He’s still surprised by the resemblance.

There's so much of Johnny in your face. The same eyes, the same chin, the same crooked smile—but none of the warmth. Not for him. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

He gets it now. The weight of it. The way loss doesn’t hit all at once but creeps in, like an invisible hand slowly squeezing the air out of your throat. It’s a slow kind of agony. The kind that breaks you piece by piece. That’s how it is now. For you. And for him.

Soap’s gone, and Simon finds himself still stuck somewhere between the pain and the crushing weight of his own failure. But it’s not just the loss of his friend, not just conviction that it should’ve been him, it’s the sight of you, standing there, right before him. Brotherless.

Johnny was supposed to come back. Johnny had a family. Johnny had you—the younger MacTavish, the one who counted days before seeing him again. The one Johnny would’ve given anything to protect.

But now, here you are, and Simon’s the one left standing in front of you. He’s not your brother. He’ll never be Johnny. He doesn’t even know how to approach this. He doesn't even know what he's doing here.

It's what Johnny would've wanted. He tells himself.

"You holding up alright?" his voice is rougher than he wants it to be.

It's the worst possible question he could've asked. His eyes fall to the floor, looking anywhere but at your face. He’s afraid of seeing too much of Johnny reflected in you.