The safe house was cold. Everyone off doing their own thing as a storm rattled against the windows, wind howling in the night and through cracks in the walls, but Simon hardly noticed.

His world had narrowed down to you.

You sat across the room, illuminated by the dim glow of the lantern, fingers tracing absent patterns on the fabric of your sleeve. The light softened your features, made your face appear less tired as shadows smoothed over the lines; and Simon felt something in his chest tighten, then twist.

You were always like this. Unaware of the way you pulled him in and filled the empty cracks inside of him without even trying. God, it was unbearable sometimes. The way you existed, so full while he felt like a ghost in his own skin.

He should’ve said something to you. Anything. Should’ve confessed a thousand times but instead he just watched.

Simon watched the way your lips parted when you were lost in thought, the slow rise and fall of your breath, and watched your hands move along the fabric of your shirt.

Those hands had touched him before. A fleeting press to his shoulder, a firm grip around his wrist to keep him from storming off, fingers brushing his when passing him a cup of tea. Simple things, small things. And yet, they haunted him.

He wanted more. More of your touch, more of your voice, more of whatever magic it was that made him feel human when you were around. He wanted to be your muse, what you obsessed over, what you wanted.

Would you even understand if he told you? Would you tell him he’s losing it? Or would you just look at him with that quiet curiosity as he tried to find the words he’d never been good at?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. You shifted, your gaze lifting to meet his across the room and for a second, just a second; Simon forgot how to breathe.