Chapter Text
Routine is important.
At least, that's what Simon's therapist says. Emma insists that routine will help him stay grounded in his body, in reality. Simon doesn't know if he believes her.
Either way, Simon wakes at five every morning without an alarm, showers, drinks a protein shake, takes his meds, and leaves his shithole apartment for the one block walk to the Taste of Eden coffee shop. On his off days, he walks another block to the library to work on his online degree. He goes to talk therapy. He goes to physical therapy. He goes to the gym. Rinse, repeat.
It's not much, but it's something. It's more than the vast abyss of depression that Emma is helping him crawl out of.
"You're late," Ava yells as he clocks in.
"I'm never late," Simon grumbles as he pulls his apron on. "You're just early."
"You know I hate talking to customers, that's what I have you for." Ava rolls her eyes, the crystalline iris of her prosthetic catching the light. "If I had to ring up orders, I would cut your pay."
"Lucky for you, I'm not fucking late." Simon turns on the ancient, godforsaken POS system and counts the drawer. "Unlock the door."
The morning rush is mostly regulars, orders Simon could ring up in his sleep. The shop whirs and buzzes with chatter and the familiar hiss of the espresso machine. The bell over the door rings with each new patron, a tiny accommodation that Ava would never admit she made. No one can surprise him here.
"Good morning, Simon."
"Good morning, Mrs. Luiz. The usual?" Simon rings up her small drip and blueberry muffin through muscle memory, already clicking the button for exact change.
"You're such a sweet boy, remembering my order." The tiny old lady smiles, eyes wrinkling even more. "I hope you have a lovely day."
She puts a dollar in the tip jar, like she does every morning.
Routine is important.
Then, a new face walks in. And God, what a fucking face.
The newcomer is tallish, based on the doorframe. His coat is bright cartoon character yellow, only barely protecting his worn-in khakis and blue dress shirt. A navy beanie tops dark blonde hair, and big blue eyes peer through rimless glasses that have seen better days.
"Yeah, Rocky, I know. I know I'm running late, but I will be there in time for homeroom so just give me a minute." His phone is pressed to his ear, despite the air-pod case dangling from his keys. "Stratt knows I'm on my way. No, the line at Starbucks defies comprehension. I'm trying a local place. Don't worry, I'll make sure they burn your roast, you heathen."
Simon is staring.
Simon is staring, and eavesdropping, and he needs to pay attention to his fucking job before Ava notices.
When he finally drags his attention away from the beautiful train wreck at the back of the line, the regular in front of him is smirking.
"Iced vanilla chai," she says, like she's said it before. "You good?"
"I'm fine."
By the time Mr. Yellow Coat makes it to the front of the line, Simon has gotten his shit together.
(Externally, at least.)
"Good morning, what can I get started for you?"
"Good morning..." Blue eyes flick down to his name tag. "Simon. Can I get a large double shot oat latte, a medium Earl Grey, and a medium of the darkest roast you've got?"
"Large double shot oat latte, a medium Earl Grey, and a medium black diamond, got it." Simon pauses. "Can I get a name for the order?"
"Grace. Ah, Ryland Grace, but everyone calls me Grace, or Mr. Grace, or, I guess, Dr. Grace technically. No one calls me doctor anymore." Mr. Dr. Ryland Grace scrubs a hand over his face. "Just Grace is fine."
Simon can't fight the edge of a genuine smile. He types "just grace" into the POS.
"Just Grace, got it. Ava will call it out there at the end of the counter when it's ready. Cash or card?"
Grace pays with cash and drops his almost five dollars in change into the tip jar. He's already at the end of the counter before Simon manages to say thank you.
Simon forces himself to do his fucking job instead of just staring at Grace like a creep. You'd think Simon had never seen a handsome man before.
"Thanks guys, see you tomorrow!" Grace says cheerily on his way out the door. "Bye Simon!"
Ava has the rare mercy to wait until the door closes behind him before she parrots "Bye Simon" in a terrible, singsong voice.
"I hate you."
"I know."
...
After that first day, Grace is remarkably consistent. And just like that, Simon has a new part of his routine.
Wake up, eat, shower, walk to work, wait to see Grace walk in at 7:50ish
Piece by piece, Simon learns more about him. He hoards each fact like gold, selfish and covetous and secret.
(He hasn't felt this pull in a long fucking time.)
"Good morning, Simon! The usual, please."
"Got it." Simon takes his time entering the order, so he can snatch just a moment with Grace. "Good day yesterday?"
"Oh gosh, yes, the kids had presentations and..." Grace never needs more encouragement to talk about his students, all the way up to tapping his card. "I'll get out of your hair. Have a nice day, Simon!"
Grace is a middle school science teacher. He currently teaches 6th, but they're talking about moving him to 7th next year. The other coffee is for his best friend, the engineering teacher, and the tea is for his wife, the computer science teacher.
(Grace never mentions a Mr. or Mrs. Grace, and he doesn't have a ring on. Not that Simon noticed.)
"You could ask him out, loser." Ava is tired of his bullshit.
"I'm at work," Simon grumbles. "You're my boss. This is harassment."
"So? He's cute, and you're into him."
"Shut up. I'm gonna call HR."
"You're going to report me to me? Good luck."
Grace becomes a fixture at the shop, often camping out to work or read. The corner table under the solar system painting becomes his unofficial reserved seat. There's an outlet and plenty of space to spread out.
"I don't want to be in the way," Grace explains on his second Saturday visit. He has notes scribbled on roughly eighty-seven pieces of paper, a different color pen behind each ear. "If I need to go, I can."
Simon sets a muffin on the table.
"Ava told me to give this on the house, so I don't think we're going to kick you out anytime soon."
"Thank you," Grace says with a smile that puts the sun to shame. "I love cranberry walnut."
Simon knows.
Sometimes, people join him at his little corner table. Rocky and Adrian are the first.
"Simon, this is Rocky and Adrian. Rocky and Adrian, this is Simon."
Simon waves awkwardly. Rocky is a short, stocky man with coke-bottle lenses, and Adrian is a statuesque woman with bright aqua hair. There are matching streaks in Rocky's short curls. Cute.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Simon." Rocky insists on shaking his hand. His voice is low, rumbling, warm. "We've heard so much."
"Oh my gosh, shut up." Grace looks like he wants to melt into the floor. "Just order. You guys are the worst."
"I'd like a medium Earl Grey," Adrian says, her voice melodic and kind. "And one of those cranberry muffins that Grace raves about but never brings me."
Grace has the wherewithal to look sheepish. Simon shouldn't find a middle-aged man this cute.
There are other science teachers, a loud Russian woman and a studious-looking black man who sits way too close for Simon's liking - DuBois.
Grace is just so fucking outgoing and kind, Simon can't tell if any of them are his partner. What is it like to be so earnest, so affectionate?
"Green isn't your color," Ava says a month after Grace first walked in.
Simon stops burning a hole in DuBois' stupid tweed jacket with his mind long enough to flip her off below the counter.
Bit by bit, Simon is drawn in to the orbit of Ryland Grace.
"Good morning, Simon! Good morning, Ava!" Grace comes bounding in around ten on Saturdays, something about respecting his right to rest.
"Good morning, Grace," they say together, Ava smirking at Simon from behind the cooler door.
"Rocky and Adrian took the kiddo to Adrian's mom's place for the weekend," Grace says as he gets to the front of the line. "Just my latte today. Did you have a nice Friday?"
Simon spent his day off in the library and talking to his therapist, per usual.
"Good enough. I have exams next week, since it's the end of the semester." It's more than Simon usually says, but he can't help it. Grace is just so personable.
Grace starts to say something, but a loud boom echoes outside.
Simon hits the ground, ears ringing. All he feels is pain.
There's metal and dust everywhere, he can taste blood. Where's Jack? Someone is screaming.
Something is burning, the sick twist of flesh. Where's Jack?
Fuck, why won't they stop screaming?
Simon tries to cover his ears, but he can only raise one hand. The other is trapped, he's trapped, he's —
"...backfiring, Simon, just a truck." The woman talking puts something cold on his neck. "You're safe. It was a truck backfiring."
Ava.
Fuck, ow. Anti-slip mats make terrible landing pads.
The smell of coffee rushes in, chasing away the smell of explosives. His mouth still tastes like blood. He must have bit his cheek when he hit the deck.
"Fuck." Simon takes a deep breath, then another. He sits up with his back to the cabinets, knees to his chest. "Fuck, sorry."
Did he hit his head? There's an ache he didn't start the day with.
"Orient yourself," Ava says sternly. She hands him a cup of water. "Name, year, location."
"Simon Fisher, 2025, the coffee shop." Simon swishes water in his mouth and spits pink back in the cup. "San Francisco."
She flashes a penlight at his eyes, and he follows her finger obediently.
(They're too used to this. They've done this too many times.)
"You don't seem concussed." Ava sits back on her heels. "A truck backfired."
"It felt like -" the IED, the transport, the desert.
"I know. I'm calling David in, take the rest of the day. No excuses, it isn't optional."
"I can walk him home," someone says from the other side of the counter. "You said he lives a block away?"
"Grace is going to walk home with you when you're ready. Again, not optional."
Simon gets on his feet without letting Ava help. This is embarrassing enough as it is.
Grace is still standing at the counter, peering over at him as he finds his balance.
"You hit your head," he says, voice carefully soft. "Do we need to go to urgent care?"
"No doctors," Simon snaps, shaking. "I'm going home."
"Grace is going with you," Ava says firmly. She takes his apron before he can argue, trading it for his bag. "Now fuck off, and don't come back until Monday."
"You can tell me to go, and I will," Grace says as soon as the door closes behind them. "Ava isn't my boss, after all. But with the way you hit your head, I don't think walking home alone is a good idea. You might be concussed, there might be a second wave of the episode. I would prefer—"
"Grace. You can walk me home," Simon says lowly. "It's okay."
"Oh. Good. I didn't want to pressure you." Grace falls into step just slightly behind him and to the left, between Simon and the street. He's so fucking thoughtful, Christ.
Isn't that a fucking first.
Simon's father pressured him to get baptized, to go on his Mission, to go to BYU and marry some nice Mormon girl. The US government gave him an excuse to leave Utah, but they pressured him to kill in the name of his country. Even Ava pressured him to act like a normal fucking human.
"Thank you," Simon says, so quiet he thinks Grace might not hear him.
"You're welcome," Grace says gently. "Lead the way. Let's get you home."
☆☆☆
Marissa is going to laugh at Grace when they have dinner next week. Just two days ago she was calling him a pathetic mess for not just asking the hot barista out, and here he is following the man back to his apartment.
Okay, so maybe this isn't what Marissa had in mind. Still, it has to count for something.
Besides, Grace isn't even sure if the little sprout of a feeling he's been nursing for almost two months is romantic or sexual in nature. He just wants to be Simon's friend.
"You're thinking really loudly," Simon says, fumbling for his keys and fighting to get the door open.
Grace makes a note to ask Rocky to borrow some WD-40.
"Sorry, that happens sometimes. I get fixated on things, and I ruminate, and then I ramble about the ruminations." Grace stops at the threshold. "You only agreed that I could walk you home. I shouldn't barge in."
"What are you, a fucking vampire? Just come in, fuck. Don't block the door."
Shoot, PTSD, right. No limiting egress.
Grace has to stop himself from saying "language," because he would walk into the ocean out of embarrassment.
"Can I get you something to drink? I can make coffee, but I don't have all the fancy espresso shit."
"Coffee would be nice, thank you."
The apartment is small, dingy and dilapidated in the way all old apartments are, but it's neat and clean enough. The room is mostly neutral tones, vintage furniture and houseplants and books taking up most of the space. Grace tries not to be too obvious as he scans the living area for clues on his new acquaintance.
Simon starts the coffee maker and pulls out two mugs.
"You can sit. That's why I have chairs."
Grace laughs, too loud, and sits at the dining table that was made sometime in the Nixon administration.
It's weird, seeing Simon outside of the coffee shop. He doesn't even have an apron on. It's nice, watching him bustle around as the coffee brews. He's remarkably steady for someone who was on the ground not an hour ago.
Simon pours them both a cup of coffee, adding normal milk to one and oat milk to the other. Grace tries not to be endeared at the small gesture, but he fails immediately.
"Here, passable drip coffee, since my episode kept you from your latte."
"Thank you." Grace waits for Simon to sit. "You know you don't owe me anything, right? I walked you home because I wanted to."
Something dark passes over Simon's handsome, scarred face, just for a moment.
"I know." Simon sips his own coffee like he needs something to do with his hands. Hand. "Drink your fucking coffee."
Grace drinks his fudging coffee. It's a really nice roast, not the coal tar Rocky prefers.
"This is really good, thank you." Grace looks at Simon over the rim of his cup. "How's your head?"
"I haven't had any complaints," Simon deadpans. There's a twinkle in his eye, the edge of a smirk on his mouth.
"You know what I mean," Grace says, ignoring the blush staining his cheeks. "Your injury, smart stuff."
Simon puts down his mug to gingerly touch the back of his head. He pulls the hair tie out, silky black waves tumbling to his shoulders.
Grace absolutely does not choke on air in the face of his beauty. Nope.
He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at Simon until he can breath again.
"It's tender, but nothing Tylenol can't handle." Simon runs his fingers through his hair. "Do you want to do a neuro check, too?"
Grace can feel his blush spread. He probably looks like a blonde tomato with glasses.
"Nope. You're grown. I'm sure you know your own limits." Something occurs to him. "Wait, how old even are you? Unless that's like the rudest thing in the world to ask. Feel free to tell me to take a hike, I wouldn't want to make you uncomf—"
"I'm thirty-six," Simon says bluntly.
"So definitely grown enough to decide if you need a neuro check," Grace says with a nod.
God, he doesn't usually do this poorly in conversation.
Outside the apartment windows, someone slams a car door. Simon almost jumps out of his seat. The dulcet tones of a domestic disagreement filter through the wall.
"I should take my meds," he says flatly. "They... they make me really drowsy."
Grace can't read minds, but he knows what he wants.
"I can stay? Keep watch, or whatever?" He fidgets with his mug. "If that isn't overstepping."
Simon looks at him for a long moment. Grace can't read the emotion in his face, a brand new something he hasn't seen before in their budding friendship.
"You would stay?" He sounds baffled.
Honestly, Grace surprised himself with the offer, but he meant it. All he can see is the stark flash of terror in Simon's eyes after the backfire, the pained wail as he hit the ground, the tightness in his shoulders that still hasn't eased.
He looks so strong, but he's so painfully vulnerable right now.
"I'll stay." Grace gestures to his backpack by the door. "I can work here just as well, and you won't have to be alone."
Simon nods sharply, lips pressed in a thin line.
"Thank you." He makes it halfway to the bedroom door, pauses. "If you need to wake me, do it from my right side and then move out of the way. I'm mostly deaf in the left ear, and I come up swinging sometimes. WiFi password is on the router."
"Noted." Grace pauses. "Sweet dreams."
Simon grunts in response, the bedroom door clicking shut.
Grace grabs his bag and spreads out his planner and laptop. Like with most things he can't stop ruminating on, he begins a list.
Things I know about Simon:
-
Coffee shop cashier
-
Handsome
-
Likes plants - botany degree
-
Prefers documentaries to movies
-
Good memory for regular customers
-
Has not mentioned family
-
Traumatized
-
Trigger: loud, sudden noises
-
Mostly deaf in left ear
-
Comes up swinging if awoken
It isn't much, the scraps of a person Grace gleaned from little conversations during slow periods. But here he is, in Simon's apartment while he sleeps.
What the fuck is even happening right now?
...
When Simon emerges from the bedroom, sleep-rumpled and groggy, Grace can't help but smile.
"Good morning," Grace waves, like a freaking dork. "Did you sleep okay?"
"I did." Simon seems surprised by it. "You stayed."
"I stayed," Grace repeats. "I didn't want you to wake up alone."
Simon's brow furrows, skin puckering around the scars that mar the left side of his face.
"Why are you being so nice to me." It comes out gruff, blunt. "You barely know me."
Grace tries not to feel rejected.
He does not succeed.
"Because if I was scared, I wouldn't want to wake up alone." Grace shoves his glasses back into place and starts packing his bag. "I can go, since you're feeling better."
"Wait, Grace— " Simon scrubs his hand over his face, ruffling his increasingly shaggy beard. "I didn't mean... look, I'm bad at this."
Grace shoulders his bag and puts on his shoes.
"I'm going home, since I know you're okay." Grace fumbles to tie his stupid fudging converse laces. "I'm sorry I intruded."
"Grace." Simon follows him to the door. "Do you want to stay? We could order food, since we both skipped lunch."
Grace looks back at Simon, sleep-rumpled and soft and vulnerable in this light.
"Can we get Indian food?"
"Sure, I'm good with whatever." Simon seems to relax, just a little.
And so Grace ends up eating lamb biryani tucked in the corner of Simon's worn-in leather couch, watching Simon watch Blue Planet.
Simon stops him on the way out the door.
"Could... could I get your number? Just in case."
Grace absolutely does not blush. Friends exchange numbers all the time.
"You sound like one of your students," Marissa says on the phone while he bikes home. "You so have a crush on this guy."
"We're friends, I think. I like having friends," Grace counters.
"You're too smart to be this stupid, Ryland."
...
Grace is a creature of habit. It's a defense mechanism.
He does Sunday dinners with Adrian, Rocky, and little Artemis. He goes to the same coffee shop every morning to get the same drink. He spends Thursday nights at the same pub with Marissa, same table, same order. He brings donuts to department meetings on Tuesdays.
He builds structure into his classes, builds routines into his life, builds relationships carefully.
"You love hard, baby," his mom told him once, a thousand years ago. He remembers sobbing into her sweater over his one middle school crush not liking him back. "You love hard, and some people don't cherish that enough."
So Grace keeps a large circle of acquaintances and a much smaller circle of friends, and he's content.
It's habit.
"Good morning, Carl." Grace high-fives the assistant principal like he does every morning. "How was your weekend?"
"Good, yours?"
"Great," Grace says with a bright smile. "Good morning, Ms. Chandra."
Mary smiles brightly at him from behind the reception desk.
"Good morning, Mr. Grace." Her voice is pleasant, as usual. "Did you submit your robotics club announcements, or did Rocky?"
"Rocky did, check for his email." Grace snags a fun sized skittles from her candy bowl. "Thanks, Mary. Happy Monday!"
It isn’t even 8 am, and Rocky is already soldering when Grace brings them their drink.
"It's early for tinkering, Rock."
"I had ideas over the weekend, and Adrian hid my soldering gun at home after I caught a throw pillow on fire." Rocky flips the protective goggles up off of his normal bug-eye glasses. "Thank you for coffee. Did Simon like your new sweater?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask." Grace does not blush.
(Grace also does not think about how Simon's gaze possibly, maybe drifted down to his chest for a second longer than it has before. It's a good sweater.)
"Grace has eyes, yes? Use them." Rocky mocks him in the robot voice they usually only use with the kids in their club.
Except for when Rocky thinks Grace is being exceptionally stupid.
Adrian appears in the doorway, and Grace hands over her tea.
"Did Simon like the new sweater?" She asks primly. "It brings out your eyes."
Grace doesn't dignify the comment with a response, escaping down the hall toward his class.
☆☆☆
Simon is concerned.
It's Wednesday. It's already eight thirty.
Grace hasn't come in for his drinks.
"Who pissed in your lemonade?" Ava asks, not bothering to look up from the drinks she's working on.
"It's a school day, and Grace didn't come in." Simon doesn't panic. That would be absurd. "What if he's sick?"
Grace texted him the last time he was sick, though.
Texting. It's a thing they do now.
Wake up, eat, shower, walk to work, wait to see Grace walk in at 7:50ish. Text Grace on breaks. Watch the goofy animal videos Grace sends. Respond with enough lag to not look pathetic.
"I'm sure he's fine." Ava hands the drinks out and nudges Simon's shoulder. "Just text him, or you'll spiral that he got hit by a bus or something."
To Just Grace (8:37): You okay?
Smooth, Simon. So fucking smooth. He can't find the fine motor skills to manage more in his distress.
Simon pockets his phone and tries to find a rhythm taking orders again, but Grace's absence is impossible to ignore.
What if he's hurt? What if he's upset? What if he's getting coffee at a different shop from a barista with two working arms and 98% less trauma?
Emma is going to tell him he's being melodramatic, but Simon is experiencing more emotions than he had in years. He's entitled to melodrama.
From Just Grace (9:13 am): Slept through my alarms, was late to first block
From Just Grace (9:14 am): Sorry if I scared you. I'm okay
From Just Grace (9:14 am): It feels weird that I didn't see you. Is that weird? Ignore me if I'm being weird
To Just Grace (9:15 am): I'm glad you're okay.
Ava gives Simon the go-ahead to take his break after the rush dies down. Simon orders Grace's usual and heads toward GCMS before he can talk himself out of it.
"State your name and purpose," a pleasant British voice says when he hits the buzzer to enter the front office.
"Simon Fisher, delivery for Gr— for Mr. Grace?"
The door unlocks, and Simon makes a note to thank Ava for ordering the drink carriers with the handle on the last shipment.
"Good morning, Mr. Fisher," the receptionist says. The accent is real. She must be Mary. "I'll call Mr. Grace for you."
Simon sets the drink carrier on the counter.
"I can just drop it and go, I don't mean to intrude."
Mary waves him off, phone already to her ear.
"Mr. Grace? Yes, I have a delivery in the front office for you. Time sensitive." The receptionist pauses. "No, I'd rather you pick it up." Another pause. "That would ruin the surprise. Nothing bad."
Simon sits to wait in the most defensible chair, tucked in the corner with eye-lines to both office doors. Grace comes all but flying in, cardigan flapping behind him.
"You're being so secretive," Grace chides, glasses dangling from his ear. "I had to get Ms. Ilyukhina to watch my class."
"I thought you'd prefer to get this one yourself." Mary gestures to the counter, and Simon stands and waves awkwardly.
Grace lights up like a Christmas tree.
"Simon! You brought me coffee? Oh my gosh, you didn't have to do that."
Is he tearing up? Did Simon overstep? Fuck.
"You didn't get your coffee. I didn't want to throw off your routine," Simon explains gruffly.
"I can pay you ba—"
"No." Fuck, was that too loud?
Everyone's eyes go wide — Grace, Mary, another staff member, a mom dropping off a lunchbox.
"It's a gift," Simon explains, quieter.
Grace smiles, soft around the edges. "Thank you, Simon."
Simon escapes as soon as Grace leaves the office with the drinks, a flock of tweens in the hallway beyond the office giggling as he leaves.
From Just Grace (10:02 pm): Thank you for the drinks.
It comes with a selfie of Grace sipping the latte, the massive dork.
(Simon saves it as his contact image.)
...
Simon passes both of his final exams for fall semester. Grace invites him over for dinner to celebrate.
Simon wonders if it's a date for two seconds, catches his own reflection in a window, and shoves the idea aside. Grace could have anyone, why would he choose Simon?
He still takes way too long getting dressed, ending up in the usual jeans and t-shirt under his brown leather jacket.
(If he trims his beard and uses the hair oil that Grace said smelled nice one time, that's his business.)
"Hey, you found it," Grace says, door thrown open. "C'mon in."
Grace's home is open, airy, covered in gifts from students and pictures of family and friends. Warm neutrals and big windows turn what could be a tiny cottage into a cozy nest that screams Grace.
"Smells good," Simon notes, handing Grace his coat when asked. "Did you cook?"
"Adrian gave me her recipe for eggplant parmesan." Grace walks toward the kitchen, clearly expecting Simon to follow. "You said you were trying to eat more vegetables, and a little birdie told me you like Italian food."
"Does that little birdie have one good eye?" Simon asks flatly.
(Don't get hung up on Grace paying attention, don't read into this, don't be a fucking idiot.)
"She might." Grace gestures to the bar stools tucked under the island. "You said no allergies, but what about aversions?"
"I can eat anything."
Grace frowns, balancing a pan from the oven on a too-small hot pad.
"Sure, you can eat anything. But that doesn't mean you like it all." Grace puts his hands on his hips. "I know that you ate MREs or whatever, but it's important that we find joy in food when we can. There's actually studies—"
"Whatever you made will be perfect." Usually Simon just lets Grace ramble, but he can tell this one is off the tracks. "We can eat?"
"Yes!" Grace claps once, muffled by an oven mitt. "Can you hand me those plates?"
Which is how Simon finds himself eating one of the best meals he's ever had, watching Grace explains the project-based learning he's doing with the kids. He can't remember the last time he was this happy.
"...and I know the soda bottle terrarium is so beyond old-school, but not everything needs to have servos or coding to be educational." Grace practically glows when he talks about his kids, lit from within. "So I have them writing reports every day on progress, because science only counts if you write it down."
"Otherwise you're just fucking around with plants," Simon says between bites of eggplant. "And that's not best practices."
He picked up that little phrase when Grace sent a four minute voice note after a terrible professional development.
"Exactly!" He takes a second. Impossibly, Grace's smile grows. "Did you listen to the entire voice note after that nightmare of a seminar?"
"I pay attention to everything you send me," Simon says. Isn't that obvious? Doesn't everyone?
"You are a rare breed. I think even Rocky skims the journal articles I send them." Grace laughs, but it's rough around the edges.
"I thought the marine fungi article was really interesting," Simon says. "A really interesting crossover between your microbiology stuff and my botany studies."
"I know you're trying to decide on specialties. I thought you'd appreciate the ideas." Grace smiles. "You really do pay attention, huh?"
Simon can't help but smile back.
(The scarred flesh by his mouth pulls and puckers, reminding him exactly why he doesn't smile so broadly, not even at Grace.)
"I like listening," Simon admits, poking at his food. "I like knowing what you're thinking about."
"I... thank you," Grace says softly. He nudges Simon's leg under the table. "I'd like to know what you're thinking about too, sometimes."
It could be an opening, the beginning of something more, a chance to say "I'm thinking about you ninety percent of the time."
But Simon just gives a little smile, and takes another bite of eggplant.
"I'm thinking about how good this dinner is," he says finally. "You're a really good cook."
Grace laughs, and the hopeful bubble fizzes away.
"I'm good at following recipes. You'll have to thank Adrian for the recipe."
Later, in the doorway, Grace gently touches his wrist.
"I'm glad you came." Grace is leaning against the doorframe, Simon on the stoop. Ocean blue eyes look up at him through absurdly long lashes. "I know your exams weren't easy, and I'm proud of you."
"Thank you for asking me. I don't really..." Don't admit how pitiful your social life is, dumbass. "I need to get out more. So."
"You're welcome here," Grace says softly.
It would take nothing for Simon to close the gap, lean in, and kiss him. It would take everything for him to be confident enough.
He pulls his arm away, breaking contact. Grace startles, standing up straighter in the doorway.
"Thank you. I appreciate that." Silence falls. Simon feels the awkwardness seep into his bones. "I should probably get going. Ava has a family thing, so I'm working a double with David tomorrow."
"Right, yeah, of course." Grace rubs the back of his neck, shoves his glasses on properly, fidgets with his cuffs. "Text me when you get home?"
Kiss me.
"I will." Simon takes a deep breath, forces enough of a smile to count. "Good night, Grace."
Kiss me.
This probably isn't even a date. Grace is just a really earnest friend.
Kiss me.
"Good night, Simon."
Fuck.