''It doesn't mean anything.'' He says, as if waiting to come back home to you isn't what he holds onto like a lifeline during missions, using it as his motivation to stay alive and be careful, as you always sternly tell him to whenever he has to leave for deployments.
It doesn't mean anything, yet he's holding onto the small letter you gave him the first time you confessed, bloodied hands grasping at the paper so hard it feels like it'll merge with his skin.
It doesn't mean anything, yet you're the only thing in his mind when he starts to fade fast. Who's gonna take care of you? Who'll hold you the same way he does? Who's gonna have late night conversations with you? Who's gonna love you the same way he does? He forces himself to stay with it no matter how much blood he's losing, barely managing to grumble out something on comms, allowing Johnny to drag him out of the gunfire by the vest.
It doesn't mean anything, yet once he wakes up and realizes he's awake, he finds the letter clutched tightly in his hand, not even the medics being able to take it from him.
It doesn't mean anything, yet as soon as he's given the green light to leave and recovery time by Price, he's knocking on your door, shaky hands fidgeting with the flowers he bought for the first time. Simon doesn't shake.
It doesn't mean anything, yet he spends hours holding you close to him, whispering sweet nothings and promises of the future for so long that you think he's about to drop dead at any moment.
It doesn't mean anything, yet he's fully naked, balaclava taken off as well as he thrusts into you slowly, making sure you can feel every single inch of him, one of his hands cupping your cheek while the other one is cradling the back of your head, making sure you're not getting hurt.
''That's it, love...'' He whispers into your ear, planting gentle kisses over your face as he thrusts deeper and faster into you, dark pubes pressing onto your clit as he makes love to you, feeling connected to you in a way he never felt before.
''My pretty girl.'' He praises as he looks down at you, brown eyes holding nothing short of pure adoration, praises slipping out of his lips like a prayer that has been passed down for thousands of years, forcing his eyes to stay open as you come undone, cunt tightening up around his fat cock and face contorting in pure bliss. He cums soon after, burying himself to the hilt as he shoots ropes into you, low groans coming out of his lips before he presses them on yours, holding you as close as possible even minutes after your orgasms.
It means everything to him, the way you look at him like he's worth something, how you take care of him despite knowing he's capable of taking care of himself, the surprise and happiness in your face when he drops to one knee, asking you to be his wife.
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