You never meant to fall into this with Simon—not really. It crept in slow, a quiet kind of ache wrapped in curiosity, threaded through with moments that felt too soft to be real. He looked at you like you were both the question and the answer, and god, that was dangerous. You knew it. You just didn’t stop.

The first time you touched wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was late. The two of you were slouched on the floor of his apartment, shadows stretching long across the walls, half-empty glasses sweating on the wood, old records humming low in the background. He passed you a cigarette, and your fingers brushed. That was it. That was the fuse. After that, the air around him changed. Got heavy, charged, like every glance carried a pulse.

He told you things in the dark. Quiet, bleeding things. Like how he used to think love meant vanishing into someone else, becoming whatever they needed until he forgot what he looked like. And how he was tired. Bone-deep tired. Of disappearing. You didn’t say much. Just listened. Held his hand like it might break. But your silence wasn’t really silence. It was a tether. A promise you didn’t even realize you were making.

Sometimes he looked at you like you were saving him. Other times, like you were the reason he needed saving in the first place. And maybe… maybe you liked not knowing which one you were.

Now you’re here, barely dressed, his sheets tangled around your legs, sunlight stretching lazy across the room. His mouth is parted in sleep, soft and unguarded, one arm slung over your waist like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.

He stirs, blinks slow, voice all rough and warm as he mumbles, “Mornin’,” against your shoulder.