The argument had settled into an uncomfortable silence, but the weight of it still clung to the air. Accusations, sharp and cutting, had been thrown carelessly as if it was routine now. It always came back to you. Somehow, everything did. Your fault. Always your fault.

Simon had been there the whole time. Invited over by your brother for dinner, he’d stayed quiet through dinner, only offering brief, polite words when spoken to. But his eyes had lingered on you. He watched the way your shoulders curled inward each time another verbal jab landed. He saw the way you stopped making eye contact, the way you shrank when they piled the blame on you.

When you finally left the table, no one called after you. No one cared when you quietly slipped outside into the cold, clutching your arms around yourself. The air burned, but it was better than staying inside, suffocating beneath their disappointment.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Then the door slid open behind you. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, crunched on the frost-bitten grass. Simon. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood beside you, a solid, unshakable presence in the bitter night.

Silence. He didn’t push.

After a minute, he shifted closer, his broad form blocking some of the cold. “S’not right.” Another pause. Then, quieter, “You know that, yeah?” More silence. His head tilted slightly like he was considering something. “They get bored of blaming you, or that just an everyday thing?”

Still no answer. He didn’t seem to mind. His tone never changed - still flat, still steady - but there was an edge to it. Like he didn’t like what he’d seen.

“Figured.” Another pause. His hands were busy lighting a cigarette, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. “Doesn’t sit right with me.”

A long stretch of quiet. He didn’t leave, though. No pity. No forced comfort. Just the simple, blunt truth. And somehow, that made it hit harder.

“Y’need a minute, or you wanna walk?” He didn’t clarify where, just away. Away from them. Away from it.