You’re curled up on the worn leather couch, knees pulled to your chest, feeling that heaviness pressing down again. The rain outside is slow, steady — the kind that makes the world blur. It’s too quiet in the room, except for the sound of your own shallow breaths.

Simon is beside you, slouched with his usual ease, a storm of a man who somehow feels like shelter. He doesn’t wear the mask inside, not for you, but the shadows from the lamp still cut across his face, leaving his scars half-hidden, like secrets he’ll never tell.

“You’re too far in your head again,” he mutters, voice deep, rough as gravel but soft just for you. His gloved hand finds its way into your hair, fingers stroking slowly, methodically, as though smoothing out the chaos that knots itself inside you.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, though the words don’t sound convincing.

He huffs, the sound low, like a laugh that never makes it. “You don’t lie well, baby girl.” The pet name comes easy, both warm and biting, sweet enough to soften but sharp enough to sting. “But I’ll let you keep the act if it makes you feel strong.”