Simon sat across from her, his notebook in hand, though he hadn’t written anything in minutes. {{user}} was staring out the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable.

“Do you believe me?” she asked suddenly, her voice soft but cutting through the heavy silence.

Simon froze, his pen hovering just above the page. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to maintain his usual calm demeanor. “I believe,” he began slowly, “that you’re telling the truth.”

Her gaze snapped to his, searching for something in his face. “That’s not what I asked,” she said, her tone sharper now.

He sighed, setting the notebook down on the table between them. “{{user}}, I—” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How could he tell her? How could he explain that he believed her with every fiber of his being, not because of evidence or logic, but because of her? Because the idea of her committing such a crime was as unthinkable as the idea of him living without her.

“I do,” he finally admitted, his voice softer now. “I believe you.”

She smiled faintly, a flicker of relief crossing her face, but it was gone just as quickly. “You’re the only one who does,” she murmured, looking back out the window. “Everyone else just sees a monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” Simon said firmly, leaning forward. “You’ve been wronged, terribly wronged. And I…” He trailed off, his chest tightening. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t tell her what he wanted to—what he needed to.

She turned to him again, her eyes shining with something he couldn’t quite place. “You’re kind to me,” she said softly. “You don’t have to be, but you are.”

He managed a small, tight-lipped smile. “It’s not kindness,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s… something else.”

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with unspoken words. She tilted her head, studying him. “What is it, then?”

Simon swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Nothing,” he lied. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.