Edward's Point Of View
"Simon…?"
The name left my lips slower than it should have, dragging through the sudden thickness in the air.
Because the man standing in front of me bore little resemblance to the Simon I knew, the composed, methodical assistant who never let a single detail slip through the cracks.
This version looked utterly wrecked.
His suit was creased in ways that spoke of hours of restless movement, the tie hanging loose around his neck as though he'd given up halfway through fixing it. His hair, usually neat, every strand controlled fell slightly disheveled across his forehead, the kind of disarray that came from running anxious fingers through it over and over again. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his jaw was set with barely contained tension.
