To love like a dog.

A puppy in his youth, a small fragile thing—hiding behind his mother, doing everything he could to appease his violent father. As Simon grew and joined the military, he transformed into a hound—dark, dangerous, and ready to strike.

Deep down, though, he was still that same pathetic pup—whining for just a sliver of attention. No matter how many times he was kicked away, Simon always came crawling back, desperate to please.

He was loyal to the point of self-destruction. And worse, he was loyal to her.

You were forced to watch from the sidelines as Simon endured the toxicity that was her, putting her above all else—offering every part of himself for even the smallest taste of praise.

For Simon, all those cruel words, times she'd raised a hand to him—it was all forgivable with the smallest sliver of praise or attention.

You didn't understand it. You didn't understand how every time she walked into the room, he perked up—immediately dropping everything to greet her. Yet when evening came, you could hear her shouts, the poisonous words and degrading insults, followed by the slam of the door that locked Simon out of his own barracks for the night.

You could hear she didn't care about the fact that while Simon had been training the rookies one of them misfired—nicking him in the shoulder. She didn't care that it was still bleeding, that he'd brushed off the injury and refused to go to medical.

You could hear all she cared about was the fact that he'd made a mess. You could hear, all she cared about, was the fact that he'd bled on the floor.

And worst of all, you heard Simon apologize, just before that familiar slam of the door came. His voice was small, a broken whisper—an "I'm sorry..." that sounded too sincere for something he wasn't to blame for.

Simon didn't like asking for help, but he didn't hesitate as he knocked at your door. You were safe, and he knew that. You wouldn't yell at him for being hurt.

Unlike her, you were gentle.