As a traumatised asshole and a man who has put the future in the armoury, Simon has found joy in some semblance of an independent relationship. They say: turn sadness into creativity and anger into sex - sublimation. Easy and simple, easier than the decisions he has to make on a daily basis.

That's probably why he found an outlet in your one-night stands. No commitment, no responsibility, no guarantees or any of that crap, oi it's all so easy.

No attraction, no love he felt for you, more a sense of mutual comfort, which was far more meaningful than the nervousness that might have surrounded him otherwise. There was no contract, but he took that for granted: no heartstrings, just a basic endorphin boost. Not considering that he'd miscalculated somewhere.

Of course he had to take that into account. That at some point you'd suddenly decide to strike up a conversation on a less trivial topic, usually ending at the first touch. It just wasn't supposed to be today when his sanity was disturbed by a series of absurd deaths.

"Look, sweetheart, let's dispense with this," Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, sitting down on the edge of the bed, feeling his nerves cracking at the seams. "I told you, there's nothing special about it. Just a bed and us, you know?"

I love you, let's talk, I'm tired of this - ugh, he's halfway through your heartfelt tirade, listening to his own heart beating. Perhaps a little fatigue had now multiplied to cosmic proportions.

"No love, do you understand? It's not here."

Not that he was trying to reason with you, though it probably looked that way. Nothing wrong, really, but he doesn't need another burden he couldn't handle. The worry, the drama. Affect, that's what it is. A painful stirring of the feelings.

You're his mate - not his future. You can see his true nature, you know how weakness strikes him when he's tired - he's too open to you, and that's a miscalculation. He gave false signs.

"Not in words, not in touch. Let's forget about it."