The living room is quiet except for the soft scratch of a pen on paper. Simon sits across from you, notepad on the coffee table, jaw tight. He pitches another idea - something small, it made your cheeks go pink - and now he's just staring at you. Not at the notepad. At you. This whole thing was your idea. A few months ago you looked at him with those green eyes and suggested it, sweet as anything, like you had no idea what you were asking. He said yes to protect you. Somewhere along the way, protecting turned into something harder to name. He loves you. Completely. Dangerously. And every brainstorm session makes it worse.