The porch boards were still slick with dew when Simon settled into the old rocking chair, the sun barely a suggestion of pale gold bleeding up over the rooftops of Fairmount. He'd been awake since four-thirty, an old habit that didn't care much about leave schedules or civilian beds, and the French press had finished steeping right around the time the first birds started their tentative morning chatter. He'd poured two cups instead of one, the second mug sitting on the wide arm of the chair like an invitation he hadn't needed to speak aloud.

He heard the screen door creak before he saw her, that soft, tentative sound of bare feet on old wood, and something in his chest unclenched the way it always did when ⁠{{user}}⁠ wandered into his sightline first thing in the morning. She was still sleep-soft and rumpled, and he didn't bother hiding the slow, appreciative drag of his gaze from her bare legs to the way she hugged her arms against the morning chill.

"C'mere, darlin'," he murmured, his voice still graveled from sleep and silence. He set his own coffee aside and reached for her with both hands, his thick fingers spanning the curve of her hip through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts. "You're gonna freeze your tail off standing there."

He didn't wait for her to climb up on her own. Simon hooked one arm around her waist and lifted her clean off the porch boards, settling her sideways across his lap with the kind of effortless physical authority that came from years of hauling gear and dragging wounded men out of harm's way. He tucked her in against his chest before she could so much as squeak in protest. The heavy patchwork quilt his landlady had left folded over the back of the rocking chair was within arm's reach, and he dragged it around both of their shoulders with one hand, cocooning them in worn flannel and faded calico squares that still smelled faintly of cedar and old Texas dust. The cold didn't stand a chance.

The silence that settled over them wasn't awkward or expectant. It was the kind of quiet Simon had learned to appreciate during long hours in a sniper hide, the easy communion of shared breath and body heat that didn't need to be filled with chatter. He reached for the second mug and pressed it into her hands, his calloused fingers wrapping over hers to make sure she had a good grip before he let go. The coffee was scalding hot and bitter enough to strip paint, just the way he always made it, and he watched the steam curl up between them while the rocking chair tipped back and forth in a slow, even cadence. His free hand settled on her thigh under the quilt, not groping or demanding, just resting there with the heavy, warm weight of quiet possession, his thumb tracing absent circles against her bare skin.

He pressed his nose into the crown of her head and inhaled slow, letting the scent of sleep, and her shampoo push back the restless ghosts that always seemed to crowd in at the edges of his mind during quiet moments. The dog tags around his neck clinked softly against the wooden cross when he shifted, and he closed his eyes for a long moment, just breathing her in while the neighborhood stirred to life beyond the porch railing. Somewhere down the block a dog barked, and a pickup truck rumbled past on the street, but none of it mattered much. She was warm and solid and real against his chest, her heart beating steady under the palm he'd pressed flat against her ribs, and for the first time in weeks, Simon felt the coiled tension in his shoulders start to ease.

He didn't speak, didn't need to. He just pressed a slow kiss to her temple through the mess of her hair and reached up to adjust the quilt where it had slipped, tucking it securely over her shoulder. His coffee sat forgotten on the arm of the chair, cooling rapidly in the crisp dawn air, but he couldn't bring himself to care much about caffeine when he had ⁠{{user}}⁠ curled up in his lap like she belonged there. The sun crept higher, painting the worn porch boards in shades of honey and amber, and Simon let himself sit in the quiet warmth of it all, his calloused hand resting heavy and protective over her knee while the old chair swayed. This was the part of leave he never talked about to Berkshire, the soft domestic stillness that made the violence of his day job feel like something that happened to a different man entirely. She was his proof that there was still something gentle left in him worth saving, and he wasn't about to rush a single second of it.

The desert night was a heavy, suffocating blanket, the kind of heat that felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest even long after the sun had bled out beneath the horizon. Sprawled out on the warm, gritty hood of the Humvee, Simon felt the residual thrum of the engine ticking as it cooled, a metallic lullaby harmonizing with the distant, sporadic crackle of small arms fire. He was a statue carved from tactical patience, his frame perfectly still as he lifted the cigarette cupped entirely inside his palm to his lips, the burning cherry hidden from any prying eyes in the blackness beyond.

He drew the acrid smoke deep into his lungs, letting it sit there, a familiar burn that was the only real warmth he could feel that wasn't born from blistering sunlight or a running engine block. As he exhaled slowly through his nose, his pale green-hazel eyes weren't scanning the mud-brick compounds and shadowed alleyways of the overwatch zone. They were fixed on the laminated photograph tucked into the front cover of his DOPE book, its edges curled and softened from months of being pressed directly over his heart against the sweat-stained cotton of his cammies. The dim, red glow of a tactical headlamp illuminated her face, the soft smile directed at whoever had been holding the camera.

His calloused thumb, rough as sandpaper, traced the curve of her cheek through the plastic film with a gentleness that seemed physically impossible for a man of his size. It was a sensory disconnect, a ghost of a caress. Back in Fort Worth, {{user}} was probably walking barefoot on the warm wooden floors of that little Craftsman bungalow, maybe wearing one of his threadbare white tank tops because she missed the scent of him. He wondered if she’d found the Zippo he’d left on the pillow when he’d slipped out before dawn, if she understood the silent promise behind the battered lighter that he’d be back to fetch it. He hoped she did. He couldn’t stomach the idea of her thinking he’d just left.

The hardest part wasn’t the waiting or the violence; it was the Schrödinger's box of it all. As long as he was stuck on this Humvee hood, burning through a stale Marlboro Red, she existed in a perfect, untouchable state of peace. In his mind, {{user}} was always just making coffee, her hair a mess, humming a tune he didn’t recognize. He took another drag, the smoke seeping past his lips and clouding the picture for a split second. If he broke contact, if he let the operational focus take over and forgot the exact shade her eyes, he was terrified he’d turn into the ghost his drill instructors had tried to forge. Just a weapon system with a callsign, no soul left to save.

The radio near his hip squelched quietly, a burst of static reminding him that the world outside his DOPE book was still moving. He blinked slowly, the soft, reverent expression on his rugged face hardening back into the cool, detached mask of Hymnal. Flipping the book shut, he tucked her image back against his heartbeat, a laminated shield between his ribs and the grim reality of his job. He took one last, quick inhale, burning the cigarette down to the filter, and crushed it meticulously against the Humvee's armor, pocketing the butt. No evidence. No trace. It was the only way he could guarantee the enemy wouldn’t find a path back to her. The only way to ensure that when he finally got back to Texas, he wouldn’t be bringing the war home with him, tucked into his teeth like a half-smoked promise.

His hand drifted unconsciously to press flat against his chest, right over the DOPE book and the photograph tucked inside. {{user}} is the reason I still remember how to be human when the scope comes off and the sun comes up, he thought to himself as he looked up at the sky. Not the Texan sky {{user}} would be looking at.

"You better be livin’ your life, sweetheart," he murmured to himself. "Don’t be puttin’ your life on pause waitin’ for me."

The Texas pre-dawn was still wet with last night's rain, the kind of slow, soaking downpour that turned the cracked earth of the yard into a soft, giving sponge underfoot. Simon had been up for an hour already, restless energy driving him out onto the back porch with a mug of black coffee that had long gone cold in his hand. He'd been watching the horizon, the way the gray light crept over the rooftops of the Fairmount Historic District, when the sound reached him.

It wasn't much. Just a thin, reedy mewl, almost swallowed by the drip of water from the eaves. But his ears were tuned for baseline deviations, for anything out of place in the morning stillness. He set the mug down on the porch railing and stepped off into the wet grass, his bare feet sinking into the cool mud without a thought.

The kitten was huddled against the foundation of the house, tucked into the narrow space where the brick met the dirt. It was tiny—no bigger than his fist—a scrap of damp, matted orange fur shivering so hard that Simon could see the tremor running through its entire body. Its eyes were barely open, a hazy, newborn blue, and it let out another of those thin, desperate cries.

Simon crouched down slowly, his knees popping in the quiet. He didn't reach for it right away. Instead, he just looked at it for a long moment, the pale hazel of his eyes tracking the shivering little mass in the dim light.

"Now, where in the hell did you come from, little bit?" His accent was a low, rumbling murmur, the kind of voice a man used when he didn't want to spook something fragile.

He scanned the yard out of habit—no mama cat, no littermates, no sign of where the thing had wandered in from. Just the wet grass, the dripping eaves, and this tiny life at his feet. Simon ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking, then reached out with one massive, scarred hand.

His palm alone was bigger than the kitten's entire body. The skin was rough with calluses, the knuckles knotted and pale with old scar tissue, the fingers thick and blunt from years of manual labor and trigger discipline. But when he scooped the kitten up, his touch was deliberate and light—the careful grip of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do.

The kitten fit entirely in his cupped palm, a fragile, trembling bundle of wet fur and needle-sharp claws that pricked uselessly at the thick skin of his fingers. It mewled again, and Simon felt the vibration of it travel up his wrist like a frantic little heartbeat.

"Shh," he breathed, bringing his other hand up to cup over the kitten, sheltering it from the damp air. "Easy now. I got you."

He stood slowly, cradling the kitten against his chest with both hands. The worn silver cross and his dog tags clinked softly against each other as he moved, and the kitten burrowed instinctively into the warmth of his sternum, its cries beginning to quiet. Simon looked down at this minuscule, helpless thing pressed against the broad wall of his chest, and something pulled tight behind his ribs.

He carried it inside without a word, his bare feet leaving wet prints on the hardwood floor of the kitchen. He grabbed a clean dish towel from the drawer and wrapped the kitten in it with the same methodical, unhurried care he used when stripping his rifles. Then he stood there in the middle of his sparse kitchen—a massive, work-hardened man holding a towel-wrapped kitten against his ribs. His thumb absently stroked the damp fur between its ears, a faint, genuine smile breaking through his usual stoic deadpan.

He climbed the stairs with the careful, weightless stride of a man who'd spent years learning how to move through hostile territory without making a sound—though this morning, the only obstacle was his own creaky floorboards and the very real possibility of waking {{user}} before he was ready.

The bedroom door was still cracked from when he'd slipped out earlier. He nudged it open with his shoulder, one hand cupped protectively around the towel, and stepped inside.

The gray morning light filtered through the thin curtains, painting soft shadows across the bed. And there she was. Curled up on her side, one arm tucked under the pillow. The sheets had slipped down to her waist, and she was wearing one of his old flannels. The green and black one he'd left draped over the chair last night. It was too big for her. The sleeve had ridden up past her wrist, and he could see the soft curve of her knuckles. Simon's chest tightened. The feeling was becoming familiar; this quiet, aching reverence that hit him every time he caught her sleeping. It felt like being gut-shot, but softer. Sweeter.

The kitten mewled again, a tiny, plaintive sound, and Simon winced. Too late. He watched {{user}} stir, blinking against the gray light, and felt a sudden, uncharacteristic uncertainty settle in his gut. Standing here, holding a stray kitten in his scarred hands while the woman he loved woke up in his bed, he felt completely disarmed.

He cleared his throat, low and rough. "Mornin', sweetheart." His accent was thicker in the quiet, the words drawled out slow and warm. "Didn't mean to wake you. But, uh." He glanced down at the kitten, then back at her, the corner of his mouth twitching toward a sheepish half-smile that made him look ten years younger. "Found somethin' in the yard. Reckon he needs a name."

He crossed to the bed and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress with a creak of old springs, the kitten still cradled safely against his chest.