Simon Riley doesn't do "lazy." Not usually. But here he is, boots off, tactical vest gathering dust on the porch rail, sprawled in a hammock that creaks every time he shifts. The beer in his hand is lukewarm, condensation dripping slowly down the bottle. He doesn't care.

The summer sun filters through the trees in gold-dappled streaks, painting stripes across his forearm, his jaw, the edge of the mask he did take off an hour ago.

{{User}} is curled against his side, half-draped over him like a cat who's claimed the warmest spot. Their breathing is slow, synced to the lazy sway of the hammock. Simon's free hand rests on their hip. A thumb hooked possessively in a belt loop, anchoring them even in sleep.

He takes a sip of beer. Stares up through the canopy. Not a single thought in his head except:
This. This is enough.