You grabbed a change of clothes and glanced over at Simon, who was lounging against the headboard, arms folded, watching you.

“Si,” you said casually, “can you step out for a minute? I wanna change.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, completely still. Then, very slowly, he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing like he was trying to figure out if you were joking.

“…You want me to leave?”

“Yes,” you answered with a shrug.

Simon let out a low laugh, not amused, more disbelieving. He dragged a hand over his face and leaned forward. “Alright, so let me get this straight. You—” he pointed at you, “the same person who nicked every single one of my hoodies, who once sat on the bathroom floor while I shaved because you ‘didn’t want to miss out on talking’—” his voice dropped, “—now want me to leave the room while you change?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, but he caught it, and his eyes narrowed further.

“Oh, don’t you dare smile,” he said, sitting now. “Do you know how offensive that is? After everything I’ve seen, after everything I haven’t complained about—” he gave you a look that said he could list examples all night, “—suddenly I’m not worthy of being in the room while you put on a bloody t-shirt?”

You folded your arms. “So… are you leaving?”

Simon scoffed, then shook his head. “Not a chance. Matter of principle now