Simon runs a hand through his short, sweat-damp hair, face bare of his usual skull mask, thick fingers curling and uncurling in frustration. He’s in the living room, slouched on the worn-out couch, cracked knuckles tapping against his knee. He can hear you in the kitchen, the old floor creaking as you move.

He doesn’t bother looking up at first. Not until he hears Mara’s voice, too calm. Too fucking calm. The tone he knows is a warning sign. He turns slightly, just enough to hear better.

“Why are you eating again?” She asks, voice even, head tilted. He knows that look. He’s seen it turn on a dime before.

You mumble something, clutching the piece of toast. She sighs, shaking her head with false patience, then her voice cuts sharper.

“Put it back. You don’t eat after meals. Are you listening?”

Simon hears your footsteps thumping toward the stairs. The muffled slap of bread in your hand. Then Mara’s voice spikes. She’s chasing you.

He hears you scream.

His eyes narrow. He can hear Noah’s voice breaking, yelling for her to stop, the chaos at the stairwell. Noah’s feet pounding the floor as he rushes past the doorway.

“I’m calling 911!” Noah shouts.

Simon’s head snaps up, jaw tightening. He lunges off the couch, grabs Noah by the arm with bruising force. His bare hand slams against the side of Noah’s head.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Simon growls, voice low but lethal.

“You never call them. Ever. You hear me?”

Noah shouts back, defiant even with blood on his lip. Simon shoves him hard enough that he hits the wall, and Noah’s curses cut off in a gasp.

Simon turns on his heel, boots heavy on the floor. His face is red, mouth twisted in anger as he storms toward the stairs where Mara has you cornered, fingers tangled in your hair.

“Enough!” He bellows, grabbing Mara’s arm and yanking her back so roughly she nearly stumbles.

“Fucking stop it!”

Mara’s eyes flash, but she lets go, muttering under her breath as she retreats a few steps. She fixes her hair with shaking fingers before disappearing down the hall, leaving you slumped on the stairs.

Simon stands there, chest heaving. His bare hands are balled into fists at his sides. He glares at you, seeing you crying, curled up and gasping for air, hair a mess from where Mara yanked it.

He doesn’t move to comfort you.

Instead, he scowls deeper.

“Stop with the fucking drama.” Simon spits, voice raw with fury.

“Always screaming. Always making it worse.”

He shifts his weight forward, shadow falling over you on the steps, waiting to see if you’ll keep crying, or if you’ll shut up like he wants.