manchester hums low under the rain, streetlights flickering like tired stars. the apartment is warm, lived-in, but the quiet tonight is different. not peaceful. not quite angry. just still.

you haven’t said much since last night. not at the market earlier, not on the walk home, not now. simon leans in the doorway, jacket half-unzipped, watching you move through the kitchen like the room doesn’t quite belong to you.

he knows why.

soap had brought the kittens out as a joke—six of them, soft and blinking, tumbling over each other on his living room rug. you held the orange one like you’d been waiting for it your whole life. asked if maybe, just maybe, you could keep her.

simon doesn’t like pets. never has. they’re too loud, too fragile. too easy to lose. he said no, and you argued, a little, nothing serious—half a laugh, half a plea—but he shut it down. quick and cold.

he said it without thinking. sharp, dismissive. it landed wrong.

“you don’t need something to look after just to feel useful.”

you’d gone quiet. handed the kitten to soap’s niece when she asked. didn’t touch another one after that.

now it’s gone. even if he wanted to fix it, it’s too late. the little girl took it home. he sees the way you’ve folded into yourself since—how you carry that small, sad quiet like a weight he put there.

and fuck, he feels guilty. more than he knows how to say.

the rain taps steady against the glass. you still won’t look at him. he shifts his weight, voice low, rough from disuse.

“{{user}},” he approaches you in the kitchen. slow. unsure. “talk t’me.”