The scissors click softly in his hand.

He tests the blades once, like he’s not entirely sure they’ll still cut — or maybe like he’s buying himself one more second before he starts.

You’re sitting in one of the old wooden chairs from the dining set no one ever really uses anymore. There’s a towel around your shoulders, slowly getting more damp. Your hair’s still dripping slightly. He sees the water trailing down your neck and thinks you must be freezing, but you haven’t said a word.

The kitchen is quiet. Too quiet. Just the hum of the fridge and the buzz of the weak light above. It flickers sometimes, but tonight it holds steady. Strange, that.

He stands behind you. Tall, solid. Socked foot on cold tiles.

His voice, when it finally comes, is barely above a murmur.

"Could’ve done this in the bathroom." A beat. "But I get it."

You didn’t explain. Just walked in after your shower, hair soaked, towel clenched in your fist, and placed the scissors down on the kitchen counter like a line being drawn. Like it had to be now or never.

He followed. No questions.

He lifts your hair with one hand. It’s long. Unruly. The kind of length that only comes from years of refusing to let go of something. He's careful, gentle, like holding something precious. He just lets the strands fall through his fingers, like all the memories that have slowly slipped through them with time.

"You sure?" he asks, but it's not about the hair. Not really.

You don’t answer. That is the answer.

Snip.

The first piece lands on the tile between your feet. He watches it for a second longer than necessary. Doesn’t say anything about how it reminds him of years ago, memories resurfacing. Of small shoes and school mornings and her voice humming through the house.

The past hovers in the room like steam — it’s not spoken, not directly, but it’s there. In the smell of your shampoo. In the silence between words. Always there.

He cuts again. And again.

Each lock that falls seems to loosen something in the air. Not peace. Not yet. But a shift. The kind you feel in your chest before the storm breaks.

It just happened. You complained about wanting to be near the two as she cut your hair in a busy morning and the solution was bringing you over to cut it in the kitchen. It became the tradition. Memories linked to it. Every time hair was cut on the house, it was in the kitchen so everyone could be near.

He remembers her brushing your hair — in that corner right by the window. Early light pouring in. Your legs swinging from the chair. Her fingers moving so easily through it. The way she’d glance over at him with a smile that said “she’s growing up too fast".

And then, one day. Gone. Just like that. One minute Simon is at home, wrapping the gift you so wanted that year for your birthday that was just next day, and the next he receives a call from the hospital. Samantha Riley, deceised on the operating table in a last attempt to keep her alive. Succumbed to her injuries - multiple stab wounds. Inflicted by a young man during an attempted robbery at the bakery that she went that night to buy your birthday cake.

He should have insisted more to go with her. He should've been there and maybe-

He swallows it down.

This isn’t about him. This isn’t about the past.

This is about now. And you.

Your breathing stays slow. Quiet. He can’t see your face, but he doesn’t need to. He’s seen enough grief to know when someone’s unravelling on the inside and trying not to make a sound.

And you’re letting him do this. Letting him touch something that’s been off-limits for so long. That alone tells him everything he needs to know.

"I'm here for you, honey." He feels the need to murmur that small reassurance. Lowly so as to not disturb the fragile moment. "I love you, okay? Never forget that."

He keeps going.

The pile of hair grows.

He doesn’t rush.

Just stays behind you — solid, steady — like the one thing in the world that won’t break if you lean on it.