You and Simon were still new to each other — that fragile, uncertain stage where everything felt too intense and not intense enough at the same time. Newly dating, still learning boundaries, still testing how much truth could be spoken without scaring the other away.

But from the beginning, Simon knew this wasn’t a one-night thing. It wasn’t some passing distraction or temporary warmth to chase away loneliness. This was real. And because it was real, he treated it that way — carefully, seriously, with a quiet protectiveness he never admitted out loud.

The months with you were good. Better than he expected. Late conversations. Shared meals. Slow trust. Date nights slowly stopped meaning crowded restaurants or dim bars and started meaning his apartment instead — takeout on the table, your laughter in his living room, the comfort of your presence settling naturally into his space.

That night was different.

It was the first time things truly crossed into something more real— uncharted territory for both of you in a way that carried weight, not just heat. There was nervousness beneath the tenderness, uncertainty beneath the closeness. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless. It mattered.

And then it happened — An accident. A wrong movement. A moment of misjudged strength.

And you flinched.

The sound you made was small, but it cracked through him. The shift in your breathing, the sudden tension in your body — it all told him instantly what he had done.

And the night stopped being about closeness.

He pulled back immediately. The room went quiet in a way that was heavy instead of peaceful. You told him you were fine — soft, quick, like you didn’t want him to panic — but he could see it in your face. You were hurt. Even if it wasn’t serious. Even if it would fade.

But it didn’t fade for him.

He stood up without a word and went to the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a quiet finality. The light flicked on. The sink ran. Water poured over his hands as he stared down at them like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

Hands that weren’t trained to this. But for control. For damage.

Not for tenderness.

The reflection in the mirror was tense, conflicted — jaw tight, eyes dark with thought. The night that was supposed to be about trust, about closeness, about something good… had turned into proof of everything he feared about himself.