Simon stands close—too close—his mask pushed up just enough to show the tension in his jaw, the way his lips part like he’s weighing every word before speaking. His voice is low, careful, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it.

“I can be whatever you want,” he says, his voice steady. “Just tell me, and I’ll be that for you.”

You meet his gaze, something twisting deep in your chest at the way he looks at you—like you’re some dream just out of reach.

“You’re dumb,” you say, softer than you meant to.

Simon exhales, a quiet huff, a soft laugh. “I could be that,” he murmurs.