And maybe that was fine. Maybe I was tired of being useful to people who wouldn’t notice if I disappeared. The realization sat cold in my chest.
I didn’t know how long I stayed like that, just sitting there and staring at nothing, listening to the faint hum of night insects through the broken window.
A soft shuffle of feet made me glance up.
Simon stood near the doorway, pretending to rummage through a torn duffel bag. His movements were too deliberate and too careful. He’d heard the whole thing, I was sure of it.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept folding and unfolding the same worn shirt, eyes fixed on the floorboards.
“Eavesdropping now?” I said lightly.
Simon didn’t look up. “Hard not to, when you talk like the world’s ending.”
I snorted. “You’d know if it was. You’d probably smell it.”
That got the faintest twitch of a smile. But his gaze flicked up to mine then, hesitant, searching.
“You okay?” Simon asked.
I wanted to say no. That I was running on fumes, that everything in me felt like it was splintering apart, that I hadn’t been okay in months. But I wasn’t about to spill my guts to a stranger I hardly knew.
“I’ve been worse,” I said instead.
Simon studied me for another second, like he didn’t believe me but decided not to press.
“You should eat,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “You planning on cooking again?”
“I was thinking takeout this time,” he said dryly. “There’s still a small diner down the road. If the building hasn’t collapsed.”
“I can get it myself,” I told him.
“You’re still recovering,” Simon pointed out.
“I’m fine,” I argued.
“You’re limping.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, maybe a little too sharply.
Simon’s lips quirked, almost amused. “Right. And I’m the Pope.”
He moved toward the door before I could argue, pausing only to grab the jacket he’d scavenged from one of the upstairs rooms. It hung loose on his thin frame, collar turned up against the night chill.
“Here.” I reached for my wallet, flipping it open and fishing out a few crumpled bills.
This time, he didn’t argue, he just nodded. Simon reached out to take the money. His fingers brushed mine, cold and steady, and that same strange current sparked up my arm again.
He didn’t seem to notice it. Or maybe he did, because he looked away too quickly.
“I’ll be back,” he murmured.
I watched him leave, the door creaking shut behind him, and for a while the house was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire.
I could’ve gone after him. I could’ve walked out, found a proper hospital, gotten patched up, gone back to headquarters and pretended none of this had happened. But I didn’t move.
Instead, I leaned back in the chair, letting my gaze drift to the spot where he’d stood.
