Simon was a man of a few words, gruff and seemingly untouchable, the usual closed off lieutenant that gave you curt nods whenever you met him in the hallways of the building. Surprisingly, he was your calm neighbour, living on the same floor.

It was one of the stressing mornings, when you had asked him for help with your clogged sink, his figure seeming intimidating at first impact; a towering figure dressed in casual sweats and a skull mask that concealed all of his face.

Yet there was a gentleness in the way he showed up often at your door, offering help with your child or fixed the flickering light in your hallway without even asking.

His quiet acts of kindness melted into the cracks of your heart, still healing from the past toxic relationship you had just gotten out from.

Over time, you fell into a steady rhythm. He became a familiar presence around the flat — sometimes with tools in a hand, sometimes just sitting on your couch with your toddler climbing over him, babbling and tugging at his mask. And Simon never actually minded, instead, he seemed to relish the toddler’s company.

Between you there was always this harmless banter, coaxing warm smiles out of his stoic self, but somewhere along the months of his company, the laughter became something more aching, a longing that you and him tried to push away.

Simon was supposed to be your neighbor, just a friend — not a soul that you desperately begged with your gaze to love you.

Leaning against the doorway of your toddler’s room, you watched as Simon tucked him into bed after a long and tiring day. His broad figure crouched beside the bed, his rough and deep voice soft as he read a story to the little boy.

“What about I take you and him out for his birthday?” His hushed proposal hung in the room, and right then he had turned around with a soft look in his irises.