The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet flat like a gunshot.

Simon dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the day. He called out gently.

“Love? I’m home.”

No answer.

He frowned. You always answered. Even if it was a tired grunt from the couch or a distracted "mhmm" from the kitchen, you always acknowledged him.

His boots thudded softly against the hardwood as he made his way down the hall, passing the dim glow of the living room. The TV was on, but it was playing to no one. The couch was empty. The blanket was on the floor like it had been thrown.

Then he heard it.

A sound so small it almost didn’t reach him—a choked breath, muffled. He followed it like a thread, heart beating faster.

The bathroom door was cracked.

He pushed it open slowly.

You were on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, fists tangled in your hair. Your face was blotchy, your chest heaving with the kind of sobs that only came from something deep and long buried. Like your soul had finally split open.

Simon’s stomach dropped.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart…” He was down on the floor in an instant, hands hovering before finally touching you—softly, like you’d break.

You flinched, and that did something to him he couldn’t name.

“I didn’t mean to,” you croaked, voice raw and barely there. “I didn’t mean to push you. I just—I ruin everything.”

Simon shook his head, arms curling around you without hesitation now. “No, no you don’t. You're just upset, yeah? We can talk through it—"

“No!” Your voice cracked apart mid-word. “Don’t you see? You’ve always been good to me. You… you made me feel things I didn’t think I deserved. And I kept twisting it. Picking fights. Picking you apart. I wanted to see how far I could push you before you left like everyone else.”

He froze.

The silence that followed your words was louder than anything.

You sniffled. “And you didn’t. You stayed. But I kept going. And now… look at me.” You laughed bitterly, like there was venom behind it. “This mess? That’s on me. Not you. You never did anything wrong. You’re not the one who broke this.”

Simon swallowed thickly. His voice was low when he spoke. “You didn’t break anything. Not beyond fixing.”

“But I did,” you whispered. “I did it because I didn’t know what to do with love that didn’t hurt. Because it scared me. Because I don’t know how to be loved right.”

Simon leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His gloved hand cradled the back of your neck like he was grounding you—anchoring you to him.

“I didn’t see it,” he admitted. “Didn’t see you were scared. I thought you were just… upset. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

“No. Don’t make this your fault. Please.” You shook your head weakly. “I need this to be on me. I need to own it, because if I don’t, I’ll keep hurting you.”

He pulled you tighter.

“I’d rather you push me away a thousand times than lose you once,” Simon whispered. “And you’re not alone in this, alright? You're not too much. You're not broken. You’re just… learning. And I’m still here.”

You finally let yourself melt into his arms. Trembling. Crying. Unraveling everything you’d bottled up.

And Simon just held you. Not with judgment, not with disappointment.

Just love.

Solid and warm and unflinching.

Like maybe, even now—especially now—you were still worth loving.