Simon doesn’t mean to start keeping tabs on you. It just… happens.

He finds himself clocking roll call faster than usual, eyes scanning instinctively for your name, your shape, the way you carry yourself. He's relieved when he sees your still squared steady shoulders. Good. Still standing. Still here.

He tells himself that’s enough. It isn’t.

By the third day, he knows your schedule better than his own. Knows when you disappear between drills. Notices when you’re slower leaving briefings. Wonders, absently and obsessively, if you’ve been to the medbay yet. If you’ve told anyone. If you’re sick. If you’re scared.

If you’re alright.

He asks around carefully. Too carefully. “How’s the Sergeant doing?” he says once, like it’s a throwaway, like he hasn’t rehearsed the question in his head.

“She’s fine,” comes the answer. “Same as always.”

Same as always. Right. Price clocks him immediately.

“You’ve spoken to her lately?” Price asks later, casual but watching.

Simon shrugs, too stiff. “No.” Price’s eyebrow lifts the smallest fraction.

“She mention anything?” Simon adds, then curses himself internally.

“About you?” Price asks.

Simon doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to. Price just hums quietly and changes the subject, which somehow makes it worse.

At night, Simon lies awake staring at the ceiling, mind replaying the same impossible image on a loop. You in the doorway. The test on his desk. The door slamming. And then, unbidden, something else.

Small. Fragile. Real. His. Yours.

He wonders if you’ve felt it yet - not movement, of course - just the weight of knowing something’s there. Wonders if you look in the mirror differently. If your hand ever drifts to your stomach when no one’s watching.

Christ.

He wants to check on you properly. Wants to ask questions he has no right to ask. Wants to make sure you’re safe, that you're being careful.

Instead, he watches. He waits.