The rain’s steady, soft like static against the window. It drowns the world outside in grey and glass and makes the room feel smaller, quieter. The kind of quiet that presses in, settles behind your ribs, makes it hard to breathe right.

Simon doesn’t knock. He never does. The door creaks open, then clicks shut behind him. His footsteps are slow, deliberate—like he knows better than to speak.

He crosses the room without a word, shrugs off his jacket, and drops it over your shoulders before sitting on the edge of your bed. Close. Solid. Warm in that way only he knows how to be—without asking if he’s needed, just knowing.

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Didn’t like the look on your face earlier.” His voice is low. Unpolished. “Figured I’d stay ‘til it goes away.”

His hand finds yours under the blanket—rough fingers curling gently, firmly, around your wrist. Just enough pressure to remind you you're not drifting alone.

No more words. He doesn’t fill the air with anything unnecessary. He’s not here to talk. He’s here to stay. To keep the room quiet so your head doesn’t have to be.