Simon had always known that loving you meant more than quiet mornings and shared jokes over tea. It meant sitting beside you in the dark when your world tilted, holding your shaking hands when your mind whispered lies too loud to ignore. He didn’t mind. He’d take all of it, again and again.

You were asleep for once—finally—and Simon had tried to rest too. He never fully relaxed anymore, not since the episodes had worsened. The past few weeks had been hell. You were convinced that Mister Adams, your neighbor across the street, was a murderer. That he hurt his wife and their son. Four times the police had come, four times they’d found nothing. The last time, they’d threatened you with charges.

Simon had spent that whole night talking to you, voice low, hands firm and kind, asking you—begging you—to call him first next time. Just him. You had promised. But tonight, something in your eyes said the storm was back.

Your mind had been slipping more often lately. You struggled to trust what you saw, what you heard, even what you felt. Sometimes it was like the world fractured and stitched itself back together in the wrong order. Reality blurred at the edges. And the meds—strong as they were—couldn’t always hold it all together.

You and Simon had talked about the clinic many times. Not just once or twice—this wasn’t new. It had been circling for a while now, like a decision waiting to be made. But both of you had wanted to try just a little longer at home. One more night. One more calm morning. Maybe things would settle again.

He woke to the sound of your breath breaking. You were standing by the bed, trembling, camera clutched to your chest like a lifeline.

“I saw something.” You said, wild-eyed.

“Simon, I promise you, I saw him. I think—he knows. I think he’s going to kill me.”

Simon didn’t hesitate. He sat up, pulled on the t-shirt slung over the chair, and followed you to the window. The street outside was quiet. A faint yellow light flickered in the Adams’ hallway. Nothing else.

He scanned the windows. One by one. Calm. Controlled. Then he turned to you, gently took the camera from your hand, and set it down.

Without a word, he stepped closer and kissed your temple. His lips were warm against your cold skin. His hand lingered on your cheek, thumb tracing the shape of your jaw. You looked up at him, eyes full of panic and exhaustion, and something inside him clenched.

He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Sweetheart… do you want to get a bit of sleep first and go to the clinic in the morning… or do we go now?”