The lake looks cold—it looks like it’ll strip him of all worries, and he can’t wait to get in.

His armor is heavy as his fingers attempt to pry it off of him, and he won’t admit to you how you’re always better at these things; being careful, being patient. He’s never quite been good at taking his time. See, he knows how things can slip between fingers, like water, like sand.

“Help me—“ He pauses, voice low in an almost reluctant, vulnerable fashion—so undeniably Simon, only to you; “Please.”