The soft click of the lock turning is the only warning you get before the door opens.

He doesn’t knock. He never does.

Simon steps inside like he belongs there—like this place, your place, is something carved out just for him in a life that was never meant to have space for anything soft. His boots are quiet against the floor despite their weight, his presence anything but. The faint smell of cold air and something metallic follows him in, clinging to his jacket like it always does.

For a moment, he just stands there.

Watching you.

There’s something unreadable behind that mask—there always is—but tonight it lingers longer than usual, like he’s memorizing you. Like he needs to.

“…Smells different,” he mutters, voice low, roughened by disuse and distance.

It’s his version of hello.

You glance over your shoulder, giving him a small look, one he knows too well. “Hi to you too,” you say, dry but soft. “And it’s called cooking, Simon. Normal people do it.”

A faint huff leaves him—almost a laugh, almost.

You can hear the stove behind you, the quiet simmer of whatever you’d been working on before he showed up unannounced, like always. Like you’d expected him anyway.

Because you did.

Simon finally shrugs his jacket off, slower than usual, eyes still flicking back to you like he doesn’t trust the scene to stay real if he looks away too long. He sets it down carefully—too carefully for a man like him—before stepping further into the apartment.

There’s a stiffness to him at first. There always is.

Like he hasn’t quite decided which version of himself he’s allowed to be here.

“…You don’t have to cook for me,” he adds after a beat, though he doesn’t sound like he means it. His gaze drifts to the counter, the plates you’d already set out.

You turn the stove down, wiping your hands on a towel as you face him fully. “Yeah, I know,” you say quietly. “But I wanted to.”

That silence between you stretches again—heavy, familiar.

Because it’s not just the two of you. There’s always someone else in the room, even when she isn’t there.

His wife.

The life he goes back to when he leaves your apartment. The one you’ve never pretended doesn’t exist.

You’ve always known. And he’s never lied to you about it either. That somehow makes it worse.

Simon exhales slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck before closing the distance between you. He stops just short of touching you at first, like there’s an invisible line he shouldn’t cross.

Then he does anyway.

His hand finds your wrist—gentle, grounding. Careful in a way that doesn’t match anything else about him.

“…Missed you,” he admits, quieter now.

It’s rare. Honest. Unpolished.

Your breath catches just slightly, your fingers tightening around the towel before you let it fall onto the counter.

“You always say that,” you murmur, searching his masked face. “Then you disappear again.”

There’s no accusation in your tone. That almost makes it worse.

His thumb brushes lightly against your skin, almost absentminded, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t pull back like he usually might after saying something like that.

Instead, he lingers.

Leans in just slightly, his forehead nearly touching yours—close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath through the mask.

“You been alright?” he asks, softer than before. Not a formality. Not small talk.

He actually wants to know.

You hesitate for a second, then nod faintly. “I’m fine,” you say, then quieter, “I’m always fine, aren’t I?”

His grip shifts, sliding from your wrist to your hand, fingers threading with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this isn’t stolen time. Like this isn’t something that exists in the shadows of a life he already built somewhere else.

But there’s a flicker of something in him.

Guilt.

It passes quickly. Buried just as fast as it surfaces.

Because when he looks at you again, it’s gone—replaced with something steadier. Something real.

“…Stay with me tonight,” he says, low and certain, like it’s not really a question.