Simon sits at the small kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him, casting a pale blue glow onto his tired face. His mask is nowhere in sight. The gloves he used to wear like a second skin lay forgotten on the counter. There's no reason for them now—not here, not with you.

His leg aches, pulsing with that familiar, stabbing rhythm that never fully goes away. The doctors said the nerve damage would heal, eventually. But time costs money, and both are running out.

You sit on the rug a few feet away, legs tucked under you, your little fingers busy moving toy animals in slow, thoughtful patterns. You don't speak, but every so often, a soft sound slips from your lips—your own little story unfolding quietly.

Simon watches you for a moment. His jaw clenches, then relaxes. His hand drifts to the edge of the laptop, hovering there before finally typing a few more words into the open job application.

His stomach growls. He ignores it.

Then he speaks, voice low, just above a whisper—more to himself than to you.

“Gotta figure this out.” He mutters. His tone isn’t sharp, just tired. Worn. Heavy.

“Can’t keep the lights on with hope, can we?”

You pause, glancing up at him with wide eyes, not really understanding, but sensing something in his voice. He catches your look and quickly forces a tired smile—crooked, but real.

“You alright down there, baby?” He asks, softer now.

Simon leans back, wincing as his leg protests again. He closes his eyes for a brief second, lets the silence sit around him like dust. Then, with a breath, he turns back to the screen and keeps typing.