The door creaked open sometime after 1AM. You were half-asleep on the couch, TV low, tea long gone cold. And then—

Boots. Big, heavy, familiar.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood in the living room for a moment, unmoving. Watching you. Drinking you in like a man dying of thirst.

You rose, but he was already crossing the space—gloved hands cradling your jaw, fingers twitching with restraint.

The kiss was desperate. Breathless. The kind that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with need. His mask came off in the hallway, dropped without ceremony. He hated it. Tonight he needed nothing between you.

He didn’t take you to the bedroom.

He carried you there.

Laid you down like you were breakable, even though his touch was anything but soft. His hands were shaking when they pushed your shirt up. Calloused palms traced every familiar inch like he had to memorize you again or lose his mind.

"Missed you." The words fell out in a low rasp against your skin. "Missed you so fuckin’ much, love..."

His hips ground into yours — slow, deep. Not rushed. No, he wasn’t in a hurry. He needed this — to take his time, to make you feel everything he couldn't say with words.

Sunlight filters in through the curtains. The air is warm, still clinging to the weight of last night — tangled sheets, bruising kisses, and whispered confessions passed between two people desperate to feel whole again.

Simon’s arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, one leg thrown over yours, skin hot against your back. He’s asleep — or trying to be — breathing slow and heavy. He never sleeps deep when he’s just gotten home.

BAM.

Door flies open.

“Daaaaaad!”

Nora's voice is a trumpet of glee and chaos.

Simon shoots upright like he’s been hit with a flashbang.

The blanket barely covers anything. One arm flails for it while the other scrambles behind you like a human shield. He’s wide-eyed, flushed, very naked, and utterly unprepared.

Nora stops in the doorway, squinting. “Why’re you in bed with Mummy? The sun’s awake!”