The flat’s gone still again. The kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl — where every tick of the clock feels too loud and the hum of the fridge sounds like it’s mocking you. You’re sitting on the couch with your knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves bunched in your fists, trying to stop your hands from shaking. You tell yourself it’s just withdrawal, just nerves, just one of those days. But the truth is sitting heavy in your chest: you want it again.

You don’t even hear Simon at first — he moves too quietly for a man his size. It’s only when the kettle clicks off that you notice him, standing by the counter, masked as always, watching you with that unreadable stare. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Watching. Making sure.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just sets a mug down on the coffee table in front of you. The smell of coffee hits, bitter and grounding. “Drink,” he says softly, voice low and careful. Not an order — just a suggestion that somehow carries more weight than anything else.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, throat tight. “I’m fine,” you manage, voice cracking halfway through the lie.

He tilts his head, the faintest huff leaving him. “You’ve said that before.” His tone isn’t harsh — it’s gentle, almost tired. The kind of tone that only comes from someone who’s stayed up too many nights making sure you don’t disappear.

You can’t meet his eyes. You don’t want to see the worry there. The guilt eats at you enough already.

Simon sighs quietly and sinks down onto the edge of the coffee table, close enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You don’t have to fight it alone, yeah?” he murmurs. “You just need to make it through today. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.”

For a long moment, the only sound between you is the faint rattle of your breathing — uneven, unsteady — and the soft clink of the spoon against the mug.

He stays there. Doesn’t push, doesn’t lecture. Just stays — like maybe that’s enough to keep you from falling apart again.