Simon had always been the shield. When you were children, the house had felt like a battlefield, every corner holding its own kind of danger. Your father’s footsteps in the hall were enough to make your stomach twist, but Simon would always step between you and the storm. He carried bruises so you wouldn’t have to, and even in those years when he was too young himself to carry such weight, he never hesitated. You grew up in the shelter of his presence, and in return, he grew into the habit of watching over you as though it was stitched into his very bones.

The two of you shared a closeness few could understand. Nights whispering to each other through thin walls, mornings sneaking out just to catch a bit of peace, the small victories of laughter in a house where laughter wasn’t meant to exist. Even now, long after you’d both built separate lives, those memories lingered like scars you didn’t want to fade.

Adulthood had scattered you into different places—different roofs, different routines. Still, neither of you had let go of the bond. You met often, sometimes in noisy cafés, sometimes in quiet walks where words weren’t even needed. It wasn’t obligation that kept you connected—it was the certainty that no one else could ever really understand what you’d both come through.

The doorbell rang, sharp against the silence of your home. The sound didn’t startle you. If anything, it settled something inside you, the way only one person’s presence could. A voice followed, low and unmistakable, with that mix of gruffness and warmth that belonged only to Simon.

“Open up.” He called, a wry smile threading through his tone.

“Don’t make me stand out here all day.”

And then the door opened.