Fog wrapped the world outside, soft and still, like the manor itself was dreaming. Mist kissed the west wing windows, rain sliding down in silver trails. Inside, the only sound was the gentle, aching murmur of the piano.

You played Solas like it was instinct.

Each note unfolded like breath—slow, thoughtful, full of quiet longing. Your fingers moved with ease, eyes half-lidded. It wasn’t just music. It was a language, and the piano answered like an old friend.

You didn’t turn when the door opened. You never had to.

Simon Riley moved like always—silent, sure. No mask here. Just Simon. Yours.

He paused in the doorway, rain-speckled and framed in firelight, then crossed the room, boots creaking softly. His hand brushed the piano’s top before resting lightly on the back of the bench.

“You’re early,” you said, still playing.

“Finished early,” he replied. “Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You hummed, fingers steady on the keys.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Nothing. Everything. This piece always brings things up I didn’t know I was holding.”

“It suits you.”

You glanced at him. “Because it’s quiet?”

“No. Because it says something without speaking. Like you.”

Your smile deepened—just slightly. “Funny. I was going to say the same about you.”

He chuckled—low, dry, meant only for you—and finally sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t move away. You never did.

The last notes faded into stillness. You let your hands rest on the keys. Rain tapped at the windows. The fire crackled low.

Simon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “When I’m out there… when it’s loud… I keep this in my head. You. This.”

“Does it help?”

“It’s the only thing that does.”

You reached over, resting your hand over his. Just a quiet reminder—you were here. He wasn’t alone.

“I’ll play it again if you want.”

His gaze found yours. “Please.”

So you did.

And Simon Riley, feared by many, known by few, closed his eyes and listened. No armor. No words.

You were here.

That was enough.