Simon had never been meant for something soft. His childhood had carved that into him early—sharp edges, cold lessons, a home where warmth was rare and silence often meant safety. He learned to endure before he ever learned to feel. Love wasn’t something he recognized. It was a word, nothing more. Something other people had.

So when he met you, it didn’t make sense.

You were… different. Calm in a way that settled the noise in his head, warm in a way he didn’t trust at first. But you weren’t fragile. You could laugh loudly, move through rooms like energy itself, pull him into conversations he never thought he’d have. And somehow, he stayed.

You talked. A lot. Long evenings that turned into nights, nights that turned into something routine. Dating came naturally, even if he never said the word out loud. And then—without warning—he fell.

Hard.

It wasn’t clean or controlled. It was deep, consuming, unfamiliar. But it was real.

Things moved fast after that. Your apartment became a second home to him. He cooked for you, learned what you liked, memorized the way you moved around your own space. There were quiet moments tangled in bedsheets, slow and close, and others filled with urgency and heat that left the world outside irrelevant. It was balance. It was you and him.

Marriage followed like it had always been inevitable.

And then the house. Wooden floors that creaked softly under bare feet, warm light spilling from lamps in the evening, the quiet stretch of countryside wrapping around everything like a promise of peace. Life slowed down. It became steady. Safe.

For a while.

Because now, something had shifted.

Work had tightened its grip around Simon. Long hours turned into longer ones. Reports piled endlessly, each one replaced by two more. He stayed late, came home later, and even then—he didn’t really stop. The laptop was always there. The tension never left his shoulders.

And slowly, without intention, things disappeared.

The kiss against your forehead when he walked through the door. The way his arms used to circle you while you cooked or drew. The quiet touches. The casual reassurance. The closeness.

Even the words stopped.

No compliments. No lingering glances. No small gestures that once came without thinking.

Nothing.

And to you, it didn’t feel like stress.

It felt like rejection.

Like maybe he didn’t see you the same way anymore. Like maybe you weren’t… enough.

—

Simon sat at the kitchen table, the glow of his laptop the only light left in the room. Papers were scattered around him, unfinished sentences blinking back from the screen. He had sat down when the sun was still up. Now the windows reflected only darkness.

His brows were drawn together, eyes narrowed as he tried to force focus through the ache behind them.

The light flicked on.

It was sudden, sharp.

His head snapped up instantly, body reacting before thought. For a split second, irritation surged—ready, instinctive, the kind that came from exhaustion more than anger.

But then he saw you.

And everything in his face softened.

The tension didn’t vanish, but it loosened. His shoulders dropped slightly as he exhaled, one hand coming up to rub over his strained eyes, pressing into the furrow between his brows.

“...Sorry.” He muttered, voice rough, quieter now. Not a command. Not sharp. Just tired.

His gaze settled on you properly this time, really looking, as if reminding himself you were there.

“Did I wake you?”