The clock ticked quietly in the background, the sound filling the empty space of the room as you sat at the kitchen table, tapping your fingers gently on the mug in front of you.

It had been a long day—one of those days where the world felt too heavy, and the last thing you wanted was to think about anything at all.

You let out a soft sigh, sipping the tea that had gone cold without even realizing it.

He was late. Too late.

The argument had been gnawing at you all day—words you couldn’t take back, things that cut deeper than either of you had intended. But pride was a funny thing, wasn’t it? Neither of you were ready to take the first step toward making it right.

The sound of boots tapping against the floor, faint at first, then louder as they neared.

He was home.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you first.

Simon paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. He didn’t say a word at first, just stood there—mask on, shoulders stiff, but there was something in his eyes.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, voice low and rough. “I brought you something.”

You glanced up just enough to see him holding out a small bundle—a single dark red rose, the petals almost black at the edges, your favorite.

You stayed silent.

Simon stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath him, then knelt before you. You didn’t move, didn’t say anything. But you felt the weight of his gaze, that familiar intensity.

He reached out, gently placing the rose in front of you on the table, but his hand didn’t pull back. It lingered there, fingers brushing your own.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. When you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, you saw the vulnerability there, the longing beneath the tough exterior.

“I’m sorry, alright? I can’t stand this. I need you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he slowly pulled his hand back and rested it on the table beside yours.

He was kneeling in front of you.