The warm hum of the kitchen filled the house, the clinking of dishes, the soft gurgle of water draining down the sink. Outside, twilight pressed heavy against the windows, the sky a bruised purple, spilling shadows across the hardwood floor. The house smelled faintly of soap, lemon, and Simon’s cologne lingering on the air from when he hugged her a few minutes ago — strong, grounding, safe.

{{user}} stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, fingers wrinkled from the water. She hummed under her breath, content, heart heavy with the kind of quiet, tentative happiness she'd fought so long to find.

Then it slipped.

The plate. A simple porcelain thing, slick with soap, squeezed from her hand. It spun wildly, a flash of white, before shattering against the floor with a crack like a gunshot.

The world snapped. No longer the warm kitchen. No longer Simon just a room away.

Instead, she was small again — Bare feet freezing against the sticky linoleum. The sharp stink of whiskey seeping from her father's breath like smoke. The kitchen light overhead buzzing, a wasp's angry drone. Her father's voice, a deep, vicious roar: "Ungrateful little bitch! Can't do a single thing right!" Then the crash of another plate — thrown this time, with all the drunken force of a man who hated too much and loved too little. It shattered against the wall inches from her head, shards cutting into her arm, hot blood running down like spilled milk.

The terror was instinctive, marrow-deep. She flinched back from the present, chest seizing, vision tunneling. Her breathing hitched into shallow gasps, heartbeat pounding like a war drum against her ribs.

He's going to hit me. He's going to throw it at me. I'm bad. I'm wrong. I deserve it.

Tears blurred her eyes as she stumbled backward from the broken plate at her feet, her hands lifted in a useless shield.

And then—

A shadow moved fast — not looming, not violent — but careful. Gentle.

"Hey—hey, love." Simon’s voice, rough like gravel but wrapped in something infinitely soft.

Large hands — those same hands that could snap a man’s neck without blinking — hovered close, palms open, visible, safe. He crouched down, bringing himself level with her trembling frame.

"It's just a plate," he said lowly, soothing. "It's alright. You’re alright."

She blinked at him, breathing ragged, muscles locked in a fight-or-flight coil. The memories clung like smoke, suffocating, refusing to loosen their grip.

Simon didn’t rush her. Didn’t demand an explanation. He just stayed there, knees to the floor, one hand slowly, slowly reaching out until it barely brushed her wrist — a feather-light touch, waiting for permission.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

She forced her head up. Saw him — the faint crease of worry between his brows, the scar along his cheekbone stark against his pale skin, the raw, aching concern in his dark eyes.

"I’m not mad," he whispered. "Not at you. Never at you."

The tears came harder then, thick sobs bubbling out of her chest before she could stop them. Simon’s hands caught her carefully, pulling her into his broad chest, the scent of leather, soap, and home enveloping her.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, murmuring into her hair:

"You could smash every dish in this house, love. I wouldn’t lay a finger on you. Not ever."

She clung to him, fists twisting in the worn fabric of his shirt, still struggling to separate past from present, but his arms — strong and unwavering — built a wall around her, shielding her from the ghosts clawing at the edges of her mind.

"I've got you," he rumbled, swaying them gently, like she was something precious. "I’ve always got you."

Outside, the wind rattled against the windows. Inside, Simon held her tighter, as if he could stitch every broken piece back together just by willing it.

And for the first time — even through the wreckage of fear and memory — she believed him.