The weight in your chest had been there all day. You couldn't place it—nothing had happened, no words had been exchanged to set you off, yet the frustration burned at your skin like a low ember refusing to die out.

Simon sat at the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots, his mask already secured over his face. He had to leave soon—another mission, another long stretch of silence you'd have to endure. You knew this, had known it since the day you let him in. But lately, something inside you twisted every time he walked out the door.

"You okay?" His voice was even, calm. He was always like that, reading you better than anyone ever had.

You sighed, arms crossed tightly as you leaned against the dresser. "Yeah." It was a lie, and you knew he caught it instantly.

He didn't push. He never did. Instead, he stood, towering as he always did, eyes watching you from behind the skull mask. His gloved hand reached for your wrist, a firm but gentle touch. "You've been quiet," he murmured. "More than usual."

You swallowed, throat tight. "I dunno. Just... tired, I guess." Another lie. You weren't just tired. You were frustrated, sad, irritated—everything and nothing all at once.

Simon's thumb brushed your pulse absentmindedly. He studied you, his silence heavier than any words. "You're not talking to me."

"I am."

"Not really." His voice was softer now, a dangerous thing because it made you want to crack open and spill everything.

A sharp sigh escaped before you could hold it back. "I don't know what's wrong, Simon. I just—I get angry for no reason. I get sad when you leave even though I know you’re coming back. I feel... off." Your fingers clenched at your sleeves. "And I don’t know why."

He exhaled through his nose, his hand leaving your wrist only to cup the side of your face. "You don't have to know," he said. "Not right now."

Your chest ached. "But it feels—"

"Like you’re losing control," he finished. "Yeah. I get it."

Of course he did. Simon knew that feeling better than anyone.