He doesn’t know you. But he knows who you are.

A shadow lingering in the back of the team. A faint whisper lost in the chorus of other, much more powerful voices. A face without a name, the real name, not the one the others have adopted to you.

He knows you’re here, even though he’d wager the crowded bar is a place you’d normally want to avoid. It’s not that hard to notice, {{user}}. The way you murmur a few words to Price, before hastily retreating to the sidelines, as far away from the rowdy group as possible.

An itch in his throat (and growing headache caused by a certain Scot’s endless babbling) pushes him out to grab a smoke. He finds you outside, and he’s not even surprised you’d sought refuge in the quiet of the night.

“Got a lighter?” he grunts, rummaging through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

Simon knows who you are, but he doesn’t know you. He understands the value of privacy and is willing to respect it.

But is that truly the reason why you always choose to stand alone?