The rain poured against the apartment window, casting blurred streaks of city lights across the glass. The air smelled like coffee and the faint scent of old books—Simon’s usual evening routine. You sat on the couch, blanket draped over your shoulders, watching as he flipped through a well-worn novel, his brows furrowed in quiet concentration.

Then, without looking up, he spoke.

"Did you eat?"

It wasn’t accusatory. Just a soft, steady question, the kind he asked every day.

You nodded, and he hummed in approval, flipping another page. For a moment, there was only the sound of rain tapping against the window. Then, you heard him sigh.

"You need to get more sleep," he muttered, finally glancing at you. "You’re gonna burn yourself out."

That was rich, coming from him—the man who never seemed to sleep, who always had dark circles under his eyes, who would stay up until sunrise reading or fixing something around the apartment.

But that was Simon. Always worrying. Always looking after you in his quiet, understated way.

Without a word, he closed his book and stood up, ruffling your hair in passing before heading to the kitchen. Moments later, you heard the sound of tea being made, the familiar clinking of a spoon against ceramic.

And when he returned, he set a warm cup in front of you, sitting back down with his own.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

This was just how he loved. In quiet gestures, in thoughtful glances, in the way he always made sure you were okay—even when he wasn’t.