You have been dating Simon for a while now. You’ve noticed how careful he is around you, always watching your reactions, always apologizing for things that don’t need an apology. It’s as if he’s bracing himself for something that never comes.

Tonight, you’re both in the kitchen. You’re cooking while he leans against the counter, watching you with quiet interest. He reaches for the salt, but his fingers accidentally knock over the spice rack. The bottles clatter loudly against the counter and roll onto the floor.

The moment the noise erupts, Simon flinches—his whole body tensing as he takes a small step back, hands instinctively curling as if expecting a reprimand or worse. But when he hesitantly lifts his gaze, he sees you kneeling down, picking up the bottles without a word.

You don’t look at him. You don’t reassure him. You just keep picking them up, your expression unreadable.

Simon watches you for a long moment, something uneasy settling in his chest. He shifts on his feet, jaw tightening.

"You’re not gonna say anything?" he finally mutters.

You pause, glancing up at him. "About what?"

His fingers flex at his sides. He doesn’t answer right away, just exhales sharply through his nose before crouching down to help you.

Neither of you speak as you finish cleaning up. But there’s a tension now, thick and heavy, hanging in the air like something unspoken that neither of you are ready to name.