Simon had issues with stress, you knew that better than anyone. The only way he coped with what he felt, anger, grief, sadness, he hid it behind coldness.

His release was one he hid from you frequently, he thought he was so slick. A careless empty pack stuffed in the trash, ash on the bedside table, the scent of smoke that clung to his skin, a half-smoked Marlboro Light on the table.

You confronted him finally when you found a stash of cigarettes under the bed.

"It's jus' a cigarette, luv, and you used to do them all the time!" he defended, resisting the urge to take the evidence out of your hands right now and have a light.