.
But Simon—
Simon never forgot you.
Seeing you at work was one thing. Tactical vest, boots, voice sharp enough to cut through radio static. But here, in your own space, in soft clothes and bare feet—he didn’t know where to look. Couldn’t decide which version was real.
The first night, he padded down the hall with a glass of water, heading for bed. You’d said goodnight hours ago, voice muffled through the door. “Don’t stay up too late, Lieutenant.”
He’d just grunted something like “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Now, passing your door, he noticed it cracked open. He wasn’t nosy, never had been, but something made him pause. The faint hum of white noise drifted out.
Then he saw you.
Tucked under a massive down comforter, some stuffed thing clutched to your chest. An eye mask. A bloody nightlight. And—Christ—was that drool on your pillow?
Simon froze, glass in hand.
He’d seen you covered in blood and dust, screaming orders through chaos, patching someone’s wound without blinking. And now you were this…soft and quiet and safe.
It did something to him.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, exhaling slow. The same hands that had held a rifle for hours now clutched a glass too tight, the muscles in his forearm jumping. You looked so far from the Sergeant he knew - unguarded, slack with sleep, your face half-hidden by the pillow.
The sound of your steady breathing filled the hall. It shouldn’t have mattered. But something in his chest pulled tight anyway. A reminder of everything he’d probably never have.
He stayed too long. Then he shut the door the rest of the way.
Didn’t sleep much that night.