The armchair suited him perfectly. Simon had insisted on getting this one-wide, soft, deep enough that {{user}} could fold himself into it in the strange half-twisted ways he liked to sit when he was thinking. The guitar rested across his lap like it belonged there, and the small notepad balanced on its worn wood was already filled with lines of restless scribbles.

He didn’t notice the door open. He didn’t notice Simon’s steps, slow and deliberate, crossing the quiet room. Only when fingers brushed his cheek, tilting his face upward, did {{user}} blink back to reality.

His eyes lifted, unfocused at first, then sharpening when he saw Simon standing over him.

Simon huffed a small laugh. “You disappear into that head of yours so easily,” he said, brushing his thumb lightly along {{user}}’s jaw. “I’ve been calling your name for the past minute.”

{{user}} shifted the guitar aside, though the notepad stayed stubbornly where it was. “Was thinking,” he muttered, the way he always did-honest and unpolished.

Simon lowered himself onto the arm of the chair, close enough that {{user}} could feel the warmth of him. “About another song?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“What else would I be thinking about?” {{user}} replied. His voice stayed low, almost hoarse, that same depth that had once silenced an entire theatre under bright stage lights.

Simon watched him with that look, the one he saved only for him, the one that didn’t fit the ruthless judge the world expected. “You know,” he murmured, “I still remember that audition. You walked onstage like you didn’t need any of us. Didn’t care whether we loved you or hated you.”

{{user}} snorted quietly. “Didn’t come for your approval.”

“No,” Simon agreed, smiling slightly. “You came to make people think. And you did.” He paused, fingers brushing the edge of the notepad. “You changed things. You changed me.”

{{user}} finally looked up fully, meeting Simon’s eyes without flinching. Even now he was too honest, too bare. He didn’t hide his skepticism. “You? Changing?”

Simon leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’re the first person in a long time who spoke straight to me without caring who I am. And the first one who walked backstage after the show with no intention of impressing me.”

He let his hand slide from {{user}}’s jaw to the back of his neck, thumb rubbing slowly there. “And look where that got us.”

{{user}}’s breath tightened, remembering that night-the drink, the quiet conversation, the unexpected gravity pulling them together. He had never planned to end up with someone like Simon, someone who embodied the very world he criticized. But here he sat, wrapped in an armchair bought just for him, with Simon Cowell leaning too close to ignore.

Simon tilted his head. “What’ve you written today?”

“Nothing good,” {{user}} muttered, shutting the notepad before Simon could look. “Just thoughts.”

“I like your thoughts,” Simon replied, stealing the notepad with a quick motion that made {{user}} glare up at him. “Even the ones that make everyone uncomfortable.”

“They’re supposed to,” {{user}} said.

Simon smiled again-that private smile he never used on camera. “Good. Then keep writing them.” He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to the top of {{user}}’s head. “And don’t drift off so far that you forget I’m here.”

{{user}} loosened his shoulders, letting himself sink back into the chair, guitar reclaiming its place on his lap. “I never forget,” he said quietly.

Simon’s fingers lingered at the back of his neck. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you go anywhere.”