Simon stood silently in the doorway of his own kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching Jenna slice cucumbers with mechanical precision. Her movements were brisk, emotionless—she was making a salad just for herself. The faint clink of the knife against the cutting board echoed in the otherwise quiet room. He was in a strangely good mood, which was rare these days, and that flicker of warmth brought with it a wave of déjà vu.

He remembered standing in this same kitchen, but with her—{{user}}. His ex-wife. She’d be barefoot, hair tied up in a ponytail that he loved to playfully tug on, humming as she stirred something on the stove. He’d sneak up behind her and gently jab her side with half a cucumber, just to hear her laugh—that melodic, contagious laugh. She’d whirl around and retaliate with a wooden spoon or a playful shove, and somehow they’d end up on the floor, breathless from laughing too hard, hearts full.

His chest ached.

Jenna was his poor, desperate attempt at moving on after the divorce—a shallow substitute who barely tolerated his presence. But he’d tried. Really tried. So with a hopeful glimmer, he reached over and lightly poked her side with the other half of the cucumber, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smile.

She didn’t even glance at him.

“Would you fucking grow up, Ghost,” she snapped, slapping his hand away like he was an annoyance, not a man trying to feel something again.

That was it.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening. He was starving—she wouldn’t cook for him. He was bored—she wouldn’t talk to him, let alone laugh with him. She didn’t want him, not really. Not the way {{user}} did.

He turned on his heel. He needed {{user}}, even if it was late at night.

Grabbing his coat from the hook, he shrugged it on with quiet finality. His voice came cool and composed, almost casual.

“Don’t wait up for me. I’m staying over at Soap’s.”

A lie. A clean one. He didn’t look back.