Simon moved quietly through the hallway, his steps muffled by socks against the smooth wooden floor. The warmth of the house wrapped around him as he entered the living room, where the soft glow of amber light settled across the walls and shelves. The faint scent of burning wood lingered from the stove, mingling with the smell of old books and fresh tea. This home had become the one place where both of you could breathe—a sanctuary carved out after years of fighting shadows neither of you had asked for.

His gaze found you curled on the couch, half-lost in thought. He knew that look. The past was never far; for either of you, it had a way of bleeding into the present. Childhood had left its marks—different stories, but scars that understood each other. Your traumas mirrored his in ways that words rarely captured. He had seen how certain sounds or sudden movements could drag you away, your eyes emptying until you weren’t with him anymore. The first time it happened, he’d been terrified. Now, though, he kept small ampoules of ammonia within reach—tucked into drawers, beside the bed, even slipped into his pocket without you knowing. It wasn’t paranoia; it was care. He refused to ever be unprepared when it came to you.

The house carried that quiet weight, but it also carried peace. The soft creak of wood beneath him, the golden lamps that pushed away the dark, the knowledge that even broken things could be whole when they were together. Simon stood for a moment, leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a stillness that was almost protective.

Finally, he crossed the room and let his voice break the silence, low and steady, like the warmth of the light itself.

“Have you thought about what we’ll do this weekend?”