SHES BAAAACKKKK
The envelope was yellowed and creased, tucked deep between old folders at the bottom of a locked drawer Simon thought you’d never touch. You hadn’t meant to snoop. He’d asked you to find an old passport copy for a security clearance form. That’s all it was supposed to be. Not this.
You held the folded letter like it might burn you.
“DNR – DO NOT RESUSCITATE,” typed at the top in all-caps. Bold. Final.
Your breath caught. The world narrowed to the thudding of your heart in your ears. You skimmed the form again, fingers trembling, like maybe you’d misread it the first time. But no. His signature was at the bottom. Simon Riley. Dated two years ago. Long before you.
You sat down slowly on the edge of his bed—your bed, now—letter limp in your hands.
yabadabadoooo
The front door clicked open an hour later. He called out like he always did, low and casual, like he wasn’t wired to scan every room first.
“Back, love. You find the passport?”
You didn’t answer.
He stepped into the bedroom, still in his black jacket, hair slightly damp from the rain. His eyes fell on the letter in your hands. His whole body changed. Subtle, but you knew him well enough to feel the tension shoot through his spine.
“…Where’d you find that?”
Your voice cracked before you could stop it. “You signed a DNR?”
Simon exhaled slowly. He didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” It came out smaller than you intended.
He scratched the back of his neck. “Wasn’t expecting anyone to find it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He didn’t sit. Just stood there near the door like he was ready to run.
“I signed it after Manchester,” he said quietly. “After the last op. Things were bad. I figured if I ever went out… there’s no point pulling me back for what would be left.”
You shook your head. “That’s not—Simon, that’s not just something you casually keep in a drawer. It’s your life.”
“It was my choice.”
“Was.”
Your voice cracked, and that was what did it. His whole expression softened. That damn, unreadable mask slipped a little.
You stood, shoved the paper into his hands. “You really thought no one would care if you died? Not even your team? Not Johnny?”
He looked away. “Didn’t think about it like that.”
“And now? What about me?”
He was silent.
Your voice dropped. “Would you still let yourself die now, if something happened? Would you still want them to just… let you go?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Fear. Regret. Guilt.
“I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he said finally. “You. A life. I signed it ‘cause I didn’t think anyone would miss me if I was gone. Just another dead man with too much blood on his hands.”
You took a step closer. “You’re not just that anymore.”
His hand reached for your wrist before you could step away again. “I know.”
You swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you change it?”
“I forgot it existed. I don’t even think about dying anymore. Not like I used to.”
You didn’t speak. You didn’t have words for the tight ache in your chest, the thought of him just… letting go, letting the world take him without a fight because he thought he was disposable.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve shredded it a long time ago.”
You nodded, though your jaw was clenched tight. “I’m going to shower.”
He let go of your wrist slowly, eyes never leaving your face.
Later that night, you fell asleep curled into his side, arm draped over his ribs, your breath warm against his shoulder. Simon lay awake long after you slipped into soft, rhythmic breathing.
Guilt churned low in his chest like a stone.
He hadn’t meant for you to see that. Hell, part of him forgot it existed. But the real truth? Deep down, he still wasn’t sure he deserved to live—not if it meant someone had to suffer watching him bleed out on a gurney again, someone having to make a call, to fight to save someone who didn’t even fight for himself for half his life.
But then you cried over that stupid letter. You sat on the edge of the bed like it had cracked something inside you. You looked at him like he mattered.
And that scared the shit out of him.
Simon carefully eased himself out from under you, tucking the blanket up to your chin. You didn’t stir. Your lashes fluttered once, mouth soft in sleep.
He walked out barefoot, quiet, the house still. In his office, he pulled open the same drawer, stared down at the now-crumpled DNR.
His name. His choice. His cowardice.
He picked it up, turned it over once, twice. Then he grabbed his phone.
(i forgot where i put my divider.)
The printer hummed quietly in the corner an hour later.
Simon sat at the desk, new paperwork in front of him. He filled it out slowly, precisely, the same way he always did with death-related forms.
But this time, the box was unchecked. The line read:
“Resuscitate: YES. Consent to Life-Saving Measures: YES.”
He set the pen down.
In the quiet, he looked toward the doorway like he might hear your voice again. He didn’t.
Still, he whispered into the silence, voice rough and sure:
“…Yeah. I’ve got something to fight for now.”
