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The first time Simon meets you, he has a gun pressed against your spine.
It's the middle of the night, his little house in the suburbs of the city he's settled in after retiring from the army dark and quiet, until he wakes with a start because of noises coming from somewhere just outside his four walls. Mechanically, he grabs his already loaded weapon from his bedside table to investigate the rustling and clanging, ready to take on whatever—or whoever—disturbed his already notoriously light sleep.
Stepping into his backyard, Simon sees a figure hunched over his rubbish bins, frantically rummaging through them. It only takes him three large strides to come to a stand directly behind them, thrusting the barrel of his gun into the intruder's back, making them freeze mid-movement.
You whine pitifully when you feel something cold and hard press right against your spine, every muscle in your body locking up in fear as the fluffy dog ears on top of your head twist to pull back flat against your hair, the trash you've been digging through until now falling from your numb and cold fingers. You don't dare to turn around and face the person who's caught you, probably the owner of the house whose property you trespassed in your desperate search for food, only dimly noting that he's not smelling of fear at all at cornering an intruder in his backyard.
Neither of you move for another few tense moments before Simon steps back from you with a sigh and pockets his weapon, processing the situation fully. You're nothing more than a stray looking for something edible in the dead of night and he's probably scared you out of your mind ambushing you like that.
Scratching the back of his neck, he takes another step back, giving you some space, seeing as you're still visibly petrified, still cowering over the sickly sweet-smelling bins which is probably nothing short of agony for your sensitive nose, before awkwardly mumbling, "Got some leftover pasta in the fridge, if you want. I'm no chef but it probably tastes better than whatever you'll find in there."
It takes you a few stunned moments to comprehend his words—what this stranger is just offering to you so casually—and even a few more before you tentatively nod, trotting after him into his house and kitchen as he turns around and leads the way without looking back. The rational part of your brain screams at you to be careful, you don't know the first thing about this man living in this house, and the fact that he carries a gun and evidently isn't afraid to use it should be warning enough for you. But hunger overrides any rational apprehension you have right now, your stomach not having stopped hurting in days and the memories of your last decent meal agonisingly distant by now.
Heating what should've been next evening's dinner and setting the steaming plate of pasta in front of you after a few minutes filled only by the soft hum of the microwave, Simon leans against the sink as he watches you sitting at his table and wolfing down the pasta from the other side of his kitchen. Under the bright lights of his home, you look vastly different than in the darkness of the backyard, nothing like the stray he imagined you to be. He can't dismiss that your hair probably hasn't been washed in some time and that the thin clothes covering your body have seen better days, but apart from that you're nothing like the stray hybrids who live in packs around the area. Rather, you seem like someone's prized purebred hybrid, beloved and doubtlessly spoiled rotten, having cost your owner a small fortune to adopt in the first place. What you were doing then looking through his trash and now visibly stopping yourself from picking up the empty plate in front of you to lick completely clean is a mystery to Simon.
"You lost or something?" he breaks the awkward silence between the two of you, assuming that your owner must be frantically searching for you, worried sick that their darling hybrid companion is missing, probably plagued by thoughts about how you're not at all equipped to get by alone in the harsh real world you've been sheltered from your whole life.
When you vehemently shake your head without meeting his eyes, Simon can't help the surprise written all over his face, marred by scars, not feeling the need to cover up with his skull mask as often anymore now that he's retired.
"… you ran away, then?" he tries again, and this time you timidly nod your head, your eyes lifting to his for a moment before dropping to the table again, your ears still pressed tightly against your head, unsure of what will happen to you now.
Simon suppresses a sigh at your silent admission, painfully aware this complicates matters extremely. Instead of just letting you crash on his couch for the night before searching for your owner and reuniting you with them, like he's planned on doing in the morning, you're completely alone without a place to return to—or rather, without a place you feel safe returning to.
He doesn't question you about it further, not sure if he wants to know what must've happened to cause a pedigree hybrid like yourself to decide to run away from your previous owner, nor if you'd even want to tell a stranger like himself the story of your life.
The closest thing he asks is "Are you hurt?" which you quickly dismiss with another shake of your head, your wide eyes now staying on his, surprised to find a relieved little smile on the man's face.
Before you know it, can even begin to comprehend what is happening, you're ushered into the stranger's bathroom—Simon, he told you—, your arms loaded with fluffy towels and clean clothes from his closet, nodding dutifully at his explanation of how to use his shower without being able to fully listen or understand the words he says. Then he tells you to clean and warm up as long as you like, softly closing the bathroom door to grant you your privacy.
Hot, overwhelmed tears mix with the steady stream of warm water washing over you as you step into the shower, not knowing what you did to deserve Simon's kindness, but grateful nonetheless to have stumbled onto him of all people.
"Will you stop?"
Simon's voice has that raspy and deep quality to it that it always gets whenever he's just woken up, the one that still makes your stomach flutter because of how ridiculously attractive you find it. You ignore his request in favour of continuing to playfully bite and nibble on one of his massive biceps while you're lying next to him in bed, careful not to let your sharp canines break his skin and actually hurt him.
"'m not your fucking chew toy, that shit hurts," he complains, but you can clearly hear the fondness in his voice at your antics.
"But you're so tasty!"
To emphasise your point, you make a show of licking your lips and preparing for another big bite, only for Simon to sigh in amused exasperation and wrap his arm around you, pulling you flush against his warm body and holding you there in a tight embrace you immediately melt into.
"You're so weird, you know that?"
"You're one to talk," you counter with a little giggle, which makes Simon smile and roll his eyes at you, his only reply a lingering kiss to your temple. With a sigh, you snuggle even closer to him, your tail wagging happily underneath the soft covers of the bed, making the fabric bounce rhythmically in your contentment.
Simon's naked chest is warm and firm where you rest your head on him, the man wearing only some plaid boxer shorts for bed no matter the season because of how hot he runs while sleeping, his heart thumping steadily beneath your ear.
You still can't believe your luck at having met Simon when you did. That by some miracle, the guy whose backyard you broke into that one night in your desperate search for food took you in without complaint or a second thought, gave you a roof over your weary head and simply let you live with him without ever expecting anything from you in return. And now, after months of sharing the same space and getting to know each other better, of learning the other person inside and out and slowly falling for what you discovered in the other one, you and Simon have begun building a life together. One where you wake up in each other's arms every morning before going about your day, sharing meals and doing chores together or going on walks, joined hands swinging between the two of you, stealing kisses from each other whenever you like, before crawling underneath the covers at the end of the day to fall asleep side by side.
Simon watches your relaxed face as you doze, pressed close to him, still in disbelief and awe himself that this is his life now, that you're his and he gets to spend his retirement with you by his side, because you saw somebody worth staying for in him, worth trusting, as broken and bruised and scarred as he might be. And not a day goes by that he wonders what exactly he did right to deserve this—deserve you.
Just as he thinks you've fallen asleep once more, your eyes open again, a mischievous twinkle in them, and before he can do anything to stop you, you playfully nibble on his chest, easing the stinging sensation with a soft kiss not a second later.
"That's it," Simon declares, flipping the two of you around effortlessly and trapping you between the soft mattress and his strong body, relentlessly peppering your face and neck with tickling kisses that have you writhing and gasping and giggling underneath him.
And despite you pushing weakly against his chest, breathlessly pleading for him to stop this ruthless attack of his, both of you know there's nowhere you'd rather be right now.