It had been a long week, and dinner together was supposed to be a reprieve from the chaos of the outside world. The two of you had a quiet understanding—words weren’t always necessary to fill the spaces between you. Tonight, though, something felt different. You’d spent the better part of the afternoon preparing his favorite dish—or so he thought.

Simon sat across the dimly lit dinner table, the flicker of candlelight playing against the shadows of his familiar features. He’s relaxed, his mask for the day metaphorically and physically off, and there’s a warmth in his eyes that usually sets you at ease. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, as he takes his first bite.

“How is it?” you ask, your voice light but carefully measured. He nods slowly, swallowing before answering. “It’s good. What is it?” You tilt your head, your expression unreadable. “Oh, you’ve had it before.” A slight crease forms between his brows. “Really?” he asks. “Mhm.” You hum leaning forward slightly, your tone remaining casual, almost teasing. “Plenty of times.” His fork lingers over his plate. “What kinda meat is it? ‘Cause the texture is a little…” as he trails off, you interrupt him. "I think her name was Michelle…”

The silence that follows is deafening, the words sinking in like lead. His face hardens, his mask of composure flickering for just a moment.