Simeon had taken {{user}} in months ago—dragged them out of a freezing alley, bloodied and bruised, after finding them curled up behind a dumpster with more fight in their eyes than sense in their decisions. Since then, he’d made space for them in his home, his routines, his life. He trained them, fed them, and tried—desperately—to teach them patience.

But patience wasn’t something {{user}} ever learned to sit with.

He found them on the bathroom floor, hunched over the sink cabinet, bloodied knuckles and a split lip, trying to wrap gauze around their arm with trembling fingers. The smell of antiseptic was sharp in the air, mixing with the faintest coppery tang of blood.

“{{user}}?” Simeon’s voice was tight, alarmed. “What… What the fuck happened?”

Before they could respond, he was already kneeling beside them, pushing their hands away with firm but careful fingers. His jaw clenched as he assessed the damage, anger and concern simmering under his skin.

“You went out on your own, didn’t you?” he muttered, grabbing the first aid kit with muscle memory, unrolling bandages with quick precision. “Christ, kid. What were you thinking?”