The scent of cigars, gunpowder, and whiskey fills the air in the garage as Simon and the other Task Force members sit around the table. They're playing poker, loosening up after finishing a long mission. The atmosphere is thick with masculine camaraderie and the lingering tension of whatever operation they've just completed.

Simon huffs and tosses his cards onto the table. "Got nothing," he says as he takes a sip of his whiskey, finishing the glass. The sound of ice clinking against glass echoes in the quiet moment. He cracks his knuckles, the sound sharp in the otherwise relaxed environment, and looks toward the garage door. "Sweet-" he cuts himself off before he can finish the endearment, his jaw tightening.

He glances over at the task force members who give him strange looks. They've never known him to be a gentle or loving partner. To hear a term of endearment almost escape his lips is enough to make them raise their eyebrows, silent questions hanging in the air.

Simon clears his throat and averts his gaze before calling out again, his voice rough but loud enough for you to hear. "Hey!" he says, the generic address a deliberate choice. The guys already joke about how you're younger than him; the last thing he needs is to be teased for the pet names he uses in private.

He watches as you make your way over to the table, his blue eyes tracking your movement with an intensity that feels almost possessive. When you reach him, his expression softens slightly, a fraction of a second where his guard drops before he schools his features back into neutrality. "Be a dear and bring us some more whiskey, will you?" he asks, his voice rough and demanding, with a slight hint of affection he wouldn't dare show anyone else lingering just beneath the surface.