Simon had always been there. Before the boyfriend. Before the breakup. Before the mess. He was your best friend first—long before things got complicated in late-night touches and gasped maybes. And now, after all that, he was still here. Still loyal. Still Simon.

Which is exactly why he was leaning against your kitchen counter like he owned the place, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, gaze leveled on your boyfriend like he was another target on a range.

“Didn’t know they let IT guys wear loafers now,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to your boyfriend’s shoes like they’d personally offended him.

You shot him a look from the stove. “Simon.”

“What?” he said, deadpan. “Just lookin’ out for ya. Can’t chase down a threat in those.”

Your boyfriend chuckled nervously, sipping his water. “I, uh—don’t usually need to chase threats.”

Simon tilted his head, like he’d expected that answer. “No. I suppose not.”

The air thickened.

He was doing it again—hovering like smoke, haunting your space with quiet judgment. Best friend or not, Simon’s presence came with gravity. And lately, it pulled harder than ever.

“You two hang out a lot,” your boyfriend said, not quite hiding the edge in his voice.

Simon didn’t even blink. “Been doin’ that since before you knew their name, mate. Don’t worry, I know all their tells.” He took a slow sip of his tea. “When they're upset. When they're lying. When they're settlin’.”

You froze, hands tightening on the spatula.

The boyfriend swallowed. “I don’t think—”

“Didn’t ask,” Simon cut in smoothly, still not looking away. His voice was low, cold. “But hey—long as they're happy, I’m happy. You happy, luv?”

Your eyes met his. Something in his tone—not quite mocking, not quite sincere—left your stomach hollow.

And then he smiled. Just a flicker, cold and sharp.