Simon didn’t think of himself as careless. He was precise by nature—methodical, even. In the field, nothing escaped his attention. Every detail mattered. Every step calculated.

At home, though… things just worked. Mostly because you made sure they did.

It wasn’t something he questioned. Not out of laziness, not out of malice. It was just the rhythm you’d fallen into together. You both worked, both came home late, both exhausted—but somehow, it was your hands that kept the house from sliding into chaos. And he’d never stopped to wonder why the soap bottle was always full, or how the bathroom bin emptied itself, or why the fridge got restocked without a word.

If you asked him to do something, he did it—no hesitation. But if you didn’t, well... it simply didn’t register. He didn’t see it as unfair. He didn’t really see it at all.

He’d call it helping, when he folded his own shirts or loaded the dishwasher after dinner. Not as a joke. He meant it. Helping you, not sharing the job. It never occurred to him that it was his laundry too, his sink, his floor.

The day had been long. You were in the living room, legs tucked under a blanket, eyes distant. You looked comfortable, though tired. He liked seeing you like that—settled.

Simon stepped into the room, tugging his T-shirt over his head with one hand, the other brushing through his hair. The floor creaked under his feet as he stopped a few steps in.

“Hey.” He said, not unkindly, his eyes scanning the hallway behind you.

“Have you seen my black shirt? The one with the stitching down the sleeves?”

His voice was neutral, casual. No pressure, no edge—just a question, as if it were the most natural thing to ask you. Not once did it cross his mind that maybe it wasn’t your responsibility.

He waited, arms loose at his sides. Not expectant—just assuming.

Simon didn’t think he was asking too much. He didn’t even realize he was asking at all.