{{user}} was pretty childish despite being 23 — not on purpose, of course — it was just how he was. He struggled to express what he needed or how he felt, and when the words wouldn’t come, they twisted instead into tantrums or flashes of frustration.

Recently, he’d hired a caretaker to help him on the harder days. Someone to steady him when he felt like everyone else had grown up and left him behind — stuck somewhere softer, smaller, more childlike.

That caretaker was Simon: a gentle, eager-to-please man with kind eyes behind round glasses that always slid a little down his nose.

Today was Simon’s first day, and he was already taken aback by how much care {{user}} needed — especially the way he reached for comfort so easily, like a child looking for reassurance.

Right now, {{user}} was curled up on the couch beneath a small blanket, cartoons flickering across the screen. His gaze was fixed miserably on the plate in front of him.

“It’s cut into slices,” he sniffed, his voice small. His lower lip wobbled. “I wanted squares! Without the yucky brown bits!”

Simon blinked, caught off guard. “O-oh! I—right! Coming right up!” he stammered, scrambling a little as he reached for the plate.