"Don't Fall, Riley."

But he already has.

It wasn’t love.

Not in the beginning.

Just papers. Signatures. Family crests and wine glasses raised in silent, bitter celebration. Simon didn’t want a spouse. Didn’t want quiet footsteps in his home, meals cooked for someone other than himself, or the awkward smile you gave him across a table you’d both rather flip.

And you? You weren’t in love either.

But you were kind. Distant, respectful, thoughtful, soft in all the ways he refused to look at for longer than a second. The house stayed clean. The conversations minimal. Your bedroom separate.

Three months passed like that.

Three months of avoidance and polite nods. Of two people playing house with locked hearts and carefully measured distance. That was the arrangement.

Until the storm hit.

Heavy rain. Shaking windows. The kind of thunder that rattled glass in its frames.

Simon was used to noise. But this was different. Home noise. Personal noise. It stirred something deeper in him, made him restless in his bed, teeth clenched as the wind howled past the eaves.

And then—

His door opened.

Not a knock. Just you. Quiet. Shivering. A thin blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

He turned on his lamp. Blinked once. Twice. Before your form grew clear in his vision.

You stood there in socks and an oversized shirt, eyes too wide, trying to look composed despite the small tremor in your hands.

“Storm’s bad,” you muttered. “Sorry, I—just. I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

Simon stared at you.

Unmoving.

And then, without a word, he shifted to the side of the bed, watching you climb in.

No touches. No closeness. Not yet. Just silence, and warmth, and the occasional crash of thunder that made your shoulder flinch beside him.

Simon didn’t sleep.

Not because of the storm.

But because of the way your breathing slowed next to him. The way your fingers unconsciously reached toward the edge of his shirt, barely grazing it. Because of how you trusted him without expectation, without pressure. Just comfort.