141 had claimed Simon’s living room ever since he bought the place.

It started innocently enough, with a “quick drink after training,” as Price said, which, of course, turned into pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, half a case of beer gone, Gaz talking too loud, Soap laughing too hard, and you curled up in the corner of Simon’s couch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

It wasn’t even that late, but the exhaustion from the week was settling into your bones.

It was a good night, but as the minutes passed, you started noticing this slow chill setting into your bones. Your fingers were getting colder, your toes were basically numb, and you had to tuck your hands inside the sleeves of your shirt just to feel like you could function.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, but it was practically useless, more aesthetic than practical, and definitely something Simon had bought thinking, yeah, that looks fine, without once considering whether it could actually warm a person. The man was immune to the concept of “cold,” so of course he thought it was enough.

He noticed before you could pretend hard enough that everything was fine.

Of course he did. Simon had this almost irritatingly perceptive thing going for him, where he’d pick up on the way your shoulders twitched or how you curled your fingers or the fact that you were hugging yourself a little bit too tightly.

He didn’t comment as he quietly stood up and walked down the hall, and when he came back, he had a hoodie in his hand.

One of his hoodies.