Simon found himself pacing, back and forth, back and forth, in a steady rhythm he didn't recognize. He wasn't much of a pacer; that was never his habit. Normally, he'd chew the end of a pencil or lose himself in studying something—anything—to keep his mind busy. But here, in the waiting room, with its muted conversations, flipping magazines, and the low hum of the weather report on the television, there was nothing to hold his attention. Everyone in the room was waiting for someone, but Simon felt as though waiting was the last thing he could afford to do.
What he needed, what he wanted, was to move, to act. To go outside and lose himself in the simplicity of identifying a blade of poaceae, or tending to the falcons—anything to keep his hands busy. Instead, here he was, stuck in a room full of strangers, powerless.
When they had first arrived at the hospital, Simon had tried to stay back, observing the doctors and nurses as they worked. He couldn't help but be curious about their methods, how they operated with such precision. He had even asked a few questions, hoping to learn something, but he'd been ignored. He didn't mind; after all, Wren was their priority, and he preferred it that way. He could trust their medical expertise, but still, it gnawed at him that he wasn't allowed near her. He was her husband—he needed to be with her.
Simon had seen Wren at her worst, bedridden and barely able to care for herself, and he'd always been by her side. The nurses didn't understand that. He'd tried to tell them, but they'd simply ushered him to the waiting room, sending her off to surgery as though his presence meant nothing.
Then came the paperwork—routine questions, signatures. Consent for surgery. The heat that had been simmering inside him since the moment Wren was hurt surged as he signed the forms, trying to explain what had happened without diving too deeply into the truth. It wouldn't do to reveal too much. Magic complicated things in this world, and he knew better than to invite that kind of attention. So, he told them the basics: a fight broke out, it got violent.
But when they asked who attacked her, Simon froze. It was Jesse. Everyone needed to know that it was Jesse who had done this. Jesse, who had caused so much harm, had to face the consequences this time. He had to be held accountable. Simon wanted to see him punished, to pay for what he'd done. And yet, when the words were supposed to come, they didn't.
Why?
In some corner of his mind, he trusted Fletcher. He wasn't sure why, but he did. If anyone could handle Jesse, it was Fletcher. Maybe it was because Fletcher knew him better than anyone. Still, Simon knew if Jesse didn't pay for this—if Fletcher failed—he would take matters into his own hands.
But for now, he told them it was an accident. No charges. No need to pursue it further.
After that, Simon had been left to pace, left to think. He didn't want to think. He wanted to see Wren, to know she was okay. Several times, he considered using a cloaking spell to slip past the nurses and find her, to see what they were doing to her. But he stopped himself. If they were performing surgery, he didn't want to see her like that.
The thought confused him. He'd seen Wren at her worst before, hadn't he? He'd always stood by her, and he would again, no matter what. So why did this feel different?
He found himself staring out of the window, his reflection staring back at him. And then it hit him: maybe he was the problem. If he'd been there on time, none of this would have happened. He would've been able to stop Jesse before things went too far. He should've protected her.
But it was more than that. It had always been the same with them. Wren, stubborn and determined, always doing what was right no matter the cost, and him, always cleaning up the aftermath. And no matter how hard he tried, he could never stop her from getting hurt.
