The house still smelled like Johnny.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that the scent of his cologne clung to the fabric furniture, that his boots stood by the door, the damn coffee cup he used every morning he was home still sat next to the sink; dirty and untouched. It wasn’t fair that the world kept on moving when Johnny wasn’t in it. When his flame was taken way too soon.

Simon stood in the doorway, he wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there, staring at the ghost of a home that wasn’t his to grieve. He was only here to drop off food, that was the rule he made. Bring food, groceries, check in, and leave before you could see the cracks in him. Before you could see how much this affected him. Because you had enough on your own plate.

Johnny’s last words had sunk their claws into him like a curse he’d never break.

“Take care of my {{user}}, Simon. Please.”

It haunted him. The way Johnny had said it, gasped it, choking on crimson liquid, hands trembling as they gripped at Simon’s vest. His eyes weren’t wild with fear or pain, just desperation. Desperate to make sure Simon heard him and would do it.

And he had to. Because what the hell was he supposed to do? Let Johnny down? Let you waste away in grief with no one to pick you up? No.

Simon stepped inside and shut the door behind him, boots heavy against the floor as he moved through the quiet house. His chest ached as he reached the bedroom.

He found you where he always did. Never asleep, just curled up beneath the blankets, staring at nothing, wrapped up in the shirt Johnny had worn last before the mission that took him away.

Simon swallowed hard, “I brought you something to eat.” No answer, not even a glance. He set the bag next to the other unopened food he had left yesterday. His jaw ticked, he didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know how to pull you out of the darkness that was consuming you whole.

He hated that Johnny asked him of this. Because he was failing. Every day, he was failing.

“{{user}}…” he tried again.