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Grif blinked, his eyes heavy with sleep. It wasn’t like him to wake up without the feet of his fellow Red Team soldiers jabbing into his side.
He’d been dreaming. It was hard to recall the specifics of his dream, but he’d woken up a pounding in his chest, a feeling of terror creeping up his spine, and an overwhelming urge to check on the warmth curled up next to him.
He turned to the side, relief flooding his senses as he verified that Simmons was still there, unharmed and undisturbed.
A soft smile crept onto Grif’s face, one that he didn’t try to suppress anymore. Simmons’s auburn hair was spread out on his pillow like a halo, framing his face. He’d allowed it to grow out after years of “regulation length,” something that Grif was eternally grateful for. Simmons looked beautiful with longer hair - more like himself, and less like the person he’d been forcing himself to become.
Grif’s eyes traced the other man’s features, sharp and familiar. Moonlight filtered through their room’s small window, illuminating Simmons’s face softly, each edge and curve glinting. His freckles had become more visible, after long hours spent in Blood Gulch’s merciless Sun. Grif liked to count them, draw up constellations as if they were stars.
Simmons’s expression was somewhat sulky, even in his sleep. His brows were furrowed, and Grif couldn’t help but laugh softly. It was equally in character and ridiculous.
Simmons stirred at the noise, not quite waking up. Grif leaned down, placing a kiss on his lover’s cheek. He’d waited so long to be able to do that.
Grif settled himself in bed, wrapping his arms around Simmons’s waist and pulling him in, cherishing the feeling.
“I love you, Sims,” he murmured. “You’re just sleeping, and I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more.