The room is dim, the only light coming from the city outside, casting soft shadows across the bed. Simon’s there—close, waiting—but not touching.

You should be lost in the moment, in the heat of his gaze, in the rough edge of his breath as he watches you, but all you can feel is the weight pressing down on your chest. The creeping, familiar dread curling around your ribs, squeezing tight.

Your fingers clutch the sheets beneath you. “I know I’m not…” The words catch, your throat locking up before you can finish.

Simon’s head tilts, his mask long forgotten, his sharp eyes narrowing at the hesitation in your voice. “Not what?” he asks, quiet but firm.

You should just push through it, let it happen, ignore the gnawing fear that any second now, he’ll see what you see. That the illusion will shatter, and he’ll realize…

“Look at me.” His voice cuts through the noise in your head, pulling you back. His hand, warm and steady, brushes your arm, waiting, giving you the chance to pull away.

His fingers trail up, ghosting over your skin with an unexpected gentleness. “Whatever it is you think I see {{user}},” he murmurs, voice rough but certain, “you’re wrong.”