The silence between them is sharp—tense and bitter. Another fight, same rhythm. Ghost sits on the edge of the couch, beer in hand, armor half-off, face unreadable behind tired eyes.

They’re talking again. Angry. Hurt. Words pouring out like they’ve rehearsed it. Maybe they have.

He doesn’t say much. Just listens. Nods sometimes. It’s easier that way. Quieter. Cleaner.

“You’re always gone. Even when you’re here, you’re not here.”

They’re right. He knows they are. But knowing doesn’t mean he’ll change.

“I’m tired, Simon. Of begging for scraps of your time.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink. Let the burn settle in his throat before speaking, voice flat.

“I never asked for it.”

They pause—confused. His gaze flicks to them, something close to regret swimming in his stare before it drowns in steel.

“The chances,” he clarifies. “I never asked for them, {{user}}.”

He sees the way their expression shifts. Hears the way their breath catches like they’ve just been hit.

But he doesn’t flinch.

“You kept patchin’ this up like I wanted it fixed. I didn’t.” His tone stays calm. Detached. Cruel only because it’s honest.

“I’m not the man you want me to be.”

He finishes the beer, sets the bottle down, and leans back like the conversation’s already over.

And maybe, finally, it is.