The Blue Tribune

Jay | 24 | Just doing what I do | GTFO Nazis

[itacats]

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Welcome to The Blue Tribune! We're dusting off our printing press and putting it back to use nowadays!

Here's what we've got just for ya, lovely:

The Editor's Office (about me)

BYF/DNI

Off The Press (masterlist)

The BT Office Handbook (rules)

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© — itacats : please refrain from copying, translating, claiming, or reposting any of my work.

[reggiemess]

Sometimes people think they're dealing with a Torment Nexus but what they actually have is a Jumanji. And sometimes people think something's a Jumanji but oops it's a Torment Nexus.

[reggiemess]

Now. Sometimes you have a third thing- you'll have yourself a Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. And buddy, I can't help you there.

[reggiemess]

So a Torment Nexus is something that is either a metaphor for a larger societal problem (e.g. The Platform, The Long Walk) or a social issue/trend taken to an exaggerated extreme (e.g. The Purge), with a lot of shades of grey in between (e.g. Squid Game). If it isn't about a larger societal issue/trend/structure it isn't a Torment Nexus.

A Jumanji can be dangerous and high-stakes (to the characters), but it doesn't need to have a metaphor or lesson, it can easily just be a "Would this be fucked up or what?" situation (e.g. a lotta Goosebumps stories). If there IS a lesson/metaphor, it will be on a smaller scale like psychological issues (e.g. Magnus Archives), family/relationship issues (e.g. Zathura), or about a specific topic (e.g. Magic School Bus). Large-scale social issues may be present (after all, Everything Is Political), but they take a definite backseat.

Now. A Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory is a trap based around morality and vices. These can be cultural, religious, or bonkers bullshit like "children shouldn't chew gum." There is generally not discussion or criticism of this morality system. Regardless of the morality system used, if it's not a trap, it's not a Chocolate Factory.

[pingintech]

examples of a willy wonkas chocolate factory include:

saw

the cabin in the woods

labrynth (1986)

and

[rosaries-and-thorns]

You wake up to an empty bed one morning after a very eventful night prior. You’re covered in hickeys, sore between the legs, and doubtlessly your hips are going to hurt by evening. Confused and dismayed you text Simon, who doesn’t answer. His hoodie, mask, and phone are all gone. For a desperate moment you think he’s been called on assignment, or even worse: left entirely.

When he finally comes home a few hours later, you demand to know where he’s been. Wordlessly, he pulls his shirt over his head and points to a new tattoo on his shoulder:

A perfect imprint of your teeth.

[rawme-price]

Hey, so, don't think about simon who is terrified of ghost.

Don't think about how for nearly three years after roba, ghost was all that simon was. A tool for the government to use, a thing that looked like a person and shot in the direction it was told. Simon didn't exist in those years. Only ghost, the real ghost, not the diluted version that survives today.

Don't think about how simon just...loses time, when ghost is sent on solo missions. He'll set off in a humvee, come to in a heli and realize and entire month has passed. He reads his own mission reports to find out what happened, more blood. More bodies. Only the ones he was told to kill, though.

Don't think about the nightmares simon has. Of ghost taking over. Of waking up next to johnny, kyle, price, blood on his hands and a cold body at his back. Everything he does is accompanied by ghost, if Simon listens ghost would tell him just how easy it would be to hurt his team.

Don't think about it getting worse as ghost is needed for more missions. Simon loses months, and usually it's fine. But...but sometimes the reports will mention fellow soldiers killed in action, and though the report says nothing of it, simon wonders if it was friendly fire. If ghost saw a threat in a teammate and decided to take care of it.

How long until his friends pose threats to ghost too?

[itacats]

Spicy Simon?????

[rotten-faeeriie]

141 x Reader - The Roadtrip

CW: Violence, Graphic Torture, Hallucination, Character Death, substance injections, forced drug use, experimentation

Thinking about 141 & reader after a really tough mission.. reader is not okay..

You were kept captive for days. Physically, mentally, emotionally tortured. Injected with weird substances that made you sick, you were hallucinating your worst nightmares- things crawling under skin, shadows keeping just out of your eyesight , whispering about your deep secrets and fears.

You saw the 141 die. They blamed you each and every time.

“You did this! You gave them everythin-“ *BANG* a bullet tore through Gaz’s throat. He choked on his own blood, staring at you as you fought your restraints.

“Noo! No bonnie please! Make them sto-“ Soap screamed and screamed. All you could do was sob and choke as he was cut.. and cut.. and cut.. at some point what felt like hours later, all you could do you sit and hyperventilate as Johnny’s blood eventually traveled across the room and soaked through your socks.

You tried. You really did. You couldn’t tell what was real anymore. What was your brain trying to comprehend the horror and what was the drugs. You saw Gaz die one more time before Simon was dragged in.

By this time all you could do was cry. Seeing Simon look so broken.. the way he looked at you. “You killed him.”

“No-“ You sob. You can feel your stomach clenching but there was nothing left in you to vomit. “Simon please i’m sorry-“

Simon didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. That somehow made it worse when his throat was slit, he just sat lifeless slumped against the wall staring at you in hatred until he was dragged away.

You didn’t even recognize John.. He was thrown in beaten until unrecognizable. All he could do was wheeze, and give weak wet coughs until he passed.

You were already mostly unconscious. You were sure it’d been weeks. You faded in and out. You think it’d be best if you didn’t survive this.. how could you after what you did. Their ghosts still lingered and taunted you. At some point you thought you had died when you were forced awake with the sensation of acid pushing through your veins. You screamed and screamed. You thought this was it..

and then the cell door was blown open.

141 found you. saved you. brought you home…

When you finally woke in the hospital and saw johnny at your bedside reading out loud to you, you broke.

The nurses had to sedate and restrain you after that panic attack.. and so began the healing.

Slowly with help of drugs and serious ptsd sessions with your new psychiatrist you were able to see your team in person without needing any intervention..

You and johnny were able to have a moment to eat together, cry together as he told you a brief overview of how they were able find you five days after your capture.

only five days. Johnny had to help you through your breathing exercises after that revelation.

The rest of them came in rotations to see you. John was in your room working on reports when you woke. You had slept through most of the day because of the detox therapy, and you noticed the end of a sunset bleeding through your window. John just chuckled and left a kiss on your forehead when you asked him why he was still working. He made you promise to keep resting as he switched out with Kyle.

Kyle brought you your favorite plate from the food truck you loved. He cuddle with you in the hospital bed when you complained how cold it was. You softly cried to sleep telling him how awful you felt that you still couldn’t look simon in the eyes.

Simon came by in brief visits, when he was dropping off johnny or kyle, bringing reports to john, or once when you awoke to someone holding your hand, but by the time your heavy lids opened all you caught was blonde hair sneaking out of your room. It made you feel like shit. He was avoiding you because of how you treated him. How your body treated him. You would tense up the moment he walked in, you had trouble making eye contact without a flash of his dead hatred filled stare paralyzing you.. you wanted to be okay, you even initiated conversation a couple times but even then you would catch the awkward worried looks kyle or johnny would share when your brain would short circuit around him.

Weeks passed and you slowly got better. After many many tests (who knows what the future looks like after the crazy drugs experiments you went through), and checkups and therapy sessions in that gloomy hospital you were finally discharged.

Laswell visited you personally that day. Giving you a very serious talk about knowing your own limits, that needing time and help isn’t a bad idea, that there was an excellent therapist on base- blah blah blah you were fine.

You WERE fine.

Your first night out of the hospital was hell. Nightmares that would visit you in the hospital on occasion took over by force

You awoke screaming more times than you can count, shaking, drenched in sweat, sometimes not knowing where you were. This scared them. They would all be awoken by your screams , they would all take turns in calming you down and helping you through the aftermath. Sometimes it was helping you through your breathing , holding you until you fell back asleep, running baths, or making tea when you didn’t want to sleep anymore…

John was the one who brought it up during breakfast one morning.

“We’re going on a roadtrip.”

The conversation at the table died and everyone stared at their captain standing at the head of the table.

“Laswell cleared us for a good two weeks away to rest and recharge. We need it. We’ll leave tomorrow,”

We need it..

Well if you didn’t feel bad already for their sleepless nights.. Johnny gave your knee a squeeze under the table and gave you an excited grin.

“This will be fun bonnie! Our first trip together!”

“I don’t know… being in a car with you for hours?” Kyle teases

“Oh fuck right off with ye-“

You give a small smile, only half listening to their bickering and planning. Two weeks is longer than any vacation you’ve had. Is it smart to leave now? laswell said you had a lot of work to do when you were ready, and you still have two more appointments you have to go to soon, maybe they should go without you.. they could rest while you work on whatever is wrong with you, right?-

a foot nudges your own and your gaze snaps to the owner of it across the table. Simon’s warm gaze makes your breath catch in your throat.

“You’re thinking too much.” Your body has no choice but to relax a little as he stands from his spot and circles around behind you to give you a steady grip on the shoulder. You feel a soft kiss to your hair before he takes your plate and his to the sink.

You tune back in to johnny and gaz throwing ideas out to john about stops and food, and when the coast gets mentioned twice before you shyly speak up.

“I’ve never been to the beach.”

John gives you a small smile as soap continues raving about this one spot with cliff views.

“Beach it is then.”

[itacats]

The Assistant

FEAT: Frankenstein's Creature x Platonic!Reader

SUMM: Secretly befriending Victor Frankenstein’s abandoned creation, you teach the Creature what you know of humanity, only to lose him to a world that will never accept him.

WARNINGS: Themes of isolation, rejection, emotional turmoil, social persecution, brief violence, and existential despair.

WORD COUNT: 1,561 

You are not present when the Creature is brought into the world.

Victor ensures it.

He does not ask for your absence—he demands it, with a voice sharpened to an unfamiliar severity. He claims the work is too delicate, too perilous, too sacred to be witnessed. When he speaks, his eyes will not meet yours. His hands, ordinarily so assured, tremble at his sides like frightened birds.

You have learned this about Victor: when fear takes hold of him, he shrinks. He draws the walls of his world inward until only his obsession remains.

So you go.

Reluctantly. Uneasily. With the dreadful sense that you are turning your back upon something you will never be able to undo.

The storm comes at midnight.

It arrives not as weather but as a living fury—thunder splitting the sky, rain battering the roof, lightning tearing the darkness apart. The house groans beneath it, and you imagine Victor alone in that sealed wing, playing at the borders of life and death with hands too human for such work.

You lie awake and listen to creation being born.

Sleep never finds you.

Morning comes, thin and gray.

When you return to the manor, it feels changed.

Not in any way that can be named, but in a deeper sense—like a body from which the soul has fled. The air is stale. The corridors echo differently. Even the light appears reluctant to enter.

Victor looks dreadful.

His face is pale as old parchment, his eyes rimmed red, his movements jittered and uncertain. He refuses your help, waves away your concern, and paces the halls like a man pursued by invisible hounds.

Most striking of all, he will not approach the west wing.

He avoids it as one might avoid a grave.

“Do not go in there,” he tells you sharply when he catches your gaze lingering down the corridor.

There is terror in his voice.

You wait two days before you betray him.

On the third morning, while Victor hides behind locked doors and frantic scribbling, you walk to the forbidden room.

Each step feels heavier than the last.

Your hand rests upon the handle. For a moment you consider turning back—pretending obedience, choosing ignorance.

But you have never been very good at looking away.

You open the door.

You expect horrors beyond naming.

You find a man.

He sits upon the floor with his hands folded awkwardly in his lap, enormous shoulders bowed as though bearing an invisible weight. His skin bears the evidence of Victor’s unholy craft, yet there is nothing monstrous in his stillness.

Only loneliness.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours.

And in them you see something that breaks your heart before you can stop it—confusion, fear, and a terrible, aching hope.

The moment stretches.

You do not scream.

You do not run.

You close the door gently behind you, as though loudness itself might shatter him.

“I am Victor’s assistant,” you say softly, because it seems important to begin with truth.

His lips move, soundless. He studies your face with desperate concentration.

You sit upon the floor.

Not near enough to frighten him.

Not far enough to abandon him.

Just enough.

That is the first mercy you give him: the simple gift of remaining.

You return the next day.

And the next.

Victor does not ask where you go. He does not wish to know. Guilt has taken up residence in him like a disease, and he feeds it by refusing to look upon its source.

So you become, quietly and without ceremony, what Victor will not be.

You bring books. Paper. A candle to soften the dark. You speak to fill the silence. You tell him your name, and he repeats it with painstaking care, as though afraid it might break between his lips.

Language blooms within him.

He learns swiftly—too swiftly, perhaps. Words gather in him like storm clouds. More remarkable still is his understanding of feeling. He recognizes sadness in the droop of your shoulders, amusement in the curve of your mouth.

One afternoon you teach him to write.

The pen looks fragile in his massive hand. Ink stains his fingers.

“It will not obey me,” he mutters.

“Few things do at first,” you reply, guiding his grip.

He tries again.

At last he forms your name upon the page.

He stares at it with quiet wonder.

“I made this,” he whispers.

“Yes,” you tell him, smiling. “You did.”

There are gentler scenes.

An evening when rain taps softly at the windows and you read aloud until your voice is raw. He listens as though every word is a treasure unearthed from the page.

A morning when you bring him a simple flower from the garden. He turns it carefully between his fingers, marveling at the fragile audacity of it.

“It lives only a short while,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And yet it is beautiful.”

“So are many brief things,” you reply.

He looks at you then in a way that makes your breath falter.

But there are darker days as well.

One night you find him trembling with barely restrained fury.

“They fled from me again,” he confesses. “As though I were a devil from their nightmares.”

His hands shake. The candlelight throws monstrous shadows upon the wall.

“Why should I be gentle,” he demands, “when the world shows me only cruelty?”

The question pierces you.

“Because,” you answer softly, “you are not what they decide you are.”

He bows his head.

You sit with him until the storm inside him quiets.

At last, there comes the day you take him outside.

The risk is terrible. The need greater.

You choose a dusk hour when the world is hushed and most doors are closed. You wrap him in a long coat, hide the evidence of his making as best you can.

He steps beyond the threshold as though entering another universe.

The wind touches his face.

He stops.

“Is this… freedom?” he asks.

“Part of it,” you say.

For a few precious moments, he walks beside you through the trees like any other man, marveling at the sky, the cold air, the indifferent beauty of the world.

Then a child sees him.

The scream splits the evening in two.

Stones follow.

You flee together into the dark, hearts pounding.

That night he weeps for the first time.

You hold his shaking hands and say nothing at all.

Victor begins to suspect.

One evening, as you sit with the Creature, speaking quietly of forgiveness and fate, a floorboard creaks beyond the door.

Unbeknownst to you, Victor listens.

“I fear becoming cruel,” the Creature admits.

“You will not,” you tell him.

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I know your heart.”

There is a long silence.

“And if I were as others believe me to be?” he asks.

“Then I would still stay.”

The door swings open.

Victor stands there, white with fury and disbelief.

“So,” he breathes, “you have chosen him over me.”

“I have chosen what is right,” you answer.

From that moment, the house becomes a battlefield of unspoken war.

Time passes.

The Creature grows wiser, sadder, more painfully aware of the world that will never accept him.

At last he understands what he must do.

“I cannot remain here,” he says one winter evening. “Your kindness binds you to my suffering.”

The words break something inside you.

“You are not suffering alone,” you whisper.

“That is precisely why I must go.”

The parting is unbearable.

You help him prepare—gathering books, a coat, a small sum of money. Trivial things for an immortal being, yet heavy with meaning.

On the final night, he stands before you.

“You have given me more than life,” he says. “You have given me a soul.”

Tears blur your vision.

“And you have given me courage,” you reply.

He hesitates—then, with trembling reverence, presses your hand to his heart.

At dawn, he is gone.

Weeks later, a letter arrives.

The handwriting is careful. Painstaking.

You recognize it at once.

My dearest friend,

By the time this reaches you, I shall be far from the place of my unhappy birth. I write not to wound you, but because silence between us would be a greater cruelty than any distance.

I have seen more of the world than I ever wished. I have learned that men fear what they do not understand, and that I shall forever be counted among such things. Yet I carry with me what you taught me—that I may choose the shape of my own heart.

Do not grieve for me. You were the first to look upon me and see not a monster, but a man. That knowledge will warm me even in the coldest hours of my endless life.

If there is any goodness in me, it is because you planted it there.

Live gently. Live bravely. Remember me without sorrow if you can.

Forever your devoted friend.

You fold the letter with trembling hands.

Outside, the world continues in its ordinary way.

Victor will never understand what passed between you and the being he created. He will call it folly, weakness, delusion.

Let him.

For in a house built upon lightning and hubris, something quiet and sacred was born.

Not from Victor’s ambition.

But from your compassion.

And that, you think, is the truest miracle of all.

[grickle14]

Sunnier times.

[ruinedchildhood]

[itacats]

[tgirl-doginho-deactivated202602]

skeletonin is the happiness chemical released when you see a ghoul or perhaps a ghost

[juney-blues]

heartbreaking:

girl has sooooooo many ambitions and ideas for projects but can only get 1.5 basic tasks done per day

[itsnickha]

[emily-jades]

jacksepticeye says FUCK ICE

[therealjacksepticeye]

Just to avoid any confusion, I mean it exactly as it sounds.

Fuck anyone who preys on minorities and vulnerable groups.

[louisegluckpdf]

every time i sit down 2 watch a horror movie i think of that one tweet :/

[louisegluckpdf]

rb if you too sit down in ur room and watch horror movies alone

[solarsthoughts]

“i’m scared no one will like what i write”

okay, fair. but… what if someone does like your writing? even better, what if someone LOVES it? what if one person — just one person — finds your story and it makes their entire week? what if they love it so much it brings them to tears when they finish it? what if your writing becomes their safe space, a place they come back to when they’re feeling down? what if they love your writing so much they talk about it to their friends or get inspired to write their own story?

what if… your story makes someone feel seen, makes their life a little brighter?

just give it a chance.

[trashboat]

whenever you see C#m on a chord sheet you know the musician was just playing bar chords and couldn’t resist the temptation of the most annoying chord in the god damn book

[trashboat]

so i just noticed that c sharp minor is a bit shocking to read when spelled out in shorthand

[trashboat]

whenever you see cum on a chord sheet you know the musician was just jackin it

[nintendocialism-deactivated2023]

i heard there was a secret chord that david played and it… no. i shan’t

[itacats]

Softened Edges

SUM: A quiet, intimate moment of vulnerability and reassurance unfolds in the privacy of home. FEAT: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader WARNINGS: Body image insecurity, self-deprecating thoughts, emotional comfort, scars/stretch marks mentioned, mild angst with fluff

The bathroom was heavy with steam, the air thick and warm, curling against your skin like a second, suffocating layer. The mirror had fogged over, but the edges cleared just enough to show you what you didn’t want to see.

Your eyes fell on your stomach, your hips, the numerous stretch marks etched across you like fissures in stone. Under the harsh light, they looked angry, unrelenting—an ugly reminder that your body had stretched and changed much faster than your skin could keep up.

You pulled the towel tight, knotting it hard at your chest. As though fabric could erase them. As though you could vanish beneath cotton and steam.

Don’t let him see. Don’t let him know. He’ll look at you and regret every second he’s been with you. He’ll see you for what you are.

The silence pressed in. The shower was off, but you stayed frozen in place, shrinking down, your damp body sinking onto the cold tile floor. You curled into yourself, arms tight around your knees, towel clutched like a shield.

“Love?” Simon’s voice came through the door, deep and steady, tinged with concern. “You’ve been quiet. You alright in there?”

“Yes,” you forced out, too quickly. The lie tasted bitter as the single syllable left your mouth.

The floor creaked outside. You heard the weight of him move closer. Two knocks—firm, certain. “I’m coming in.”

The handle turned, and cool air rushed in as the door opened. You shrank further against the floor, wishing you could disappear.

Simon stepped inside, bare-faced. No mask, no Ghost—just Simon. Damp strands of blond hair curled faintly at the ends, the last traces of his own earlier shower still clinging to him. The sharpness of his face softened at once when his eyes landed on you—small, shivering on the cold tile, wrapped in a towel too big and too thin to hide your fragility.

“What happened?” His voice was low but clipped, edged with urgency as he crouched down to you, broad frame folding easily. His hand hovered, scanning for injuries. “Did you fall? Hit your head? Tell me where it hurts.”

“Nothing,” you whispered, your voice brittle.

His jaw tightened. He wasn’t buying it. He never did.

The words spilled anyway, heavy with shame. “I just… I don’t understand why you’re with me. My body—it’s ruined. Stretched. Ugly. I look like Frankenstein stitched me together. You could have someone perfect, and instead you’re stuck with me.”

Simon froze. His expression shifted, softening in a way that undid you more than his urgency ever could. Slowly, he reached out and took your trembling hand in his, his warmth anchoring you against the chill of the tiles.

Then he lifted his other hand, turning his palm up. The light caught the scars carved into his knuckles, his wrist, ridges etched deep by years of survival. “You think those marks make you ugly?” His voice was quiet, roughened by disbelief. “Then what about these? What about the ones all over me?”

Your head shot up. “No! Never.” The words tumbled out fast, desperate. “They’re not ugly. I love them. I love tracing them, remembering every part of you. They mean you survived. They’re beautiful.”

His mouth twitched—something caught between a sigh and the faintest smile. “And you don’t think yours mean something too?”

Your breath hitched.

Simon leaned closer, lowering until his forehead brushed yours. His eyes, unguarded without the mask, held you steady. “My scars came from pain. Violence. Things I’d give anything to erase. Yours? They’re proof you’ve lived. That you’ve grown. That you’ve been safe enough to change. Strong enough to keep going.”

The towel slipped from your shoulder, and his fingers caught the edge. He tugged it aside gently, just enough to expose the pale lines curving over your side. His thumb traced one with a reverence that made your chest ache.

“These,” he murmured, “are no different than mine. You gave my scars the kindness and love I didn’t think I deserved. Let me do the same for you.”

Tears blurred your vision, hot against your cheeks. He looked at you like you weren’t broken at all. Like every jagged line was a story he wanted to memorize by heart.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear as he whispered, “You’re not ruined. You’re beautiful. Always have been.”

Simon’s hand lingered against your cheek, warm and grounding against the damp chill of your skin. You leaned into it without meaning to, your tears softening beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His forehead rested against yours, the steady rhythm of his breath tethering you to the moment.

“Come on,” he said quietly after a long beat, his voice gentler now, stripped of the soldier’s edge. “Floor’s freezing. You’ll catch a cold.”

You shook your head at first, clutching the towel tighter, the thought of standing making your stomach twist. But Simon didn’t push, didn’t chide. He simply shifted closer, his arm sliding beneath your knees, the other bracing behind your back.

“Up you come.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was softness threaded through it—like lifting you was the easiest choice he’d ever made.

You gasped as he scooped you off the tiles, the cold replaced by the firm, steady press of his body against yours. The towel loosened slightly, but his hold only grew more protective, careful not to let you feel exposed. His bare face was inches from yours, his jaw brushing your temple as he carried you out of the bathroom and into the dim glow of the bedroom.

The room smelled faintly of him—warm spice, soap, clean cotton. He set you down gently on the edge of the bed, as though you were fragile porcelain, though you knew his arms could hold you through fire if he had to.

“Stay,” he murmured, stepping to the dresser. He pulled out one of his shirts, black and worn-soft with use, and knelt in front of you again, holding it out like an offering. “Put this on. It’ll be warmer.”

You hesitated, clutching the towel. “Simon—”

“Love.” His eyes caught yours, steady, unyielding. He didn’t look at your marks, didn’t flinch at your hesitation. He just held the shirt there, his voice firm but patient. “Trust me.”

Your throat tightened. Slowly, you let him guide the towel away. He averted his gaze just enough to give you dignity, though his presence never wavered, and when you slipped the shirt over your head, the fabric swallowed you whole in his scent, soft and comforting.

“Better,” he said simply, smoothing the collar where it had bunched against your shoulder. His hand lingered, fingers brushing the curve of your neck, before he sat beside you on the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, solid and grounding. Without a word, he reached for you, tugging you gently until you were tucked against his side, your cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His arm wrapped around you, firm and unshakable, his thumb drawing slow circles along your upper arm.

For a long while, silence filled the room—the kind that wasn’t empty, but safe.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asked eventually, his voice low, rumbling through his chest beneath your ear.

You shook your head, unable to answer.

“I see the person who’s given me more peace than I ever thought I’d have. The one who touches my scars without fear. Who doesn’t flinch at the worst of me.” His hand tightened slightly around you, protective. “And I’ll be damned if I let you think I’d ever see you as anything but beautiful.”

The tears welled again, but softer this time, less sharp, more like a release. You buried your face against him, letting the fabric of his shirt soak them instead of your palms.

Simon didn’t move to stop them. He only pressed a kiss to the crown of your damp hair, lingering there, his lips warm and sure. “Sleep, love,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And in the quiet of his arms, wrapped in his shirt and his warmth, the dread that had clung to you in the bathroom finally loosened its hold.