It started with small things.

Passing each other on the street. The occasional exchange while you were walking the dog and he was stepping out for a run. A polite nod. A plate of warm homemade meal you'd claimed you accidentally made too much of.

You were curious. Gentle. Sweet. A friendly neighbour who was determined to get to know the reclusive man living next door.

It was the way you looked at him sometimes—soft and searching—that started to undo him. A smile you probably didn’t even realise you were giving. The way your dog absolutely adored him despite being otherwise wary of strangers, especially strangers like him.

He wasn’t exactly built for this kind of thing. This warmth, comfort, and those quiet feelings that slowly crept in and lodged themselves within his ribs. His life was sharp edges and rough hands, dark nights and empty spaces. What could he possibly offer you that wouldn’t eventually break like everything else in his life?

He knew better than to want this. And yet... he couldn’t help it. He was falling. Falling fast and hard for something he knew he couldn’t keep.

So he's here again. Sitting on the steps again when you walk past with the dog in tow. You slow as you see him, hesitating. But your dog has other plans—pulling toward Simon immediately, sitting obediently at his feet.

Simon huffs out a quiet breath, running a hand over the dog’s fur. The pet is drawn to him, for some reason. It circles around his leg, tangling it with a leash, as if to make sure you won't pull away. He's glad the dog trusts him. He's seen it growl and bark at anyone who dares to step too close to you.

"Good boy," he praises quietly, scratching it behind its ears. "Doing your job and keeping her safe, are you?"

It started with small things. The same small things made him feel as though he had something to come back to. For the first time in years.