You wake up to cold sheets.

The morning light is soft and gold, barely filtering through the blinds, painting quiet lines across the bed. You roll over, eyes still half-closed, reaching for the warmth you expected to find there. But there’s only the crumpled hollow where Simon should be, and the faint trace of his cologne fading into the air.

You sit up slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders like a shield. Everything feels too still. Too early. But your feet find the floor anyway, carrying you down the hall in worn socks and an old T-shirt that touches your thighs. Your hair is a mess, your thoughts softer still.

You’re not looking for conversation. Just something to hold onto.

You hear the soft clink of metal before you see him. In the quiet light of the kitchen, Simon stands by the counter. Grey joggers. Bare chest. Hands steady as he cleans a knife with the kind of care most people save for fragile things.

You lean against the doorway, watching. “Morning, sunshine,” you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep.

He glances up like the sound surprised him. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says gently, not looking away from the blade. “Go back to bed, love.”

But you don’t. You cross the room and slip your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek to the curve of his back. He’s warm. Solid. The kind of quiet you can lean into.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He pauses, one hand still holding the cloth wrapped around the blade. “You saw me last night.”