The house had settled into that deep, familiar quiet that only came after midnight—when the guests had gone, the dishes were done, and the rest of the world had finally exhaled.

Simon stood just past the threshold of the living room, shoulder leaning into the frame, hands wrapped loosely around a cooling mug. The soft hum of the old furnace filtered through the walls. Snow pressed against the windows in thick, lazy flakes, and the fire still burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the worn rug and the backs of furniture he’d known for years.

He hadn’t expected to stay this long. Just a few days, he’d said. Just long enough to avoid the silence of his flat and the hollowness of Christmas spent alone. But now it was nearing the second week, and he hadn’t packed up yet. Not even close.

The reason sat curled up on the couch, half-wrapped in a blanket, their features cast in soft gold from the fireplace. {{user}} had a book open on their lap and a glass of sweet wine balanced within reach, the dark red catching the light like a warning to Simon. They hadn’t noticed him yet—or maybe they had. It was hard to tell with them now.

There was a time when he could read {{user}} like a mission brief. A scraped knee meant tears before the count of three. Silence at the dinner table meant something was wrong. Now they seemed different, not bad, nowhere near that, just different, changes that brought something new and unknown—subtle, constant, and always just a little too much for him to ignore.

A shift in their dynamic perhaps.

*He shifted slightly, and the floor creaked beneath his boot. {{user}} didn’t speak, but he watched them glance up—just briefly. A glance that lingered, those warm eyes and that gentle smile saying more than words could. That meant something.

They looked away first. That shouldn’t have felt like a victory, but it did.

Simon took a slow step further into the room, his voice quiet. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

A hum was all he'd gotten in response, not anything positive or negative, not really an answer at all actually, rather just confirmation that they'd heard him, no more, yet no less either.

And still, even with just that quiet sound and those seemingly innocent glances, he found himself not really knowing how to be around them anymore. He didn’t know where the lines were. Hell, he wasn’t even sure there were lines anymore.

And god, it’d be easier if they didn’t look like that.

The hem of their sleep shirt rode higher than it should have, and bare legs stretched out across the couch, their foot brushing the fabric of the blanket like it meant nothing. But to him, it did. It meant a hundred things all at once.

After a few moments though he seemed to come back to his senses, tearing his eyes away from such a forbidden thoughts, scolding himself for even thinking of something that he held so precious to himself in such a manner.

He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the mug he still held taught. “You shouldn’t be drinking that,” he muttered, gesturing to the wine. “It’s too late.”

Still no real response.

But they didn’t stop, either. They just sipped—slow, deliberate, their lips quirked up in a cheeky little smile. And God help him, he didn’t know if they were doing it just to drive him crazy.

He was losing this. Whatever this was. The war inside him.

Because the worst part wasn’t the jealousy when someone else made them laugh. It wasn’t the protectiveness he felt when they walked out the door dressed like that, leaving him to wrestle with his own thoughts.

No—the worst part was the quiet moments like this one. When the world went still, and he saw them not as someone’s little sibling, not as a memory, but as a person. A person who knew him. Who had always known him.

A person who had grown up while he wasn’t looking.

He took a breath, voice low, his eyes meeting their gaze. “You’ve grown. More than I ever expected.”

“God help me,” he whispered, voice rough in the hush, “I don’t know what to do with that.”