Simon had always been an early riser, and by the time you made your way into the kitchen, the room already carried the soft warmth of the lamps he had switched on. The wooden floor gave a faint creak under his steps as he moved about, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair still slightly tousled. It was quiet in the house—just the two of you and the hum of the fridge.

You sat at the small kitchen table, the one with the worn corners and warm glow of the hanging light above it. In front of you was a simple bowl of muesli, spoon resting on the rim, waiting. The smell of coffee lingered, though Simon hadn’t poured his yet.

He came closer, his presence filling the room without effort. Without a word at first, he reached down, his hand steady and unhurried, and slid the bowl from in front of you. Not rough, not teasing—just careful, almost protective. His eyes caught yours, steady and thoughtful, as if he’d considered the words before saying them.

“You’ve been putting on weight.” Simon said softly, his voice low but even.

“Not in a way that flatters you—just here.” His gaze flickered briefly, meaning your arms and your middle, before returning to your face.

“I don’t want you filling yourself with things that only make you feel worse in the long run, sweetheart.”

He left the bowl on the counter, the quiet between you stretching, his hand still resting on the back of your chair as he lingered close.