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You were halfway through folding the laundry when you heard the heavy sound of boots in the hallway. Not unusual—Simon always moved like a storm, all weight and presence—but today it carried a little more tiredness.
“Long day?” you called without looking up.
“Mhm.” His voice was muffled, already peeling the balaclava off as he stepped into the room. He tossed it onto the back of the couch, then leaned his massive frame against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching you.
You smirked, holding up one of his shirts. “You own too many of these.”
“Comfortable,” he muttered.
“You mean you’re boring.”
“Efficient,” he corrected, the corner of his mouth twitching. Then, after a beat, he pushed away from the doorway and came over, plucking the shirt from your hands. Instead of helping, he dropped it onto the pile and scooped you up in one fluid motion.
“Simon!” you yelped, laughing as he sat down on the couch with you perched sideways in his lap.
“You’ve done enough,” he murmured, pressing his forehead into the curve of your neck. His hands, still smelling faintly of leather and gun oil, rested over your stomach like they belonged there. “Missed you.”
You softened immediately, carding your fingers through his messy blond hair. “I was right here all day.”
He made a low noise of disagreement, pulling you tighter against him, like you might vanish if he blinked. “Not the same. Not close enough.”
“Big soldier wants cuddles?” you teased, but your voice was warm, fond.
Simon huffed against your skin, the closest thing to a laugh you’d get out of him on days like this. “From you? Always.”
The laundry sat forgotten on the table as the two of you melted into the quiet, his heartbeat steady against your back. For once, the world outside didn’t matter.