The first week you move into the Elroy house, you don’t speak much.

You don’t slam doors. You don’t ask for anything. You don’t make eye contact with Simon’s dad.

You orbit Mrs. Elroy like she’s gravity.

If Simon walks into a room too fast, you flinch. If his dad’s voice carries from the hallway, you freeze. If anyone gets too close, your shoulders tense like you’re bracing for impact.

Simon notices all of it.

He doesn’t say anything about it.

He just… adjusts.

He announces himself before entering rooms. Knocks on doorframes even when they’re open. Keeps physical distance unless you close it first.

He doesn’t take it personally.

He knows fear isn’t about him.

⸻

Split River is worse.

Crowded hallways. Loud lockers. Boys shoving each other. Teachers raising voices.

You walk slightly behind Simon the entire first day.

Not hiding.

Just making sure he’s between you and everything else.

He slows his pace without mentioning it.

When someone bumps you in the hallway, you instantly recoil. Simon steps forward automatically, not aggressive, just present.

“She’s with me,” he says simply.

You don’t thank him.

But you don’t move away either.

That’s progress.

⸻

You meet Maddie and Nicole in English.

Maddie smiles easily. Nicole talks fast. They don’t crowd you. They don’t ask invasive questions.

You respond quietly at first.

But when Nicole makes a sarcastic comment about the school lunches, you almost smile.

Simon sees it.

He doesn’t point it out.

He just feels something unclench in his chest.

⸻

At home, it’s slower.

You never sit next to him on the couch.

You never initiate touch.

If he accidentally brushes your arm while passing, you stiffen immediately.

The first time it happens, he backs up instantly.

“Sorry,” he says. Calm. Neutral. Not offended.

You nod. “It’s fine.”

But your breathing is too fast.

He files that away.

⸻

One night, a plate slips from your hands in the kitchen and shatters.

The sound is sharp.

You drop to the floor instantly, hands over your head.

Simon’s dad rushes in from the other room.

You panic.

Simon moves before anyone else can.

“It’s okay!” he says quickly — not loud, not commanding. Gentle. “It’s just a plate.”

His dad freezes when he sees your posture.

Understanding passes between them silently.

“I’ll grab the broom,” his dad says softly, backing away.

No anger.

No yelling.

Just space.

You stay crouched for a few extra seconds.

Simon kneels a few feet away — not touching.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says quietly.

You don’t look up.

“I know,” you whisper.

But your body doesn’t.

⸻

Weeks pass.

He never forces closeness.

He walks you to class. Sits near you at lunch. Leaves the hallway light on if you sleep with your door cracked.

He doesn’t try to be a hero.

He just stays.

Consistent.

Safe.

The first time you call him your brother, it’s accidental.

A guidance counselor asks if you’re adjusting okay.

You hesitate, then say, “My brother helped.”

Simon hears it from across the office.

He doesn’t react right away.

But later, when you’re both walking home from the bus stop, he says quietly:

“You don’t have to force that.”

You glance at him, confused.

“The ‘brother’ thing,” he clarifies. “If you’re not comfortable.”

You stop walking.

You look at him fully for maybe the first time since you moved in.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

It’s small.

But it’s real.

Simon swallows hard and nods once.

“Okay.”

A pause.

Then, softer:

“I’ll earn it.”

You shake your head faintly.

“You already are.”

It takes months before you sit next to him voluntarily.

Longer before your shoulder brushes his without you pulling away.

The first time you fall asleep on the couch and your head tips toward him, he freezes — afraid to move and ruin it.

He just sits there.

Still. Guarding.

Not because anyone told him to.

But because you deserve to feel safe long enough for your body to believe it.

And Simon Elroy?

He’ll wait as long as it takes.