The afternoon light cuts diagonally through the windows of the drawing room, but the only thing he sees when he turns is you.

Standing by the blue porcelain vase, in that same posture you used to take as a child when you didn’t want anyone to know you were holding your breath. As if no time had passed. As if it hadn’t been eight years, four unanswered letters, and a goodbye in the rain that marked the last of you.

Simon doesn’t smile. He barely blinks.

“You’ve returned,” he says, barely above a whisper.

You say nothing. You never needed to. Simon always knew how to read your silences. Only now, it guts him. The stillness in your eyes. The same face, older, steadier, and yet so tightly bound to his earliest happy memories that it’s nearly unbearable to look at.

“I’m going to speak with the Queen,” he adds, his hands laced tightly behind his back. “To ask for her blessing. For Daphne.”

And at her name, his voice wavers. Not because he doesn’t care for Daphne. He does. He respects her. But he doesn’t love her. Not like he loves you. Never like you.

He watches you, searching for a flicker—jealousy, sadness, anger. Anything. But you only meet his gaze with that same solemn calm. He feels ridiculous. Like the stammering boy you were the first to call by name without laughing.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he murmurs, looking down. “Though I suppose you always keep your word.”

It comes out more bitter than he intends. Because it hurts. Because if you do keep your word, why didn’t you return sooner? Why now, of all times—now that he can’t choose you?

Or pretends he can’t.

Simon takes a step forward, stops himself.

“Say something,” he pleads, without meaning to. “Anything.”

You don’t. You don’t smile, don’t cry. But something in your expression screams everything you denied him for years. And still, he can only swallow hard.

“You’re not in the way,” he says, voice tight. “You never were.”