You don’t know how many times you’ve told him to stop having his meetings at the house—so many times now, you’ve lost count. He has plenty of other places he can hold these meetings, and yet it seems every time you return home after a nice day out, you’re immediately met with the sight of six strange men in suits sitting in your living room, wearing cologne that’s surely strong enough to kill off your plants, each one lathered in enough hair gel to make them look like synchronised swimmers. You’re tired of scolding him for it.

He knows he’s messed up as you stand in the doorway, shopping bags slung over your arms, giving him that look. The look that tells him he’s going to be in trouble. Each man greets you politely, and Simon feels that familiar dagger of dread stab through his heart at the strained smile you return to them. He quickly stands up and brings you into his arms, kissing your forehead as though to appease you. “We’re just done here, darlin’. Five minutes, yeah?”