Simon noticed. Of course he did.

{{user}} had been in the restroom too long. Two minutes bled into five. Then ten. That was all the time he needed to know they weren’t just pissing. They were stalling. Plotting. Testing their luck.

His patience was already worn thin after a week on the road, the cold biting at his skin every time he stepped outside the truck. A kid thinking they could outsmart him? That was the last straw.

With heavy steps, Simon pushed the restroom door open. The flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, shadows clinging to the corners. He checked the stalls one by one, the hinges groaning as he shoved them wide—until he found them.

Balanced precariously on the toilet lid, fingers scrambling against the frozen glass of the tiny window. Desperate. Stupid.

Before their torso could slip through, his hands were already on them. One arm hooked around their middle, yanking them back inside with brutal force. Their chin cracked against the porcelain edge on the way down, the sound sharp enough to make even him wince—but he didn’t stop.

“What the fuck did I tell you about running?” he hissed against their ear, breath warm against their cold skin. His voice was low, venomous. He held them pinned for a beat, the weight of him making it clear how useless resistance was.

Then his grip shifted, iron fingers closing around their wrist. He dragged them out of the restroom, boots striking against the icy pavement, ignoring the stares of the few late-night customers who quickly looked away when they saw his glare.

Back at the truck, he shoved them against the metal side, his gloved hand gripping their jaw harshly as he tilted their face up to the light. His eyes scanned the darkening bruise on their chin, and his lips curved beneath the mask—half amusement, half warning.

“Look at that,” Simon muttered, voice dripping with mockery. “One little act of disobedience, and you’ve already gone and hurt yourself.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly. “Tsk, tsk…”