Simon stumbled into the room, the alcohol heavy on his breath, eyes glassy and filled with something unreadable. You’d never seen him quite like this—torn between anger and longing, his emotions spilling out without restraint.

He stood close, too close, his hand reaching out to brush a stray hair from your face. “You know,” he murmured, his voice soft but slurred, “maybe all of this… maybe you’re just dreaming, yeah?”

You frowned, your confusion deepening. “Simon, what are you talking about?”

He chuckled, but it was empty, the sound hollow. “This, us—maybe none of it’s real,” he continued, his fingers trailing down your cheek, his touch lingering. “Maybe you’ll wake up and everything will be different.”

Your heart clenched at the sadness in his eyes, the way he tried to play off the vulnerability by twisting it into something unreal. You didn’t know if he was trying to convince himself or you. “Why would you say that?” you whispered, searching his gaze.

Simon’s jaw tightened, his grip on your chin gentle but firm, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Because if this was real, I’d want it too damn much,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “And I can’t let myself have that.”

The words hit you harder than they should have, laced with a desire that bordered on desperation. But the pain in his eyes told you everything—he was trying to push you away, to make you doubt what you felt. Even in his drunken state, he was waging war against his own emotions, scared of what it might mean if it was more than just a dream.