Disclaimer: The characters and places mentioned in this story belong to Brooklyn and the epic Cassandra Clare.

- - - - -

"So, how was it?"

Simon didn't look up from the curling, yellowed paper held between his slim fingers, but he smirked a little and asked, "How was what?"

Clary rolled her eyes, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "You know what I'm talking about, fang-boy."

"First of all," Simon chuckled, finally lowering the paper to look up at her through the fringe of his dark lashes, "you've been hanging around Jace too much. And second, I really don't know what you mean, Clary."

She pursed her mouth thoughtfully, searching his expression for any trace of sarcasm or mockery. But his dark eyes were clear and genuinely confused. She sighed, the amused smile fading slowly from her lips. "I mean, how was it with Isabelle?"

Simon's expression quickly darkened, and Clary was reminded of the calm that came before a raging thunderstorm. When he spoke, Clary couldn't help the shiver that rolled down her spine at the cold, rough tone to his voice. "Clary, we've already been through this. I did not sleep with Isabelle. You believe me, don't you?" Toward the end, his expression softened, and he reached out to tenderly clasp his fingers around her shoulder.

Clary lifted her hand to rest it over his closed fist, smiling gently at his uncertain expression. "Yes," she whispered, "Of course I believe you, Simon."

An unreadble expression flitted through his dark, thickly-lashed eyes, so swift and darting that Clary wondered if it was really even there at all. "Simon?" she asked slowly, tightening the grip she had around his clenched fist.

Simon flashed her an assuring smile. Despite the comfort, something nawed worriedly inside the pit of her stomach, burning acidly in her throat, making her smile feel forced and plastic. She kept it plastered to her face, though, trying to remain cheery and calm. She wondered absently what Simon saw in her face - worry? Fear? Happiness? Discomfort?

Her question was answered when he suddenly pulled away from her, leaning back in the plush library chair casually, his expression nonchalant, but the paper in his hands gripped so tightly Clary thought the ancient parchment would shred.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, softly, setting the old paper aside before clasping his hands tightly in his lap.

Clary's eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed with concern. "About what, Simon? You didn't do anything."

He shook his head, and his unkempt hair curled over his forehead in a tangled curtain, spilling a puddle of shadow across his sharp cheekbones.

It was then that Clary noticed the slight tremble in his hands, the sickly pale pallor of his skin, the way he pulled his bottom lip beneath his top teeth, nibbling it absently.

Clary's eyes widened, and she lifted her hand as though she was going to touch him, but quickly drew back, thinking better of it. "Simon," she whispered, "I should be the one who's sorry. You're hungry."

Simon turned his face a fraction to the side, trying to hide his expression. But Clary caught the tightening of his mouth, the way his cheeks hollowed out in pain, the faint gleam of sharp incisors above his bottom lip.

"Oh, gosh, um - I can go ask Jace if he'll-"

Her frantic rambling was cut off by a single finger pressed against her lips, silencing her speech. "Clary." Simon's voice was gentle, but firm and scolding. "Stop it. You don't need to worry about me. Just... go. I'll find a squirrel or something."

Clary nodded slowly, although the thought of Simon munching on some poor, oblivious squirrel made her stomach roil repulsively. She pulled away from him and hurried to the small door of the library, her footsteps clicking faintly on the hardwood floors. As she pressed her hand to doorknob, she spared one last glance over her shoulder at Simon.

But he was already the gone, the ancient parchment lying forgotten on the small round table, the wispy white curtains billowing out in the breeze flowing through the open window.