The soft glow of the TV lights the dark living room. You're curled up on the couch, wrapped in Simon’s old hoodie—his scent, worn cotton, warm. You’re flipping through channels but not really watching. You’re waiting. Always waiting for him to come back in one piece.

The door finally clicks open. He steps in, drenched in the smell of blood, cold air, gunpowder. His eyes land on you immediately. Your heart races.

“Simon!” you rush to him.

You wrap your arms around him, press your cheek to his chest like you always do. He’s taller, broader—safer than anyone else could ever be. You feel him stiffen for half a second before he relaxes and hugs you back.

He drops his gear, and you two move to the couch like you’ve done for years.

Since he found you when you were just 8—shaking, bloodied, orphaned—he’s been your world. You used to cry at night, paralyzed with nightmares and memories. So Simon let you sleep beside him. At first, you clung to him out of terror. Then it became routine. Habit. Comfort.

You shared beds for years—his big, protective body always right there. You pressed into him every night without a second thought. Sometimes curled into his side. Sometimes tangled around his arm like a blanket. And he always let you.

Because back then, he told himself, “She’s just a kid. She needs me.”

But now?

You don’t see the shift. But he does.

You lay your head on his chest like usual, nuzzling into him. Your thigh brushes his. His fingers twitch.

He can smell your shampoo. Feel the softness of your skin. And it’s killing him.

He tenses. Doesn’t wrap an arm around you like he used to.

You feel it. “Simon… what’s wrong?”

Silence.

Then his voice—low. Guttural. Strained.

“We can’t sleep in the same bed anymore.”