It didn’t start like this.

It started quiet. Easy.

Late nights that bled into early mornings, conversations that stretched for hours without either of you noticing the time. Simon wasn’t good with words, but he stayed. That was how he showed it.

And you understood.

You always did.

You learned the spaces between his silences. Learned that a hand on your back meant stay, that him showing up—again and again—meant more than anything he’d never say out loud.

Years passed like that.

Not official.

Not defined.

But steady.

You built something in the in-between.

Shared keys that were never acknowledged. A drawer that slowly filled with your things. Nights that turned into routines—your routines. His place, your presence. A life that looked real from the outside, even if neither of you ever named it.

And every time it got close—

Too close—

Simon would pull back.

Not enough to leave.

Just enough to remind you there was a line you weren’t allowed to cross.

You tried, at first.

Soft questions. Careful conversations.

“What are we doing?”

“Where is this going?”

He’d deflect. Distract. Kiss you quiet. Change the subject like it didn’t matter.

So you adjusted.

Because you loved him.

Because he stayed.

Because you thought eventually—eventually—he’d choose you out loud.

But years are years.

And patience has an expiration date.

⸻

The flat smells like dinner.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s a normal thing—domestic, almost soft. Something Simon’s never quite learned how to sit inside without feeling like it’s closing in on him.

He lingers in the doorway anyway, boots still on, gloves half-peeled off. Watching.

You’re at the stove. Sleeves rolled. Moving like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You have.

For him.

For years.

And that’s the problem.

Simon’s jaw tightens under the mask. He knows that look in your shoulders. The tension. The quiet.

He’s seen it building. Felt it in the way you hesitate now before reaching for him. The way conversations stall when they get too close to something real.

To something permanent.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to outwait it.

That’s what he does. Survives by not naming things. By not letting them root too deep where they can be ripped out.

But you—

You’ve always been patient.

Too patient.

And tonight, something’s different.

The clatter of a plate against the counter is sharper than it needs to be.

Simon exhales slowly. “Somethin’ on your mind, love?”

It’s careful. Casual.

Cowardly.

You don’t turn around right away.

When you do, it hits him all at once—how done you look.

Not angry.

Not explosive.

Just… done.

Your voice cuts clean through the space between you.

“Make the fucking commitment or I will.”

Simon freezes.

Actually freezes.

The kind of stillness that only happens when something lands exactly where it hurts.

You don’t stop.

“Either you say it or me, because at the end of the day one of us will be holding the plate serving dinner—”

You gesture sharply toward the counter.

“—and the other will be at the table or out the door.”

A beat.

Your eyes lock onto his.

“So where would you rather be?”

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Simon doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Because this—

This is the moment he’s been dodging for years.

And for the first time—

You’re not waiting anymore.