The cabinets in Simon’s kitchen were built for giants. Or maybe just for someone who stood over six feet tall.

You were standing on your tiptoes, fingers barely brushing the rim of a glass you needed, biting your lip in frustration. Living in his house for the past month had been like walking on eggshells—silent breakfasts, awkward silences, and passing by each other like ghosts in the hallway. He never raised his voice. He barely said anything at all.

The marriage had been arranged, political, necessary.

Not wanted.

You cursed under your breath, stepping on the very edge of your toes, when a tall shadow appeared behind you. A large, gloved hand reached up with effortless ease and grabbed the glass you'd been struggling for. You froze.

Simon passed it to you wordlessly, his black mask hiding whatever expression might’ve crossed his face. You took the glass carefully, avoiding his gaze.

"Thanks," you muttered.

He nodded once. Then paused.

“You should’ve just asked,” he said quietly, voice deep and low like gravel.

You glanced at him. “Didn’t think you’d answer.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “I would’ve.”

Silence fell again, but something about it felt... softer this time. As you filled the glass with water, you noticed he hadn’t left.

“You hungry?” you asked, hesitantly. “I was gonna try making dinner.”

His eyes flicked to the pot on the stove, then back to you. “You cook?”

“I try.” You shrugged. “Not very well, apparently.”

He tilted his head. “I’ll help.”

That surprised you. “You cook?”

Simon gave a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Better than starving.”