Simon

The rain had stopped about an hour ago, but the evidence of it still clung to everything-the slick pavement reflecting the pub's amber light, the damp chill that crept through the seams of his hoodie. Simon should've been inside. The pub was warm. Familiar. The corner booth was probably empty this time of night, waiting like it always was.

Instead, he'd posted up against the brick wall just to the left of the door, shoulder blades pressed to the cold stone like he was holding the building up. The sling was a dead giveaway. Black, utilitarian, keeping his left arm immobilized against his chest. Beneath the hoodie, the edge of a bandage crept up past his collar. He'd pulled the drawstrings of his hood tight before leaving the flat-no balaclava, not around civilians-but enough to shadow the upper half of his face.

Three weeks early. He hadn't planned on being back. The med board had made that decision for him, signing off on two weeks of convalescent leave. "Light duty, Lieutenant. Rest the shoulder. Don't be a hero."

Rest. As if he knew how.

The street wasn't busy. A few punters drifted in and out of the pub, voices loud and loose with drink. None of them paid him any mind. He liked it that way. His duffel sat at his feet, still packed, because unpacking meant acknowledging he was here, and acknowledging he was here meant acknowledging why he'd come straight from the station instead of going to his flat first.

Maybe you wouldn't be here. Maybe it was the wrong night, wrong time, wrong-no. He shut that thought down before it could finish. You came here. You always came here. It wasn't a plan, wasn't a promise, but it was the closest thing to certainty he'd ever allowed himself. The pub, the booth, the quiet. He didn't believe in much, but he believed in patterns.

His right hand flexed at his side, the knuckles scraped raw. He'd cleaned them up, mostly. The blood was gone. The memory of how it got there wasn't.

When he spotted movement at the end of the street, familiar gait, familiar silhouette, he didn't wave. Just watched, the tension in his jaw easing a fraction. You were here. Of course you were here.

He straightened up from the wall as you got closer, the motion stiff on account of the ribs he hadn't bothered mentioning to the medics. Up close, the damage was harder to miss. The sling. The bandage. The bruise fading yellow along his jaw. He looked like he'd lost a fight with something that didn't fight fair.

"Don't," he said, before you could get a word out. The Manchester accent was thicker than usual, the vowels flattened by exhaustion and pain. He'd stopped taking the painkillers two days ago because they made his head fuzzy. "Whatever you're about to ask. Don't."

He held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then he pushed off the wall, reached down with his good arm, and hauled the duffel up onto his shoulder. The movement pulled at something that shouldn't have been pulled. His expression didn't flicker.

"Pub's packed. Some football thing." A pause. His eyes cut toward the door, then back to you. "Can't be arsed with people tonight."

Translation: I want to be here, but I don't want to be perceived.

He tilted his head toward the street, the unspoken question hanging in the air between you. Walk with me. Not an order. Not a request. Something in the middle, the way everything with him was.

Simon had been back on British soil for exactly six hours. Debrief was a blur. He'd showered, changed into civilian clothes-black hoodie, dark jeans, boots that had seen better days-and headed straight into the city without fully deciding why. Muscle memory. A compass needle pointing somewhere he refused to name.

The pub would've been the logical destination. It was Thursday. Late enough. You might've been there.

But he spotted you two streets early. Huddled under a tattered awning outside a closed bookshop, shoulders hunched against the cold, arms wrapped around yourself like that flimsy jacket was doing anything against the weather. Soaked through. Hair plastered flat. Muttering something under your breath-probably swearing, knowing you.

He stopped walking. Stood there in the middle of the pavement like an idiot, rain hammering against his hood, watching the way you shifted your weight from foot to foot, the way you craned your neck to check the sky like it might show you mercy any second.

It wouldn't. He knew this city. The rain wasn't stopping.

Something in his chest tightened. Something he refused to examine.

Simon closed the distance without a word. You didn't hear him approach, he moved quiet even off the clock, couldn't turn it off. And when he stepped under the awning beside you, you startled so hard you nearly slipped off the curb.

His hand shot out, catching your elbow. Firm grip, brief, and let go the second you were steady.

"You'll catch your death." His voice came out rougher than he intended. The Manc accent thicker than he usually let it get around you. He was tired. That was all.

He didn't wait for a response. Didn't give you the option to protest. Just shrugged off his hoodie and held it over both of you like a makeshift canopy, his arm lifting just enough to clear your head. Not touching you. But close enough that you'd feel the heat coming off him, the sheer solidity of him blocking the wind.

"C'mon," he said, already stepping forward. "Pub's two blocks. Move."

The rain hammered against the fabric above you both. His jaw was set, eyes fixed ahead, but every few seconds his gaze cut sideways-checking you were keeping up, checking you were still under cover, checking you were still there.

He shouldn't be here. He knew that. He'd told himself a hundred times, on a hundred different deployments, that this thing between you was stupid. Reckless. A weakness he couldn't afford.

And yet...