Chapter Text
you shouldn't have to remind yourself.
breathe in. breathe out.
but you do, because if you don't, you'll spiral.
breathe out, breathe in.
tapping away at your keyboard, your wrists ache and eyes feel strained from the blue light penetrating your corneas. you're certain your retinas are damaged, the imprint of the same neurological diseases article you've been reading for the past 4 hours burnt into them. you sigh as you shut your laptop closed and let your head fall on the table, cushioned by your resting arms.
you check your phone. it reads saturday, 10:07PM. 0 messages. you're relieved, not because you hated going out, but because you were in a shite mood, stressed, and a mess. you didn't want anyone asking "are you okay?", "do you want to talk about it?"
what difference does it make if i talk about it?
will crying about it fix my problem?
you push yourself off the chair that carried your burdens and stepped outside on your balcony, overlooking the bustling city. you pull out your phone and hesitate for a split second, but pull up his contact anyway.
?y: busy
s: ...
not anymore.
?y: are you home
s: sounds like you don't want me to be.
you scoff and a smile spreads across your face. in an immeasurable world, he knew every inch of you.
y: hungry
s: blowing through my pockets, love.
...
give me 30.
like clockwork, he's at your door within half an hour. he gently knocks on the chipped wood—the "landlord special" door as he calls it. you open the door, leaving the balcony open as you tread across your flat. on the other side, a tall & familiar man that smells like soap and amber holds a bag of chicken—your favorite.
he never asked what you wanted. he didn't need to. simon always knew what you liked. what you hated. what you needed. he'd never admit it, though.
"you actually came." you say softly. he looks down at you, brown eyes as soft as warm honey, "you rang. i answered." he gently pushes past you, placing a hand on your head and pulling you in for a quick kiss atop your hair. you place a hand on his broad chest, feeling his heartbeat for a second before reluctantly pulling away.
you both walk to the table, but not before he closes the balcony door. the gesture doesn't go unnoticed by you, the warmth of both simon's kindness and the radiator heating you up. you toss your laptop aside as you set up the table: two plates, two cups for the beer you've been saving for a special occasion.
it's a special occasion, right? taking a break for once?
simon turns around and walks back towards the table, watching you work around the kitchen and grabbing basic cutlery. his eyes never leave you, watching how your messy hair sticks out in different directions, pj's he's certain you haven't washed in days, bags under your eyes from cramming every final project. his heart flutters at the sight. the unfamiliar feeling of comfort and peace settling within him. god how he loved you, at your best and at your worst. even when he didn't know how to show up for you, he'd burn the world just for you. that's for certain.
as you both sit across from each other, silence envelopes you both. the occasionally sip from the beer or scrape of the fork breaking it. he steals glances, "accidentally" nudges your leg under the table, places another piece of chicken on your plate without asking.
finally, he breaks the silence.
"stop overworking yourself."
you look up and frown slightly, not wanting to touch on the topic. "i'm fine." you curtly say. expressionless, he stares. you clear your throat. "i'm fine, simon, really." you say in a softer tone. he doesn't take offense to it, he sees the pressure slowly boiling over in you, even when you don't see it yourself. "i know you are." he simply says.
you swallow and look away. transparent, pretty girl he always says.
"hey," he says. "look at me."
you listen and meet his eyes, softer than usual, but only with you. hmm?
"when it gets too much. come to me."
you stare at him, the expression on your face shifting to something more vulnerable. his eyes roam over your face, and without hesitation, he speaks again.
"quit thinking you're able to stomach your feelings alone. it ages you. i can't afford to buy you wrinkle cream on top of food." he says, pouring you more beer and looking back down at his plate, taking a bite of his chicken, his expression unreadable. you sit there in disbelief and annoyance, a contradicting smile forming on your lips.
maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the way he silently always showed he loved you more than life itself, but for a split second, leaning on the big and blunt simon riley didn't seem so bad.