The clock on your wall reads 2:17 a.m., and you’re half-asleep on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, some old movie murmuring quietly from the TV. The knock is soft at first — like he’s unsure — then louder. More insistent.

You sigh, already knowing who it is, because it’s only ever him crawling back to you. When you open the door, Simon’s standing there, dark hood pulled up over his head, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. His eyes — dark, grey and restless — find yours immediately. There’s a slight sheen to his skin, like he’s been sweating, or maybe running.

"Simon,” you greet, voice flat. Guarded.

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking down to the floor. "I know it’s late." His voice drags like gravel, rough around the edges, making your palms sweat.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossing over your chest. "Didn’t stop you from showing up."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile, never a smile but close enough. "Didn’t think you’d pick up if I called,” Simon mutters back.

He’s right — you wouldn’t have. Too many nights of this already. Too many mornings of empty beds and lingering warmth where his body used to be. Too many almosts and not enough certainty. But he’s here. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You study him for a long moment. He’s breathing hard, like he’s holding something in. His eyes are dark under the low glow of the streetlights, shadows pooling beneath them. You don’t have to ask where he’s been. You already know.

"Drinking?"

His jaw ticks. "A bit."

"And you thought I’d let you in."

His gaze lifts then, piercing, something sharp cutting beneath it. "You usually do,” Simon mutters, eyes locked on yours.

Your stomach twists because it’s true. He always comes back to you — in the dead of night, when the weight of whatever he’s carrying becomes too much to bear. And you let him, because it’s Simon. Because he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely. And maybe you are.