You’re sitting on the cool bathroom floor with your back against the tiled wall and your knees pulled up to your chest. The light is soft and muted, just enough that you’re able to see but not enough to overwhelm you. Simon sits across from you, close enough that your knees nearly touch and is enough to keep you from feeling alone in this small, quiet space.

He’s careful with your arms. Not rushed and not distant either. His hands are steady as he cleans you up, carefully wiping away any traces of blood. The cloth is warm, and he pauses immediately when your flinch from the sting.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounding. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t look at him at first. It’s hard to meet his eyes when the shame is loud in your head and your thoughts keep insisting you’ve failed somehow. Simon doesn’t push. He never does. He just stays, anchoring you in the peace of the moment.

When he starts wrapping the soft bandages, he does it slowly and deliberately. His thumb brushes your broken skin, checking just how deep you went, making sure to be gentle.

“It’s okay,” he says, answering the thoughts you didn’t say out loud. “Relapses happen. Doesn’t mean you didn’t try. Doesn’t mean you won’t heal.”