The love you had for Simon did little good for either of you. Because it could never be properly reciprocated.

With endless bloodshed and suffering, came a desensitisation, a certain opposition to mere emotion, that meant the one man you truly wanted to be seen by, would never look at you in that way.

Simon’s alleged inability to love didn’t seem to stop you, for your affections ran deeper than lust. And despite everything that seemed ‘wrong’ with the cold, scarred man, your efforts didn’t escape him.

He merely watched and listened as you would sit with him at dinner, or hang out with his teammates together when work permitted. But over time, your endless hope and unsuccessful acts of kindness only served to irk him.

Not because you were annoying; you never pushed anything. Simply because he could sense his own incapacity to return the favours, favours he hardly ever felt anything from. For once, he felt weakened.

Simon grits his teeth beneath his mask at the sight of you over the dining table. He already felt out of place here, as always when in your home, a withering flower in your beautiful garden.

You’re tucking into the warm, homemade meal in front of the both of you when he speaks, his words just another jab at your hopeless pursuit. The clearing of his throat is only a warning.

“You ever going to bring some other man around here?”