Simon always sat a row ahead of you in psychology. He never made a big deal about it, never turned around to talk, but somehow, he always knew you were there. And when you needed him, he knew that too.

The midterm was dragging on, and despite all your studying, one question had you stuck. You hesitated, then lightly tapped Simon’s back. It was barely a touch, but he knew the drill. Without a word, he straightened in his seat, rolling his shoulders back and subtly spreading them—blocking the professor’s view like a shield. You called it “spreading his wings” once, and though he only huffed at the nickname, he never failed to do it when you needed him.

With his cover in place, you slid the tiny cheat sheet from your sleeve and glanced at the notes scribbled in small, careful handwriting. Just enough to jog your memory.

Simon didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch. He just sat there, steady as always, letting you do what you had to do. When you finished, you gave his arm a light tap—a silent thank-you.

As the professor walked past, Simon finally shifted, stretching his arms out lazily before settling back. He didn’t turn around, but you caught the slight tilt of his head, just enough for you to hear his low voice:

“Next time, just study more.”

You leaned forward slightly, a soft smile playing on your lips as you whispered, “Thank you, angel.”

His shoulders tensed for just a second before he let out a slow exhale. He didn’t turn to face you, but you could tell—he liked it. And he’d never admit it, but if you ever needed his “wings” again, he’d spread them without hesitation.