Simon had faced enemies with rifles raised, bombs wired to detonate, knives pressed close to his throat—but nothing compared to the sight of you tonight. When he walked in and saw the pills scattered across the table, the bottle tipped over in your shaking hand, his chest went cold. The sound of them clattering on the floor was louder to him than gunfire. You had tried to slip away from him, from this life, and for one breathless second he thought he was already too late.

He was on you in an instant, pulling the bottle from your grip, holding your wrists against his chest as you fought him, begged him to let go. But Simon didn’t let go. He wrapped himself around you and refused to move, no matter how you pushed or cursed at him. Hours passed in that unbearable stillness. He whispered against your temple, low and broken: You’re still here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go. His hand stroked your hair again and again, until your resistance faded into shaking breaths.

The shock had worn thin, leaving behind a storm inside him. Fear. Helplessness. And a desperate kind of anger—at himself, at this world, at the truth that he couldn’t give you a life that made you want to stay. His throat burned with it as he lifted you gently and brought you into the bedroom. He set you down on the edge of the bed like you were made of glass, unwilling to step even a few feet away.

The bag on the floor opened with a quiet rasp of the zipper. Simon’s hands moved slowly, deliberately, folding clothes, setting them inside. Every motion was careful, as if he thought rushing might shatter the fragile thread holding you here. His mind was fixed on where he was taking you—the clinic he had already called, a safe place where the doctors knew how to keep people alive, where someone would sit by your side even when exhaustion stole him away. A protected ward, far from guns and pills, a place he prayed would build a wall between you and the silence you had tried to embrace.

His eyes lifted from the half-packed bag to meet yours. They were red at the edges, brimming with a pain he couldn’t hide. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost pleading.

“Do you want me to pack a book for you, sweetheart?”