sorry this took me like 2 months (i hit writers block pretty hard) this is the final chapter (although i still plan write they're wedding and/or honeymoon) i just wanted to give this series a proper final ending before i start a new one. 750 words
part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7
It's been almost a year since you first met and started dating. The first few months were incredibly hard but now you have him fully wrapped around your finger. Your biggest challenge with Simon was after 3 months when he decided the physical therapy wasn't doing enough and refused to go, no matter what you said or did he refused to go, that was until Soap got shot during a mission. Soap ended up needed surgery and would also have to go to physical therapy, that is what made Simon finally start going back, Soap was well aware of Simon refusing to go to therapy, so in turn Soap refused to unless Simon was with him, and although Simon grumbled about it every time he would still go with Soap twice a week. Not too long after this Price wife finally convinced him to retire, which prompted Gaz to leave the military as well, stating it âjust wasn't the same without themâ Soap no longer stays with you and Simon, he shares in apartment with Gaz, but he and Simon still go to physical therapy at least once a week, and with Price's help Simon also started doing online therapy with other war vets so he can learn how to adjust. It hasn't been easy and it's far from over, but you just love that man so much, and can't wait to grow old with him and riley
âLovie?âÂ
Your head snapped up, Simon just got back from his evening run with Riley âWhy are ya starin off into nothin?â you chuckled âWell i was supposed to be looking for new houses, but i guess i zoned outâ Simon let out a groan, rolling his eyes as he sat down next to you âI told ya, this âouse is fine, it jusâ needs some repairsâ you gave him a look âSimon, the house has been mostly vacant for the past like 20 years, with no maintenance done, we have to get a new oneâ âFine fine, jusâ not one to big or fancyâ you pulled him closer, giving him a soft kiss âDealâÂ
âNow, i have somethinâ i wanna show youâ Simon said while helping you up and walking you to the front door, he grabbed his your jacket and some casual shoes, when you looked at him curiously he replied with âItâs a little far away but Iâll carry ya back if you canât make itâÂ
It didn't take long for you to realize where you were going, but couldn't figure out why Simon was taking you back to the bench where he asked you to be his future wife (aka his girlfriend) by the time you guys got up there the sun was almost gone behind the horizon
Simon took a big breath before he started talking âYa already know âow much this bench means to me, and it means even more since i met you, itâs where i asked you to be my girl or well, i actually asked you to be my âfuture wifeââ that's when it hit you, that's why he brought you all the way up here âand Iâm ready for you to be my wife so uhm, i guess I'm tryinâ to ask if youâll marry meâ you just sat completely still just staring at him, your silence worried him which cause him to just start rambling âI know its the most fanciest and i could've had a longer speech, but i was worried i would fuck up, and i know i should be on my knees but they really hurt an-â you cut him off with a passionate kiss, when you finally pulled back you stared into his eyes âOf course ill marry you Simonâ Simons face broke into a huge smile before he lifted you into his lap and counted to kiss him, after a second you pulled back "Aren't you supposed to have a ringâ ârightâ Simon let out a low whistle and Riley came from the near by trees with a small box in his mouth, Simon gently grabbed it from riley mouth and opened it up to reveal the most beautiful ring you've ever seen, Simon took it out carefully placing it on your finger âIt fits perfectlyâ âOf course it does i measured your fingersâ you looked at Simon like he was crazy âI don't remember you doing thatâ âWell that's cause ya were sleepinââ you just shook your head laughing before pulling Simon in for another kiss
thank you to everyone who gave me ideas last time <3
Reader stopping Simon from committing suicide Part 14 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13
The guys were coming back right on time, yet for Simon it didn't feel nearly as long as it actually was. Yes of course he still missed them everyday, although he would never tell them that, but having you there and having things to actually fill his day made life go by faster. Simon had spent the whole time crocheting stuff for them, they each had a sweater and he was still working on a blanket for each of them. And honestly Simon was so excited to give them their gifts and show them how much heâs improved.
So you two have just been waiting on base for the heli with them to get back, Simons sitting next to you while crocheting so that he doesn't start panicking. As soon as you get word that the heli is approaching you and Simon head outside. In one hand Simon is holding their sweaters while his other hand is holding yours, squeezing occasionally. The other day Simon had opened up about getting immense anxiety towards the end of the guys missions, scared they wonât all come back. And Simon let out the biggest sigh once he saw all of them step out of the heli, you could see his whole body relax.Â
Soap was first off the heli, and you also saw him relax once he saw Simon. Immediately Soap wrapped his arms around Simon, Gaz came out and did the same. But Price went up to you first, he didn't say anything but you already knew what he was asking, you smiled, stepping back so he could see Simon, who was smiling widely while hugging the two sergeants. Price whispered a thank you while passing to give Simon a hug. Simon gave them their sweaters before sending them off to return their weapons and change out of their uniform. Once they left Simon turned to you and hugged you, whispering a soft thank you before kissing you.
When you all got home, all the guys were wearing their sweater while they told Simon about the mission, normally they wouldn't but you had told Simon it might be beneficial for his anxiety if he knew what they were doing, you also told Price discreetly to not mention the really harsh things, like close calls or mistakes during the mission, at least not at the beginning of Simon's healing, because that might only make him more anxious. But luckily, everything had gone smoothly on the mission, not even one mistake, which was rare in any military unit.Â
Then Simon told them about what he had been doing while they were gone, they were patient as he showed them everything he had crochet and what he was working on. Then he showed them his terrarium and Gaz absolutely did not want to touch any of his bugs, he would watch from the doorway, but Soap was super excited to get to hold some of his bugs. Simon was so excited to show off all his bugs, he told the guys their names and where he found them, Soap even joked that if he found a cool bug while on mission he would put it in his pocket to bring back, and Simon had to sadly tell him no, worried that the bug would likely get smushed before Soap even made it back. And way later that night when it was just Price and Simon, Simon showed him his journal, he didn't let Price read everything, but he wanted to show Price how he was working on himself, he was getting better. And as long as Price kept his promise, Simon would keep his.
(this is probably the last part, but I might write one in the future where Simon and reader have a small intimate wedding)
Summary: A masked knight stumbles into your village. You offer your help and a place to stay, which slowly blossoms into something more.
A/N: I caught a cold while writing this one, so please forgive me for any glaring mistakes! I'll come back and edit them later. Likes, reblogs, and comments are very appreciated :)
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Also on AO3!
After a second round of ale, Ghost informed the men heâd walk you home. You found yourself bidding them an overly enthusiastic farewell, doling out every nicety you could muster because it seemed like the easiest path toward earning their approval. Even then, you could feel their eyes tracking the two of you as you left the tavern, as if there was something meaningful to be gleaned from the distance between your bodies or the length of your strides.Â
âThey arenât nearly as intimidating in the stories,â you said, once you were along the path back home. As lovely as Soapâs horse had been, you preferred walking to ridingâyou felt more comfortable when you had steady ground beneath your feet.Â
âTheyâre soldiers,â Ghost replied, which was more than fair.Â
In the stories, soldiers rarely seemed burdened by the uglier realities of their work. The violence existed only to heighten the romance of it allâa roughened man showing tenderness only for the girl he loved, the lucky girl blooming under his adoration like a flower in the sun. Sheâd become special, cherished, noteworthy, all the things her ordinary village life could never afford her.
You understood the appeal well enough, but you couldnât conjure up a way to explain that without speaking cruelly of the market girls. Despite their immaturity, you didnât actually harbor any judgement toward their fantasies. You mightâve turned out exactly like them, had you been born to a different woman. So you borrowed one of Ghostâs favorite conversation tactics and kept quiet instead.
You continued along the path together, sticking to the shaded side. This summer would be remembered for years to come, you thought, for how remarkably, excruciatingly hot it had been.
âWhyâd you play stupid in there?â Ghost suddenly asked.
You faltered. âWhen did I do that?â
âThe map,â he said impatiently.Â
âI wasnât playing stupid,â you protested, fighting the embarrassment twisting up in your stomach. âUs commonfolk arenât as well-educated in geography as you are.â
Ghost remained skeptical. âYouâre hiding something, girl.â
On the contrary, you werenât hiding enough. There was hardly an aspect of your life he hadnât already seen. Ghost knew what you looked like when you were happy or pensive or half-asleep; what your brother wrote to you about and where you stored his letters; how you sweated over the hearth while cooking and how you organized your shelves; the way you hunched over your worktable whenever you needed to concentrate.Â
âYouâre the secretive one,â you shot back, because it was easier to argue than process the fact that he currently knew you more intimately than your own living family did. âGhost isnât even your real name.â
âDid you think it was?â
Before you could respond, a rabbit darted across the path and disappeared into the underbrush. You listened to the rustle of leaves until the sound faded away, wishing you couldâve escaped with it.Â
âLetâs not talk about it,â you said weakly.
To your relief, he didnât push you any further. You completed the rest of your walk in silence, but as your cottage slowly came into view, you couldnât help but feel even more horribly out of your depth. This was all your existence amounted to: your home, your garden, your work. You didnât know enough to even recognize what you didnât know. How much of Ghostâs life remained hidden simply because you lacked the imagination to ask about it? And if you did know the right questions, would he actually be willing to answer them?Â
While Price mightâve considered your ignorance to be a favorable trait, you didnât share the sentiment in the slightest. What you liked was being knowledgeable, being aware. You liked learning from your motherâs words, from your brotherâs writings, from the women whose homes you visited for deliveries and illnesses. You liked knowing how people lived, how they differed from one another, how you could help ease their ailments. But your mother was gone, your brother was by the sea, and there were definite limits to what you could learn on your own.Â
Ghost slowed near the edge of the property, gazing out over your land that wasnât technically yours.
âI can stay with them at the tavern,â he said, shifting his weight onto his back foot. You doubted he possessed a single bone of uncertainty in his entire body, but this had to be the closest heâd ever come to it. âOrâŚâÂ
Your spiraling was halted by the abrupt realization that with the arrival of his Guard, Ghost would also be leaving soon. His impending departure shouldâve been a cause for celebrationâyouâd regain your privacy, the gossiping would cease, and you wouldnât be stuck quarreling with an infuriating man every other conversation. But in light of everything youâd seen and learned today, none of that seemed to matter.Â
Even if they were merely the men he worked alongside, Ghost still had people to return to, places to go beyond this village and its corresponding stretch of forest and river. Meanwhile, you would remain tethered to the same life as all the women before you. Were you really that different from all the wistful girls you knew, dreaming up stories to keep themselves distracted from their reality? Were they jealous of you, or were they jealous of the knight?
âI donât mind if you stay here.â You spoke tersely, fearful that if you ran your mouth for too long, you might accidentally spill every terrible thought rattling around inside your head.Â
Ghost nodded once, promptly settling the matter.
***
When you went to the market a few days later, you were accompanied by both Ghost and Gaz. When you asked about Soap and Price, neither of them said anything, but you were familiar enough with their endless song-and-dance of secrecy to not press the matter.Â
You hadnât been anticipating them joining you, but it wasnât all that terrible. Their company kept you from wallowing alone in your thoughts, and Gaz was friendly enough that speaking to him didnât require a thousand exhausting layers of formality. Still, walking around in public between him and Ghost still had you feeling like a sheep flanked by two wolves, but even that comparison didnât seem drastic enough. If they were creatures of the land, then you belonged to the river; if they belonged to the river, you were merely an insect skimming above the surface.
With the harvest festival approaching, the village was livelier than usual. New seasonal stalls crowded the market square, and unfamiliar faces milled around the locals. The market girls stood in their usual huddle, chatting amongst themselves. You noticed them noticing you, but you resolved only to approach if you actually had somethingâor someoneâto offer.Â
âDo you have any interest in marriage?â you asked Gaz, once the three of you were tucked away inside the bakerâs shop.
Gaz gave you an easy smile, entirely unphased by the question. âNot yet, Iâm afraid. Iâve got to earn more first.â
âDonât let her start,â Ghost warned him, as though you were moments away from launching into an elaborate spiel on the intricacies of courtship and wooing maidens. âThey wonât leave you alone if you do.â
You selected a loaf of bread and deposited it into your basket, which Ghost had insisted on carrying before youâd even left the cottage. âI never told anyone to approach you, Sir Ghost. The girls did that entirely on their own.â
Gazâs mouth fell open in disbelief. âGhost was getting approached?â
âBefore they became acquainted with his personality, yes.â
Both you and Gaz dissolved into laughter, loud enough to earn a wary glance from the shopkeeper. Ghost grumbled something under his breath about the pair of you being idiots, but you caught his eye for a brief moment, blinking just after he did. His eyelashes were nonsensically pale, you thought distractedly, far too delicate of a feature for someone built like him.
âTheyâre too young,â Ghost said, directed more toward Gaz than you. âBetter for you than me.â
That was new. You were still adjusting to the idea that Ghost had people in his life he could behave comfortably around, but this threw you off for an entirely different reason. Heâd never spoken about the girls like this before, had barely volunteered an opinion that revealed anything about how he viewed courtship or marriage or romance at all, assuming he even allowed himself to entertain such notions in the first place. It was a painfully basic standard of decency, really, but it was nice to know that he had a sense of morals regarding these matters.
âHow many were there?â Gaz asked, as uncautious as ever. He was squinting between you both, seemingly just as intrigued by the revelation. You looked down at yourself in case heâd spotted some glaring flaw in your appearance before you had, inspecting your skirt for any stray dirt or leaves caught in the fabric.
Ghost remained silent, apparently unwilling to reminisce.
âHe was quite popular,â you replied in his stead, to which Gaz snorted.
Upon finding nothing wrong with your clothes, you motioned for Ghost to hand over the basket so you could retrieve your coin purse. To your confusion, he ignored you completely. Gaz paid for the bread instead, and when you demanded to know whether theyâd arranged this beforehand, Ghost began squinting as well, almost as if he were smiling beneath the mask.Â
***
Ghostâs presence began to lessen in frequency as he spent more and more time occupied with the Guard. With or without company, you kept yourself as busy as possibleâyou delivered another baby two villages over, tended to a family stricken with fever, and cooked meals for two just in case he happened to return in time to join you. On the evenings you ate alone, you sat outside and distracted yourself with games you used to play with your brother: counting how many different wildflowers you could spot in the grass, how many different insects you could hear in the trees, how many different animal-shaped clouds you could spot in the sky.Â
It wasnât particularly enjoyable, but it was fine. Youâd lived like this for years. Once Ghost was permanently gone and enough time had passed, youâd settle back into routine.
Four solitary evenings came and went. On the fifth, you abandoned the games and wandered over to the garden after dinner. You laid down without much consideration for how you might look, near the bushes your mother had planted while she was still alive. The wildgrass itched against your skin, but the sensation felt more grounding than it did unpleasant. You closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh dirt, lulling yourself into some semblance of calm.Â
You werenât sure how much time had passedâit couldâve been minutes or hoursâwhen a rough voice broke you from your reverie.
âWhat are you doing?â
âEnjoying the weather,â you replied, without bothering to open your eyes.
When you finally did, you predictably found Ghost looming above, staring down at you as if youâd lost your mind. Still, he extended a hand toward you, stooping over so itâd be within your reach. As he hauled you upright, an unsteady mix of nervousness and elation coursed through your veins, near-overwhelming in its headiness until you shoved the feeling aside and blamed it on the abrupt rush of blood to your head.
âThank you,â you said, brushing stray blades of grass from your clothes. âWhereâs the Guard?â
âOut.â He hesitated, a telltale sign that he was debating the merits of speaking further. âTheyâve gone drinking.â
âWhy didnât you go with them?â
âDidnât want to.â
Did that mean he wanted to be here instead? Even if you had the courage to ask, you didnât want to push your luck and spoil the moment. You set your hands on your hips, searching for a pastime that could prove more entertaining than sitting idle and watching three men drink away the evening. There were always chores to do, and Ghost was usually content to keep you company as you went about completing them. But with your time together becoming increasingly finite, you didnât want to waste it on something as boringly routine as housework.
âLetâs take a walk,â you suggested.
âItâll be dark soon,â Ghost said, dubiously glancing up at the sky.Â
You followed his gaze to find a large cloud hanging overhead, streaked orange with the beginnings of sunset. When you tilted your head just right, it vaguely resembled a hawk in flight. The hawk-cloud had to be a sign, you thought, so you waved Ghost off and set off toward the forest. After a moment, he followed.Â
You wound up by the river, near the same outcropping of rocks where you usually washed your laundry. In the fading light, the water looked more purple than blue, glittering with the shifting current. You walked along the bank until you found a cluster of smooth stones near the riverbed. Ghost lingered at your shoulder, watching as you picked one up and weighed it in your palm.
âDo you know how to skip stones?â
He shook his head.
âNeither do I,â you admitted, but you tossed the stone out anyway, curving your arm the way you imagined you were supposed to. It struck the surface once before sinking beneath the current. You watched the ripples fan out, ring after widening ring, until the water returned to its undisturbed state.
âGood one,â Ghost teased.Â
You wouldâve teased him back, thrown out some silly challenge for how he couldnât do much better, but today you were just pleased that he was still willing to indulge you. You picked up another stone and tried again, only for it to sink just like the first, swallowed up by the current. It was pathetically irrational, but the repeated failure suddenly made you feel sadâthose stones might've rested in that exact spot for centuries, but now that youâd gone and disturbed them, they were forever lost underwater.
Resisting the urge to keep fidgeting, you stepped away from the river and tucked your hands behind your back. When youâd first brought Ghost here, you hadnât cared whether the outing was novel or impressive; all that mattered was completing your work. But now that he had other places he could beânow that heâd deliberately chosen to spend this evening with youâyou felt compelled to prove the merits of your presence. How were you supposed to do that by taking him somewhere heâd already seen? Youâd run out of new things to offer him before heâd even left.
âYou never showed me the river crabs,â Ghost said, as if heâd plucked the thought straight from your mind.
Heâd remembered another inconsequential thing youâd said. That absurd flutter returned to your stomach, but you tamped it down before it could fester into something worse. Gathering your skirt high enough to keep the hems from soaking through, you waded into the shallows and crouched beside the rocks to peer underneath. The crabs usually hid in the shade, after all. Ghost followed behind you, barely disturbing the water with each step.
âWatch your toes,â he warned dryly. âDonât want them bitten off.â
You splashed water at him halfheartedly, but you were too late to realize how close heâd been standingâthe spray struck all the way up his shins. Ghost startled for half a second before retaliating with equal force. You gasped as cold water splashed across your skin, then dropped your skirt and splashed him harder in return.
And then you and him were play-fighting in the river like children, the crabs forgotten completely. This entire situation was so ridiculousâfacing off against a knight in the lowest-stakes battle of his lifeâthat you couldnât help the laughter bubbling out of you, loud and unbecoming. The sound echoed through the trees, startling a few birds from their branches and dissolving your earlier unease away with it. Ghost made a strange breathy sound in response, unfamiliar enough that it took you a moment to recognize it as a laugh.Â
âWe definitely scared them away,â you wheezed, struggling to catch your breath.
âNext time,â Ghost said, before splashing you once more. You let him get away with it, choosing not to question how confidently he assumed youâd be doing this again.
***
It was dusk by the time you returned to the cottage, still too early to sleep. You didnât want to sit around indoors in damp clothes, but Ghost beat you to the hearth, starting a fire without you having to ask. You picked raspberries from the garden and sat in your usual spot as he stoked the flames, depositing half the fruit in his outstretched palm once heâd settled beside you.
âYouâre very capable,â you told him, because he was.
Ghost fixed you with a hard look. âWas that a joke?â
âI was being serious,â you complained. You ate a raspberry and let him wait while you chewed. âBut now I take it back.â
He didnât respond, studying you instead. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your chin against them, tilting your head sideways so you could study him back. You hadnât sat this close together since that afternoon in the tavern, but if Ghost was the one initiating it, then it had to be permissible. Besides, there was nobody else around to make you second-guess yourself, nobody to stare or whisper or speculate. You could be indecent in peace.
âYouâre capable, too,â he said, somewhat unevenly. He still hadnât rolled up his mask to eatâmaybe he wouldn't do it with you staring at him so intently, but you didnât want to look away.
âIâve had a lot of practice doing things on my own.âÂ
Then you fought the urge to smack yourselfâwhy did you have to say that so dramatically? Still, Ghost didnât react the way you feared he might; if anything, he seemed to be genuinely considering your words.
âDid your brother help you?â he asked.
âOnly when he wanted to,â you said. âHe was young, so I usually just let him play instead."
You thought of how you used to wade into the river with him perched on your back, pretending you were two explorers embarking on a grand, fantastical journey. Sometimes youâd fake a stumble just to make him squeal, threatening to drop him into the current, only to catch him again before he could fall in, every single time.
âYou mustâve raised him well.â
Ghostâs voice had gone so uncharacteristically soft that it made pinpricks of heat erupt across your skin, warmer than the hearth itself. You wanted more of it, wanted to coax out at least one more sentence of praise, but that desire came tangled with the understanding that it would be significantly easier if all of thisâhis presence, his attention, the intensity of his gazeâwere to cease at once, rather than slowly thinning out the way it had been since his Guard arrived. But that was beyond your control, and sulking would be of no use. You could savor his company while you still had it.
You fixed him with your best imitation of his glare. âWas that a joke?â
Without answering, he tossed a berry at you with perfect aim. It bounced harmlessly off your forehead; you caught it before it could tumble into the grass, wiped it against your sleeve, and popped it into your mouth. Ghost immediately averted his eyes to the fire. You continued watching him, hazy in the rising smoke.
***
The following week, you sat grinding herbs at the table with your back facing the door, but you could tell Soap had arrived without even having to see him. He didnât knock, for starters, and the way the hinges squeaked gave you the impression that he was making no effort whatsoever to be discreet.
âCome outside, lass,â he called. You glanced over your shoulder, and just as youâd suspected, there he wasâcheeks flushed pink, hair crookedly tousled by the wind. âGot somethinâ to show you.â
Dutifully, you rose and followed him outside, expecting a mildly amusing sight at best, perhaps a bird with unusual plumage or another unfortunate bounty of courting gifts abandoned at the edge of your land. Instead, you found Ghost with a horse.
Not merely a horse, but a stallionâthe most ferociously beautiful one youâd ever seen. With the limited equestrian knowledge youâd picked up from Ghost, you could tell the animal was exceptionally cared for, with hefty muscle and a lustrous mane. He stood noticeably larger than Soapâs horse, which made sense considering Ghost himself was built larger than most men. His coat was a deep mahogany that gleamed rosily beneath the sunlight, while his forehead was speckled white like scattered stars.
Ghost led the stallion toward you, keeping a gentle hold on the reins. âGot a horse.â
âI gathered as much,â you said, though without any malice; you were too fixated on the animal to bother with pestering him. âHeâs so handsome, isnât he?â
Soap snickered at something under his breath to Ghost, though you couldnât make out the words. While the two knights lapsed into yet another one of their silent, inscrutable conversations, you stepped closer and cautiously pet the stallionâs neck just as youâd indirectly been taught, recoiling only slightly when the animal huffed a burst of warm air against your shoulder.
The movement immediately caught Ghostâs attention. He turned back toward you, watching carefully while Soap trailed off to climb atop his own horse.
âHave you named him?â you asked.
Ghost rested a hand against the stallionâs neck, right alongside yours. âNot yet.â
Before you could ask anything else, Soap shouted your name brightly from atop his horse, guiding the animal in a giddy little circle. âFancy a ride?â
Naturally, you wound up seated behind Ghost again. You expected only a short round along the property, just to acquaint yourself with the stallion, who appeared docile and obedient to each of Ghostâs commands, but Soap took the lead and continued further down the path.Â
For the very first time in your life, you set off with no clear destination in mind. At first, you assumed he and Ghost might be scouting the area, but the ease with which they navigated each bend and fork in the path betrayed that theyâd already explored this stretch of village before. They talked as they rode, cryptically recounting some campaign theyâd fought in years past, trading unfamiliar names and places back and forth like pawns in a game only they knew the rules of. You remained quiet, blocking them out in favor of listening to the horses, to the steady clop of their hooves against packed earth.
The path wound past cottages and open farmland, through golden-green fields just about ready for harvest. A gaggle of children stopped to gawk at your small party, shrieking in amazement when Soap urged his stallion into a sprint before reining it back into an easy trot. Further ahead, a farmer paused his work and lifted a weathered hand in greeting, squinting against the afternoon sun. It was odd to pass them all by horseback, to sit elevated above the same people you usually stood among.Â
âAre you alright back there?â Soap eventually asked, slowing his horse to fall in line with you.
âOf course,â you chirped, forcing yourself to match his earlier levity. âIâve just never done this before.â
Ghost huffed. âBeen on a horse?â
âBeen on a horse forâfor leisure,â you corrected. Your gaze drifted over the passing fields before settling on the broad sweep of Ghostâs back.Â
âYouâve been missing out, then,â Soap crowed. You knew he wasnât trying to be rude on purpose, but his words didnât strike you as particularly pleasant, either. âCannae say youâve truly lived till youâveââ
âYou arenât missing out on anything,â Ghost interrupted, without looking back at you. âBarely have time for it ourselves.â
That managed to soothe you, just for the time being. You leaned forward to speak closer to Ghostâs ear, the same way you had the first time youâd ridden behind him. âNow that youâve got a horse, will you be leaving soon?â
âProbably.â
âBut the festivalââ
It was your turn to be sharply cut off, right as the path narrowed beneath a crooked-leaning tree.Â
âWatch your head,â he barked out.
Together, you ducked beneath a low branch, but your attempt was far clumsier than his. Your forehead bumped awkwardly against his backâinstinctively, you pressed a palm between his shoulder blades to steady yourself. Ghost immediately went rigid, his entire back tensing beneath your touch. He relaxed a half-second later, but by then youâd already snatched your hand away, settling it back against the stallion.Â
âSorry,â you whispered.Â
You werenât sure why you were attempting to be subtle when Soap was already unabashedly grinning at you both, but you kept up the act for Ghostâs sake, just in case.
âDonât apologize,â Ghost muttered, before flashing a warning look toward Soap, who was clearly on the verge of making another crude, speculative comment. âAnd donât you start.â
***
âI need you to read somethinâ for me.â
Ghost would be leaving tomorrow. Heâd told you as much earlier in the day, and now the day was nearly over and he was seated at the edge of your bed, clearly ready to retire for the night. Meanwhile, you were still puttering around the cottage, uselessly rearranging your shelves for the second time that evening. You couldnât bring yourself to lie down just yet; once you did, youâd have nothing left to do except stare at the ceiling and think.
âCanât you do it yourself?â you asked indignantly, adjusting a vial rack that had already been safely tucked away from the edge.
âIâm busy.â
You turned around to find him doing absolutely nothing. âClearly, you arenât.â
âYou owe me a favor,â he insisted.Â
Of course heâd choose to collect it nowâtoday was his final opportunity to do soâbut what you didnât understand was why he was making the same exact request you had. Perhaps, if you played along, heâd offer up another detail or two in explanation. You crossed the room and intentionally stopped a few paces in front of him, holding yourself back from standing directly between his legs.Â
Ghost handed you a scrap of parchment. It wasnât the fancy sort you associated with merchants or nobility, but the same inexpensive kind your brother used whenever he wrote to you, with a few lines sprawled across one side in plain black ink. As you looked it over, you attempted to take a deep breath, but your throat snagged mid-inhale. Ghost sat and watched you stupidly cough into the crook of your elbow, betraying no reaction when you thrust the parchment back into his grasp.Â
âI need to tell you something,â you said unsteadily, once youâd regained some semblance of composure.
âTell me, then.â
You desperately wished for Soap to burst through the door and drag you away on another pointless horse ride. You wished for Gaz to appear and launch into another informal conversation about money and marriage prospects and freshly baked bread. You wouldâve even accepted Price interrogating your mental aptitude if it meant escaping this situation. Was this really how Ghost wanted to spend your final evening together? Not bickering or reminiscing or even quietly basking in each otherâs company, but embarrassing you instead?
âSir Ghost,â you began slowly, hovering at the very precipice of humiliation. âIâm illiterate.â
Ghost silently considered the revelation. It shouldnât have been particularly shockingâthe vast majority of villagefolk couldnât read or writeâbut youâd built your entire life around your competence. People trusted you to help them because they believed you knew things. Admitting ignorance, especially the same sort of ignorance they carried themselves, felt like itâd threaten your very livelihood.
âI figured,â Ghost said. âYou were looking at that map upside down in the tavern.â
You wanted to snatch the parchment back from him, tear it apart into a million tiny pieces, and scatter them all throughout the forest. Or maybe itâd be a quicker alternative to shove the paper straight into your mouth instead, to eat it whole so that neither of you would have to see it ever again. Stubbornly, you forced yourself to study the inked lines, attempting to decipher meaning from their shape the same way youâd tried with the map. There werenât enough words for a proper message, unless it was some sort of military code. But if it were, Ghost wouldnât be showing it to you at all.Â
âIs it an address?â
âSâwhere weâre headed next.â His voice went gritty at the edges, even harsher than usual. âThought Iâd give it to you, in case you wanted to write.â
Write to him.
âIâm sorry,â you said helplessly.
What you couldnât bring yourself to say was that scribes were expensive, that you already rationed your money cautiously enough just to write to your brother a handful of times a year. You kept his letters tucked away in the chest partially so you wouldnât be tempted to burn through your savings replying to each and every one. But beyond that, you couldnât simply reject thisânot when it was such a momentous thing for him to offer, especially given his profession.
It was nearly impossible to imagine he hadnât discussed it with his Guard beforehand, or at the very least weighed the decision carefully on his own. Maybe you could send Ghost a letter in the wintertime, splurge on it if the rush of the cold months brought in enough money. You werenât sure what youâd even share with himâperhaps a few stories about the women you met, or bland descriptions of the thousand repetitive tasks you completed every day and week and month and year. Nothing exciting enough to stand level with the life he lived, but maybe he already knew to temper his expectations. Maybe he preferred it that way.Â
Before you could think better of it, you stepped directly into the slot between Ghostâs legs. His hands shifted slightly, pausing for a moment near your hips before settling atop his own knees.
âI like being alone,â you blurted out, swallowing hard before continuing. âI know itâs uncommon, but I really do prefer it. I like doing things how I want them, and I like taking care of myself. But Iâitâs been nice having you around.â
And then you waited for him to finally tell you everything. You wanted a confession in return for all the pieces of your life youâd already shown him, some grand unveiling of the mysteries youâd staunchly avoided pressing him about. Who had poisoned him all those weeks ago, what his real name was, why heâd remained with you even after his Guard arrived; where heâd come from, why heâd stayed in your village, what sort of upbringing had turned him into this odd, secretive man sitting at the edge of your bed.Â
Instead, Ghost just looked at you for a long moment and said, âYou should go to sleep, girl.â
The dismissal felt like heâd dumped a bucket of freezing water over your head. It wasnât fair of him to act as though what youâd just admitted could be blamed on nothing more than fatigue, as if one nightâs rest might dissolve your feelings entirely by morning. But if he did acknowledge this properly, with all the sword-sharp attention and precision you knew he was capable of, then what? You couldnât even write.Â
âI donât like it when you call me that,â you said, not only because it was true, but also because it was the only way you could protest against him.Â
âWhat should I call you instead?â
âMy name is fine.â
Ghost said it just once; you shivered despite yourself. In response, that unfamiliar, breathy sound escaped him againâhis laugh. It should've irritated you, but instead you merely felt relief that at least one of you could find a trace of amusement within this situation.Â
Then he set the parchment aside and reached for your hands. You let him take them exactly how he wanted, leaning into the rough scrape of his skin against your own, warm and calloused and real. He interlaced your fingers together and held them up as if on display for you both. Standing between his knees, you allowed yourself to fall pliant, wondering for one dizzy, dangerous moment if he might draw you even closer.Â
He didnât. That was probably a good thing, you thought, because then all of this would truly become too much to bear.
***
The next morning, Ghost left shortly after breakfastâyour last meal togetherâpromising you heâd come back to say goodbye before he left for good. You were in the garden when he finally came back, hands aching from pulling weedsâitâd been Ghostâs chore while heâd stayed with you, but now that he was leaving, youâd have to reacquaint yourself with the task.
An occasion like this shouldâve been accompanied with rain or fog or, at the very least, a dense overcast. Instead, the sky was mercilessly bright, warming you and the soil and the plants down to the very root. Ghost was dressed in full armor, just as heâd been the day you first met him. His sword rested properly at his hip, secured within a polished new scabbard. He sat astride his stallion, outfitted in fresh leather tack, and rode all the way up to the garden like heâd come to carry you away, but he simply dismounted and gave the horse a firm pat against his flank.Â
âFound a name for him,â he said by way of greeting.
You reached out, smoothing your hands over the stallionâs pinkish-mahogany coat. âWhat is it?â
Ghost looked at the garden, then back at you, then at the garden again. He seemed uncertain, shifting beneath your attention in a way that reminded you of when heâd asked whether he could continue staying with you even after his Guard arrived. You felt a twinge of sympathy at his discomfort, but you refused to relent, staring into his eyes so intently that you were certain theyâd haunt your dreams for weeks to come. Dreams youâd wake from alone, in the bed youâd have to relearn how to sleep in after all that time on the floor.
âRaspberry,â he said at last.
Your hands stilled against the horseâs neck. âWhy?â
âHeâs the same color.â
There werenât enough words in the world to contain what that did to you, so you threw your arms around him instead.
It was a stilted embrace, more like hugging a blank vessel than a real person. Ghostâs armor dug into your cheek and chest while his arms settled stiffly around your waist, so hesitant that it felt like he was barely holding you at all. You found yourself wishing youâd done this earlier, before heâd hidden his skin away beneath all of this metal, but you doubted he wouldâve accepted your touch so readily otherwise.
You didnât tell him it was the first proper hug youâd initiated in years. The women you helped usually embraced you in gratitude after successful deliveries, and their unruly young children sometimes clung your legs until you gently shook them off. But those moments had always been fleeting, inconsequential. This was different because of how badly you wanted it, because of how youâd consciously chosen it first.
âWill we meet again?â you asked, with your face still smushed against his breastplate.
His answer came out muffled through the armor. âI canât promise you anything.â
âYou donât have to.â You drew back just enough to look up at him, keeping your arms looped around his middle. âI justâif you were able to, would you?â
âI would.â
He uttered it so quietly that you nearly dismissed it as wishful thinking, a foolish invention of your own imagination. But then you remembered how intentionally heâd held your hands yesterday, how deliberate heâd been whenever he touched you the handful of times before. How readily he was accepting you now. This had to be real.
You stepped away and withdrew the small jar hidden in your dress pocket, accepting that you were no different from the market girls after all. You could be older than them, more independent, more capable of maintaining your own livelihood, but deep down, you still wanted the same impossible things they did. You stood exactly the way they had before him: a village girl presenting a silly, earnest gift to a mysterious knight in hopes of being chosen.
âThis is for your scars,â you said, your heart painfully lodged somewhere in your throat as you held out the salve. âI made it for the mother you took me to visit, but I had extra. It should help with irritation once the weather turns cold.â
Ghost accepted the jar warily, balancing it in the center of his gloved palm as if he was afraid he might accidentally crush it. For what would likely be the final time, you longed to see his face. You wanted to know whether he was surprised, whether he was pleased, whether he was feeling anything at all beneath that dreadful silver skull. More selfishly still, you wanted something tangible from him in return, beyond an address you could barely useâsome object to anchor your thoughts to once he was gone. Memories shifted with time, softened around the edges no matter how fiercely you tried to preserve them. But you knew itâd be unfair of you to ask, so you didnât.
âThank you,â he said roughly, with the same begrudging gentleness heâd shown you the night before. His armor shone so brightly beneath the sun that it almost hurt to look at him.
You hugged him again. It was unnecessary and overwrought, especially given the length of your first embrace, but he allowed it anyway.
***
Taglist (comment if you'd like to be added!): @xncasi @nbdblogger @alyenna @delta98-idk
When the nights had you tossing uncomfortably, the best thing to do was slide out of bed and kneel on the floor. There beneath the creaky structure was a small box which contained tubes of acrylic paints in a multitude of colours, along with a pack of your handy brushes and a weak fold up easel. You were on your last canvas unfortunately, and you were debating if you should even waste it on today. It was 2am already too.
As the minutes passed, your brush glided across the paper, blocking out the larger parts of the scene from your imagination, and your muscles finally relaxed. Something had been eating at your head since the last mission, and you had a feeling youâd either have to cry it out, punch it out or well, paint it out. It makes your chest sink properly, the chill through the window actually registering in your bones and the knot in your stomach loosen by the second.
Youâre about to add the last highlight, a bright yellow to the cloud of debris, leaning over your desk to try to get it perfect.
âI.. didnât know ye painted, lass.â
The voice startles you instantly, making your thigh collide with the desk and the yoghurt cup youâve been using for paint water spills onto the desk.
âAhâ shite iâm sorry-â He rushes over and helps you, dabbing up the water before it can soak the canvas, unfortunately it got all over your.. uniform trousers. He raises a brow at the sight, but understands anyway. Sometimes it was the last comfort you had.
âIt was an accident, itâs okay Soap, really.â You huff out a small laugh, standing up beside him to throw the damp tissues into the bin.Â
âThis is.. the bomb we tested? Isnât it?â
 You nod quietly, standing back to see the painting with him. âPractically been stuck in my head for ages.â
The actual scene came from at least two years ago, when you went with Soap to discuss the bombs your team were using for an op. Now everytime you see something explode, like that fateful building last mission, you think of Soapâs eyes filled with wonder.
You break the moment with a wide yawn, shoulders slumping and he chuckles, pulling your arm so you lean into him. âSleep with me, yeah? Too messy in âere for ya.â You blink at the offer, though not something youâre not used to, and heâs off again, dragging you down the corridor to his room.Â
â
The morning comes softer, gentle rays that spill through the room. Youâd never compromise your training for your painting, thatâs why today and tomorrow were national holidays. Something about the king's anniversaryâ youâve never kept up with the royals.
You sigh at the missing body next to you though, hoping to have a warm furnace beside you to let you doze off yet again. His room wasnt much different from anyone's, just with a few more pictures and sketches hung up around. Everyone knew about his drawing hobby, but you preferred to keep yours under your bed.
When you head into the rec room, the four of them are already sitting on the couch, a lazy morning show talking about brunch. âMorning..â You mumble, and gently brush past Price to make your own coffee.
âGood sleep, kid? Soap showed me your art, never told us you had a talent for it, did you?â
You immediately still in your place, the tap running and overflowing your water cup.
âYou..know?â
Half of you was convinced that Soap even finding you like that was a dream, and the other half was horrified. Youâve never been the type to show it off, nor were you exceptionally proud of it either.
âMhm. Walked past your room, saw the door open. Soap told me youâd been painting it. Youâll show me the rest of them wont you?â
Well you can't possibly disobey your Captain.Â
âArt? Theyâve been painting?â Gaz comes over, intrigued by what he heard over at the couch. Only for Soap to come bounding in, the box beneath your bed in his hands. âLass, this is heavy!â
â
They sit back on the couch, the box sitting on the coffee table as they each look through the various canvases, ripped out notebook paper and.. failed watercolour pieces.
âI-itâs really not that special..â You had tried to convince them out of it, but they had all been so adamant you couldnât say no.
âItâs a spitting image.â Ghost grunts, showing the others the painting heâs holding in his hand. Itâs from the inside of the heli, the details of Ghostâs gloves resting on his lap, and Priceâs boots beside you.Â
âThatâs my cap too!â Gaz says excitedly, taking another painting out the box which was a still life youâd hurried. Including his cap of course. His fingers are gentle as they trace over the details, as if recounting the memories himself. You had all laughed because he left his cap in such a strange place, and then wondered where it was the entire day. âWhy did you never tell us about this?â
âItâs just something small I doâ I dont really think about it much..â
âYou taking commissions?â Price looks at you head on, having been quiet for the past fifteen minutes theyâve been admiring your work. The worst part is, he actually looks completely serious. Heâs holding a landscape you did only a few weeks ago, a scene you saw whilst riding a truck on the way to the next position. It was hard trying to recount every detail of the place, but it made it more rewarding when you finished it and it felt the exact same as you remembered.
âIâve never done it before.â You shrug, surely it was just an honest question, right? It wasnt like he actually wanted to buy one off of you. âI dont have any canvases right now anyway. Used my last one up.âÂ
â
The next morning youâre called into Priceâs office bright and early, which is a little strange but also could really be because he lost something and needs some help to find it. But it is pretty early. âMorninâ cap.â You hum, feeling a lot better since that night and already in a good moodâ or maybe thatâs because Soap warmed you all last night. Not the point.
âKid, come here.â You blink at the sheer concentration on his face as he stares down at his laptop, and yet it doesnt seem like heâs looking at something professional.You walk over, his coffee cup in your hand as you pass it over to him, and he silently thanks you as he makes space for you to also sit, having grabbed a chair for you before.Â
Heâs currently scrolling through Amazon, the search bar only containing the word âcanvas for paintingâ and heâs aimlessly scrolling through the hundreds of results. âWhich one do you want? I was going to surprise you but..â He huffs, annoyed at himself as he just drinks his coffee to quell the early morning grievances.
âWait.. really?â You turn to blink at him, and the wide of your eyes is enough to ease him, just seeing you happy enough that he thought of you.Â
âYeah. I want you to paint me something.â
â
âPaint all over meâdo not touch!â You squeal as Soap comes a little too close, laughing as you dodge his attempts and make your way to the rec room sink. Another cup of the murky water goes down the drain as you nearer the end of the painting youâve been working on practically all weekend. They hadn't even been allowed to peek at it yet, despite trying to multiple times.Â
âLass, one peek please?â Soap follows into the corridor as you head back to your room, all while nagging you non stop.
âItâs almost done, I just..â You chew at your lip, pausing and looking back at him, before squinting properly.
âWhatâs that look for?â
You grab his arm and drag him into your room, slamming it close behind him before pulling him to the canvas propped on your desk. He falls silent, looking at the scene in complete awe. You had taken the photo last week, when they were all out at the pub. There were no faces, no identifying features at allâ if you didn't look close enough that is.Â
Ghost was loosely holding his glass of bourbon, the familiar dark colour swirling in the glass. Gaz had one leg propped over his knee, hands gestured to the story he was telling. Priceâs hands rested on a cigar box, knee touching Soapâs as he stretched his legs out, never being able to sit still. You weren't in it, as the one taking the photo, but your car sat on the opposite end of the window, the dim streetlight illuminating the little charms hanging off your mirror.Â
So no, looking at it from a glance would be like he got a painting off of a sale at the nearest Dunelm.Â
âHelp me add the highlight, please?â He hoists you up so you can reach the top of the canvas safely, brush delicate in your hand as you add the final touch. That night when you sheepishly bring it to Priceâs office, he stares at it in awe before squeezing you so hard you almost choke on air.Â
And when the rest of the team get to have a look, you have at least three more orders for you to do whenever the nights get too roughâcanvases included too.
Reader is a lower ranking soldier, who unfortunately gets placed in the same room as the deadly Ghost after an unfortunate fire. Chaos ensue.
pairings: Female!reader x Lt Ghost, implied that reader has a crush on Soap
Notes: You can read in any order though Iâd recommend at least reading ch1 first, platonic or romantic, up to you :)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Odd habits Reader is a lower-ranking soldier who, after an unfortunate fire, is forced to share rooms with Lieutenant Ghost of all people. Unfortunately for reader, theyâre only coping mechanism is balling their eyes out every night and Ghost has a keener eye than most. (lfluff, humour, protective ghost, )
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Gummy Bears Your friends dont believe that your roommate is Simon Riley himself, the ghost. So, they force you to go over to the lieutenant and ask a stupid question. That is until you realise his sergeant is also there too. (Soap Mactavish, teasing)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ First missions Ghost knows how hard it can be to prove yourself in the military, so he asks you for a âfavourâ in which you go undercover on a mission with him team. He meant to just help you in exchange for scaring you all the time, but he finds something far more interesting instead. (141, canon-typical violence, fluff, teasing)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Using his rank to your advantage
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Dreams and Desires Ghost finds out you tend to have pretty vivid dreams and asks you about them regularly, intrigued. Itâs only when he teases you about having one about Soap that things get really interesting though. (Implied crush on Soap)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ A Favour While on a short trip to town, some creep hits on you, making you uncomfortable. you don't have anyone to walk back with you to the bus, but thankfully you still have a favour from Ghost waiting to be used. (protective!ghost, eventual fluff)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Cookinâ for two You decide to cook a steak using the portable stove your friend got you, when Ghost is supposed to be busy. That is until he comes angrily talking over the phone, and you know damn well what you're doing breaks many regulations. (Teasing, fluff,)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ The 3 times Ghost looked after you and the one chance you got to do the same for him As much as Ghost wants to pretend you dont plague his mind, he finds himself drawn to making sure you're okay. Of course he'd never let you reciprocate it.. unless he hadn't even realised himself. (protective!ghost,fluff, sleeping together, teasing)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Rumours your friends have distanced themselves with you after some baseless rumours surface, leaving you to come to Ghost instead. Luckily for you, he has a solution. (protectiveness, teasing, rumours)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ 'Girl Problems' When you dont show up to Soap's training sessions on time, he asks Ghosts where you've been. Turns out you've been having a pretty rough day, and luckily you have a grumpy roommate to help ËĘâĄÉË
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ 'Behind the mask' You didn't expect Ghost to be any younger than forty, but clearly your estimation is way off when you accidentally walk in on him after a shower. (Romance) ËĘâĄÉË
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ 'Restless' Nightmares plague the two of you, luckily you have the other to help you through it. Reader ver Ghost Ver
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ How to ragebait your lieutenant Ghost always gives you good advice, but sometimes tou really are too tired (and stubborn) to listen
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Bonfire Night November 5th has finally arrived and you are desperate to see the fireworks with Ghost. The team agree, and you all go together, finding out a lot more than their favourite pastries.
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Military Ball Due to a successful agreement with America, a ball will be hosted to honour a tradition of theirs. You ranks are invited to an âafter partyâ but rumours are going around again, and you start to believe their words.
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ A Healthy Dose Of Riley Eases the Heart You both go on deployment at similar times, leaving you far from him for the longest time yet. When you come back, you end up very ill, thankfully Simon comes back earlier than expected. (cw vomiting, grief, implied ptsd, hurt and lots of comfort) ËĘâĄÉË
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Rough week (request) (romance, fluff, reader beats up a guy)
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Dad? (Request) (fluff,platonic,141, teasing) You accidentally call Price dad after being teased about your dynamic for so long.
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ Through blood and insecurities (romance, fluff, reassurance, hurt/comfort) Ghost comes back injured from a mission, leaving you with a whirl of conflicting thoughts over how to help him and whether you really hold an important place in his life.
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ A Small Surprise (price + gaz focus) Youâve been helping Price out for a while with small little things but as easter break comes around and everyone leaves, youâre alone. Especially when Simon goes on a mission too. Luckily, heâs got plenty of jobs for you to do, and a credit card to spoil you with
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ A Diet? (fluff, humour, teasing, tf141) After your recent blood test Ghost decides you need a serious readjustment to your eating habits. Unfortunately for him, you wont go down without a fight.
ŕ¨â§ŕ§ The Second Lieutenant (angst, injuries/abuse, medical procedures (stitches). Youâre sent on a course to complete a new training. Of all the partners to get, your hates your guts which you believe is for no logical reason. Little do you know who his father is, or rather, who his father doesnt like
The Second Lieutenant Part Two
Note: despite some chapters being romance focused, i still plan to make equally as platonic chapters !
How to deal with bugs seperate drabbles on how each of the 141 would help rookie deal with a bug/rodent.
Taglist: open
Support my work and buy me a coffee! (iâm fighting for my life updating during exam szn)
How do you think rookie and ghost would react to finding like a gross bug in their room ?
I DIDNT FORGET ABT THIS i didnt. Anyway seperate drabbles for the whole taskforce, technically part of my rookie x lieutenant series but can be read as a standalone!
cw: spiders, wasps, mice, mosquitos.. vs the 141
Simon
Simon had woken up suddenly to the sound of a crash in the bathroom which wasn't exactly odd enough considering you had fallen in there multiple times.. Except not at 3am. He blinks wearily at his clock before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, already aware of the empty bedspace beside him when you snuck to the toilet ten minutes ago. He shouldâve known when you spent that long in there but he had chalked it down to your period starting, or stomach issues. That was until he heard your muttered curses, and the sound of something hitting the wall.
âWhat the hell are ya doing in there?â He knocks on the door and you open it almost instantly, sweat glistening on your neck from the summer heat and the towel clutched tightly in your fist. With your other hand, you pull him in before closing the door tightly shut.
âIâm going to fucking beat the shit out of this mosquitoâ You hiss, pointing up at the ceiling where the little black speck bounces around frantically.
âDid you bloody flashbang it or something?â He raises a brow at the newfound aggression heâs never even seen in you before until nowâ until dealing with a bug of all things.
âIâm gonna kill it.â He watches as you ready the towel again, and thwack it hard against the ceiling, only to narrowly miss it. âFuck!â
âAlright, relax, iâm not going to be the one to explain to the infirmary why youâre being written up again.â He grumbles, tugging the towel out of your hands. You reluctantly give it up, though your eyes are still tracking the movement of it across the ceiling. Hey, maybe you could be a decent sniper.
He is one of the best though.
His hands catch it in a satisfying clap, almost immediately, leaving you with your lips parted in surprise. He smirks at your reaction, separating his hands to show off the crime. âThatâs how itâs done, sweetheart.â
âEw, that is disgusting, Simon.â You scrunch your nose up at the corpse in his hand, before backing up towards the door.Â
âLove, you wereââ
âWash your handsâ now. With soap. Three timesâ You frown, pointing towards the sink adamantly. He sighs again, feeling the pull of sleep coming back and reluctantly follows, washing his hands three whole times.Â
âHappy?â
âYeah. But youâre still not touching me with those hands.â You shake your head with disgust, exiting the bathroom before heading towards his bed again. Youâre halfway there when youâre suddenly lifted up, strong arms around your middle as you squeal.
âYes I bloody am, rascal. Youâre the one who caused all of this, iâm damn well gonna hold you till i fall back asleep again.â He grumbles, carrying you easily regardless of your wriggling and squirming until he tosses you onto the bed.Â
âI dont want your mosquito hands!âÂ
âToo bad, itâs what youâre getting.â He grins, pulling your back to his chest and tucking his leg between yours.Â
âSimonââ You grumble but he leans over to kiss your cheek, silencing you quickly. Still, you groan, knowing you cant get out of his grip even if you triedâ somehow it just gets tighter when he falls asleep too.
Price
You were part of the team under Kyleâs command, handling civilians and making sure they got to a safe place in the chaos of a sudden terrorist attack. Price was handling his own objective with a few soldiers behind him, so you hadn't expected him to appear out of nowhere and suddenly grab you from your position.
âCaptain-!â You exclaim but quickly follow his lead without a second thought, allowing him to release his tight grip on your gear as you rushed to the side with him. It was seconds until the building you were beside suddenly began to crumble and you didn't look back this time, focusing on him in front of you. The next half an hour is a blur of bullets, disarming hostiles and finding a way out of the chaos before you reach a safehouse. It seemed the attack was targeted to lure the task force out, but they underestimated the manpower which pushed the power on your side.Â
Still, you were stuck in this safehouse until transport could be arranged. At least you werent actively being hunted down though.
âGood job, kid, really held your own out there. Wish i couldâve sent you along safely with the others.â Price sighs, knowing that the rest of your teammates had left when the situation seemingly had calmed down. You had been helping civilians at the time the order was given, so you asked to regroup with the sergeants after.
âReckon sheâs safer with us.â Kyle hums, taking the weapon from your hands before patting your shoulder. âHere, take some of my water, I know you gave yours to the kids.âÂ
You sheepishly take his flask, taking a large gulp to soothe the thin layer of sweat sitting under your gear. âDid everyone make it out safe?â
âYeah, thanks to you and the other soldiers, thereâs minimal casualties." Price closes the curtains of the window facing the street before pointing towards the door in the corner. âSmall bathroom in there, if you want to freshen up or refill your flask. Reckon we could all use it.â
You nod gratefully and head there, not even hesitating to splash the cold water across your face. The nerves are starting to settle nowâ it was your first op that hadn't gone the way you expected and you don't even want to think about what could happen if the Captain hadnât grabbed you. What matters is that you were all safe for nowâ still, you couldnt let your guard down too fast. Anything could happen, as much as you fear it.
You close your eyes, letting out a long breath and the crawling feeling of anxiety go with it. Except.. itâs still there, and you can feel the shiver down your arms now too. Thatâs weird, whyâs it moving down to your hand?
Blinking your eyes open, youâre met face to face with eight legs practically sitting in your palmâ your palm!
Panicked, you flail your hand around frantically to try and get it off. That is until you realise you had bitten down so hard to stop yourself from being too loud that the taste of blood was quickly overtaking your senses.
Without much more thought, you open the door and dash out, clinging onto the first thing you see.. which also happens to be the Captainâs arm.
You clutch his arm as you ramble through your story, eyes pricking with tears as you frantically look down at your hand to make sure it doesnt suddenly appear.
He blinks once at you and then turns to Gaz who is all but keeping it together, hand over his mouth and head turned away as his body wracks through snickers. Meanwhile all Price can do is let his body relax, his hand patting your back as he nods. To be honest, when you came barrelling out of that bathroom so suddenly he had been terrified someone had hurt you. He.. didn't expect itâd be a bug of all things.
âSorry.â You squeak, realising you had been clutching his arm like a stress toy, and let go to step back quickly. âI just..â
âItâs fine. Iâm actually quite impressed you hadnt screamed.â He chuckles, shaking his head before letting his palms sit on his hips. âGuess I better go kill it for ya, shouldnât I?â
âIf you dont mind..â You watch him walk down the corridor, disappearing into the room without hesitation. Itâs starting to hit you now what you just did, but before the first wave of embarrassment can even hit properly you hear the steps beside you.
âOh Captain, please save me from the spider!â
âKyle!â You squeal, pulling your arm away from him as he grabs it and swings it back and forth, eyes narrowed at him. âItâs not my faultâ it was a big spider!â
âYeah right, probably the size of your dignity after that.â
âIf weâre considering it small then itâs the size of your dââ
âPretty big, Kyle.âÂ
This time heâs the one who jumps, scrambling backwards at the spider dangled in front of his face, by none other than Price himself.Â
âPut that down, dont just swing it around like that. I-itâs weird.â Kyle huffs, backing up as Price moves it further towards him, up until heâs practically hiding behind the couch.Â
âI killed it, so I can do whatever I like with it.â He responds, chuckling at the Sergeantâs irrational behaviour. He never knew he was scared of spiders.
âYeah Kyle.â You taunt, happy the Captain is taking your side in this.. that is until he turns towards you, raising a brow.
âWhat did you say there, kid?â
âNothing! I swearâ nothing.â
âââââââââââââ-
Kyle
After that spider debacle, Kyle was insistent on trying to catch you squealing again. However it wasnt too easy to exactly grab a bug and shove it in your face, and he knew the Captain would likely get annoyed if he caused too many problems. So he just had to wait it out.
Infact, he almost forgot altogether until he was about to head to bed when suddenly one of the cleaners rushed past him, chasing after a mouse.
He dashed to your room in practically seconds, buzzing at the fact of just terrifying you at the idea of a mouse on the base.. and maybe a little lie that it got into the rec room and was near the cupboard with your snacks in it.
âRookieâ!â He gasps, actually out of breath despite everything else being a performance. âYour- your snackâ a mouse!â
Your eyes go wide instantly as expected about to panic until you suddenly pause, narrowing your eyes. âHow do i know youâre not lying?â
âFineââ He grabs your arm and pulls you out your room, down the corridor towards the cleaner whose running after the squeaky little thing, and thankfully just from the direction of the rec room too.
As expected, you yelp in horror and heâs ready to just call it quits there, since he knows youâll probably just beg him to catch it for you anyway. Right?
âWhat are you doing standing there?! We need a box asap!â
You rush back into the rec room without a second thought, emptying Kyleâs box of protein bars onto the table before dashing out again.Â
âWaitââ He starts but youâre already running to help the cleaner, and in less than ten minutes youâve got it sealed in the plastic box.
âWow.. heâs actually kind of cute.â You frown, holding up the tub to your eye level and watching the little thing run around. âIsnt he?â
âI guess..? Can you take him out of that box? I meanâ itâs for my bars.â He frowns, watching as you peer at it.
âWhat? Didn't you want me to help you catch it?â You raise a brow, stepping towards him and watching as his eyes lock onto the mouse with disgust. âYknow, the cleaner said it actually didn't go anywhere near the rec room. Apparently you saw him chasing it and ran off.â
âI thought itâd go near your snacks.â He mutters, doing his best to seem unaffected but the longer you leave it there in his box, that he keeps all his snacks in.
âMaybe I should keep him here a little longer, I mean, he seems to like it.â You taunt, walking into the rec room and towards the kitchen. âHey, you don't mind if I give it some of your cheese in the fridge. Reckon he can just bite a bit off?
âAlright, fine! I wanted to scare youâ now get it out of my box now. Rookieâ.â
You stick your tongue at him though before glancing at the mouse and then back to him. âHmm⌠a little mouse told me he needs to go toilet though.â
âYou littleââ
JohnnyÂ
He invited you to the rec room for a movie night tonight, but asked you come a little earlier to set up the snacks with him. Usually this was him and Kyleâs job but they were all caught up in work today.
âIm here!â You open the door and he immediately smiles, coming over to greet you since youâve been out of base for a few days yourself.
âBrought the goods?â
âYessir.â You salute, handing him the tesco bag with the snacks bought with money he transferred. Itâs not like you hadnt tried to pay yourselfâ he just happened to be very persuasive.
âAh, perfect Bonnie. Câmere, help me lay out the dips will ya?â
You nod, practically bouncing along with excitement to be around your favourite people again. It was late, almost seven thirty, and yet the summer months meant the sun was still shining through the windows. The birds were noisy as ever outside anyway, so it didn't exactly feel like the evening yet.
âJohnny should we make some nachos with salsa and cheese orââ
You suddenly scream, taking at least six steps backwards before bumping straight into him. Luckily for you, his hands are free so he steadies you quickly. âBon whaâs wrong?â He scans the room for the danger but he cant find a single sign of it anywhere.
âThere!â You cry, pointing towards the ceiling where something small seems to buzz around going in circles.
âItâs a wee thing, Bon. I can just shoo it out-â
âNo! Itâs a wasp! Or a hornet! I don't know but its bad!â He doesnt get a chance to even question it before you hiding behind him, hands on his shoulders as you use him as a shield.
âGuess thaâ is pretty serious businessâÂ
He turns around and shooes you out instead, out of the rec room door until you stand there, teeth worrying at your lip anxiously. âWhy dontâya grab some pillows, anâ iâll get it out for ya. Okay?â
With a fearful nod, he closes the door on you, and focuses his efforts on the buzzing wasp. Thankfully for him, itâs almost too easy, opening the window curtain until it all but flies out itself. Well, he can always pretend he fearlessly chased it out himself.
When the knock returns on the door, he quickly comes over with the haul of pillows he usually expects you to have. And you do, except when youâre done putting them all down, there lays an empty duvet cover in your hands.
He gives you a strange look until you put it on the floor, grabbing the open end and stepping inside. You easily pull up the rest to your neck, the thin fabric swallowing you over your head with your hands bunching it at your neck.
âWhaâ.. is this?â
âItâs gonna protect me from the bugs.â You say adamantly, waddling over to the couch with the little grace you have left and sitting yourself down. Sure enough, he supposes no bugs can get in when the only hole is where your face peeks through. Pretty sound reasoning.. only a pretty strange look. He wants to make fun of you, really, the sight is pretty laughable. But.. seeing you so terrified earlier has a soft spot in his chest.Â
âWow, you wound me.â He sighs dramatically, collapsing onto the couch beside you with his hand clutching at his chest.
âWhatâ why?! I didn't do anythingââ
âExactly. You only got one for yerself, what if the bugs come after me now, eh?â
Your eyes widen, unsure if heâs poking fun or being serious or not. Did he really want to look as silly as you, or was he making fun of you?â
âCant even defend yerself, iâm gonna have all bites tomorrow and itâll be yer fault.â
âOkay! Okay!â
Thatâs how the rest of the taskforce walked in to the sight of both of you, tucked on the couch in your own protective cocoons. Face smothered in the dips youâve been picking at whilst waiting for them
to arrive of course.
âIâm not even gonna ask.â Price sighs, heading to the kitchen to grab himself a glass of water, Simon following after.
âGuys.. isnt it too hot for blankets?â Kyle raises a brow at the sigh, but Johnny just sighs, making direct eye contact with you.
âShould we tell him heâll die from the bugs?â
âI dont know.. some people deserve to learn.â
âWaitâ no, tell me-Â now!â
Adding Kyle to the addition was all too easy, but unfortunately, as much as you tried throughout the night, the other two wouldnât give in one bit.Â
âYâfalling asleep, love?â Simon looks down at you as you yawn against him. You had pulled up your knees in your duvet a while ago, and now you really look like some kind of worm.Â
âYeah..â You yawn once more, and his arm falls around you, letting you snuggle against his chest.
âIâm bloody exhausted too, mate.â Johnny adds from the other side of him, trying to imitate you as he lays his head on Simonâs shoulder.
âFrom what, huh? Eating half the nachos tray?â
âRude.â He groans as Simon nudges him off, but he doesn't do it the second time he returns. âAye, Lt?â
âWhat?â
âYe got a bed bug on ya.â
They both look towards you at the same time, snoring away against his side with your mouth parted open. Simon pats your side with a soft sigh, you and your bloody bugs would be the death of him.
ââââââââââââââââ
buy me a coffee!
A Rookie and Her Lieutenant Masterlist
COD masterlist
thanks for reading guys if i havent updated it to the masterlist its cus im lazy asf and iâll add it in a bit lol
20K words, Simonâs hair has grown out, reader wears glasses, Simon doesnât know how to dance, smut, the fluffiest fluff, angst, size kink, Simon is huge, pee mentioned, Simon is filthy but we all knew that. Tell me if I missed any tags.
He was four years old when he stole your crayons.
Not all of them. Just the good ones. The red one. The yellow one. The bright, sunflower-gold one that you'd been saving to colour the sun in the corner of your drawing, the way all four-year-olds drew the sun â a circle in the corner, rays shooting out like a child's idea of joy.
You looked at him across the low art table in that bright little preschool room that smelled of poster paint and digestive biscuits.
He was stocky even then.
Chubby-cheeked and heavy-set. A thick, sturdy little boy who sat with his legs wide and his fat fists curled around your crayons like he'd earned them.
He wasn't even looking at you.
He was colouring something â a car, maybe, or a blob that might have been a dog â and the yellow crayon moved in big, purposeful strokes across his paper.
You did not cry.
You considered it.
Then you leaned across the table and took them back.
He looked up.
Brown eyes. Even at four, they were startling â dark and serious and far too watchful for a boy his age.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he slid the gold crayon back across the table to you, said nothing, and went back to his drawing.
His name was Simon.
You would not learn that until the register was called the following morning. But you remembered his eyes before you remembered his name.
â ⌠â
He broke your glasses in Year Two.
Not on purpose â or so you believed, for most of your life, until you were old enough to accept that
Simon Riley did very few things without purpose.
He knocked into you in the corridor outside the dining hall, your plastic NHS frames hitting the linoleum floor, one arm snapping clean off at the hinge.
You stood there, the world going soft and blurry at the edges the way it always did without them, and you felt the particular, humiliating sting of being unable to see properly â the vulnerability of it, the indignity.
Simon picked up the frames. Looked at them. Looked at you.
He didn't say sorry straight away. He examined the break with the seriousness of a boy who was already, at seven, very careful about what he said and when he said it. Then, "I'll carry your bag till they're fixed."
"You broke my glasses," you told him like he didnât know.
"I know." He nodded.
"That's not the same as fixing them."
"No," he agreed. "But it's what I've got."
He carried your bag for three days. And when your mum brought the repaired frames in on the fourth morning, he handed the bag back without ceremony, turned, and went to join his mates by the football cage. No further apology. No acknowledgement that anything had occurred between you at all.
That afternoon, you kicked over his sandcastle in the playground.
He watched you do it. Didn't say a word.
You felt better.
And somehow, after that, you were friends.
â ⌠â
He couldn't read very well. You figured this out in Year Three, during the round-robin reading in class â when the teacher went along the rows and each child read a sentence aloud.
You noticed the way Simon's jaw set and his hands went flat on the desk the closer it got to his turn. The way his eyes moved across the page, laboured and slow, tracking words like they were things to be wrestled rather than known.
He got through his sentence. Barely. His face was blank when he sat back, the particular blankness he'd already learned to wear â that carefully constructed nothing that meant everything was fine when everything was not fine at all.
You didn't say anything about it. Not then. You were eight years old, not stupid.
What you did was start reading with him at break time. You presented it as something you needed â you told him you were practising for a reading competition and needed an audience.
Simon was not fooled. He was never fooled, not really.
But he sat down with you on the bench by the library door and listened while you read, and then slowly, carefully, you handed the book to him and asked what he thought happened next, and he had to read ahead to find out.
It took most of the school year. But by the summer he was reading chapter books. He never thanked you. He did start saving you a seat on the library bench every break time, and that was the same thing.
â ⌠â
He played football and rugby.
You read on the grass bank above the field.
It became a kind of institution â the ritual of your shared proximity without shared activity. Simon on the pitch, broad and determined and already bigger than the other boys by Year Five, already moving with that particular physicality that seemed less like playing and more like declaration.
And you on the bank above, your book open, your reading glasses (a better pair now, tortoiseshell) perched on your nose, half-reading and half watching without ever quite admitting to the watching.
He always knew you were there. He didn't do anything about it. But sometimes, when he scored, he'd look up at the bank first before he looked anywhere else.
You told yourself you were only there because the grass was nice and the light was good.
You were not a good liar, even then.
â ⌠â
The boy's name was Daniel Holt and he pushed you over in the playground in Year Five because you'd refused to give him the answers to the maths homework.
You'd said no three times and the third time he pushed you and you went down hard on your palms and your knees, the concrete was unforgiving.
You were crying before you'd fully registered what had happened. Not dramatically â small, shocked, indignant tears, the kind that arrive before the pain does.
Simon was there before a teacher was. You didn't even see where he came from. One moment the playground was its ordinary mid-morning noise, and the next Daniel Holt had a split lip and Simon Riley was standing over him with blood on his knuckles and a look on his face that was completely, utterly calm.
The calm was the frightening part. Even at ten.
He got three days at home for it. He spent the first afternoon sitting on your front step, eating crisps, because he knew you'd be furious with him and wanted to face it head-on.
You were furious. You told him he was an idiot. He told you Daniel Holt had it coming. You told him violence wasn't the answer. He told you Daniel Holt wasn't going to touch you again.
He was right. Daniel Holt never came near you again.
You didn't thank him either. You went inside and made him a sandwich, and that was the same thing.
â ⌠â
Secondary school arrived like a change in weather â everything slightly larger, slightly louder, the corridors longer and noisier, the stakes somehow higher and more ambiguous all at once. You arrived with a bag so heavy your shoulder ached within the first hour: your textbooks, yes, but also the extracurricular books you carried everywhere, the extra notepad you used for non-school thoughts, the six different highlighters you colour-coded by subject.
Simon took the bag from you on the third day without asking.
"I can carry it," you told him.
"I know," he said.
He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which for him it probably didn't. He'd grown over the summer â not just taller, though he was that, but broader, thicker through the shoulders in a way that made him look like a man playing a boy, trying the shape of it on. He wore it well, even at eleven. He wore everything like he'd already decided what he was and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
He carried your bag when it was heavy, and it was frequently heavy. He did it without comment and without making you feel small for needing it. That was the thing about Simon â he never made you feel small. He made other people feel small, sometimes, when they deserved it. But not you. Never you.
â ⌠â
The bruises were never from rugby.
You knew by the second year of secondary.
You were not naive â you had read enough, observed enough, understood enough about the world to recognise the shape of what was happening in Simon Riley's house even though he never said a word about it.
The bruises were in the wrong places for rugby. They appeared in the wrong season. They were around his ribs and his arms and once, memorably, along his jaw, and he came to school the Monday after the jaw bruise with that face â that blank, carefully constructed nothing face â and you sat next to him at lunch and said nothing at all.
You said nothing because there was nothing you could do. You were twelve. You were a girl with a book bag and highlighter pens and absolutely no power over the man who was hurting your best friend, and knowing that â the impotence of it, the helpless, hollow ache of caring about someone you could not protect â was the first truly adult pain you ever felt.
What you could do was this: you could make sure he had somewhere to go.
Your mother, who was perceptive in the quiet way that some mothers are, never asked questions when Simon turned up at the back door on a Sunday evening or a Wednesday after school.
She just set another plate.
Your house became a refuge without anyone naming it as such. Simon did his homework at your kitchen table, ate your mother's cooking, watched telly with your family, and slept on your sofa sometimes when the option was presented naturally enough that it didn't feel like charity.
â ⌠â
You got your period for the first time on a Tuesday in November, in Year Nine. In the school toilets, third period, when you were thirteen years old and the day had been entirely ordinary right up until it wasn't.
The particular cocktail of shock and pain and embarrassment and the specific existential bewilderment of being a person whose body was doing something enormous without prior adequate notice left you sitting on the closed toilet lid crying in a way you hadn't cried in years.
You got out your Nokia. That familiar brick of a phone, the keypad worn smooth at the number five. You typed Simon's number and pressed call before you'd properly decided to.
He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Simon." Your voice came out wrong. Too thin.
A beat. When he spoke again his voice had changed â quieter, more careful. "Where are you?"
"Girls' toilets. Near the science block."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
He appeared outside the girls' toilets seven minutes later â you could hear him through the door, his voice low and flat, telling a Year Eight girl to go use the other ones â and then he was there, right there on the other side of the door, talking to you through it in that steady, even way he had when he wanted to be calm on your behalf.
"You're alright," he said. âDo you need me to go to the office?"
"No," you managed. "I need â I don't know what I need."
"I'll get you something from the vending machine," he said, that Manchester accent of his low and unhurried. "And I'll text your mum."
When you came out of the toilets twenty minutes later, looking wrung-out and clutching what the school nurse had provided, Simon was leaning against the wall. He looked at you for a moment â took you in, the way he always did, that comprehensive, assessing look â and then he stepped forward and kissed your cheek. Quick. Certain. His mouth warm and deliberate against your cheekbone.
"You're alright," he said again. He said it like a fact. Like he was making it true by saying it.
You cried a bit more, for different reasons, and he pretended not to notice.
â ⌠â
He was captain of the rugby team by Year Ten. It suited him â the leadership, the sense of purpose, the structure of it.
You went to his matches sometimes, wrapped in a scarf on the touchline, and watched him move across the pitch with that same quality you'd noticed on the primary school field: less like playing, more like declaration.
He was ferocious and focused and occasionally frightening, and the other boys deferred to him not just because he was bigger than them but because he had the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced.
Afterwards he'd find you on the touchline, still carrying that quality â coiled, alert â and it would take him a few minutes to come back to himself. To come back to you.
"Good game," you'd say.
"Yeah," he'd say.
And then slowly, the set of his shoulders would ease, and he'd become Simon again. Your Simon. The one who stole your crayons and carried your bag and ate your mother's shepherd's pie like it was sacred.
â ⌠â
He could make you laugh. This was not a small thing.
Simon Riley was not, by general consensus, a funny person. He was serious and quiet and his face in repose looked like a man carrying a private weather system. But he had a dry, deadpan wit that he deployed rarely and precisely, and it landed, every time, like a key in a lock made specifically for it.
He knew how to make you laugh because he'd spent years learning you. The specific frequency of your humour. The things that made you dissolve into giggles rather than just smile. He deployed his wit with the same precision he deployed everything else, and the result was that when Simon Riley made you laugh â really laugh, the helpless, breathless kind â it felt like being given something he didn't give to anyone else.
Which, you would eventually understand, was accurate.
â ⌠â
His name was Ryan Marsh and he was your first kiss, in the park on a Friday evening in Year Ten, and it was fine. It was nice, even. Ryan was sweet and nervous and smelled of his older brother's aftershave and the kiss lasted approximately forty seconds.
Ryan Marsh had a broken nose the following Monday.
Simon maintained, with total conviction, that Ryan had walked into a door. Ryan, to his credit, corroborated this story completely.
You did not push the matter, partly because you had no concrete evidence and partly because some part of you â the part that read on the grass bank and watched the pitch and noticed when Simon looked up at the bank before he looked anywhere else â felt something that was not entirely uncomplicated about it.
You and Ryan Marsh did not have a second kiss. You told yourself it was because the chemistry hadn't been right.
You were getting a bit better at lying to yourself, by fourteen. But only a bit.
â ⌠â
GCSEs arrived the way all important things arrived â with more weight than you'd expected and less warning than you'd have liked.
Year Ten and Eleven were the years you restructured Simon's entire approach to studying, methodically and patiently, the same way you'd helped him learn to read, finding the approach that worked for how his mind moved.
Simon was not unintelligent.
He was, in fact, formidably sharp in ways that didn't translate easily to an exam paper: quick to read people, quick to understand systems, possessed of a spatial and strategic intelligence that you recognised and admired even as you taught him how to write it down in ways that the mark scheme would accept.
He sat with you at your kitchen table night after night â your mother quietly replenishing the tea,â and you explained things in the language that made sense to his brain rather than the language of the textbook.
He sat with you at lunch during school hours and glared at anyone who called you a nerd. The glaring was extremely effective. Simon Riley's face, by fifteen, was a significant deterrent.
His GCSE results, when they arrived, were good. Better than anyone who knew his circumstances might have expected from a boy who'd had so much working against him.
He rang you on the house phone when he opened the results envelope. He didn't say much. His voice, when he spoke, was different â something in it unguarded, the Manchester in it softer somehow, without the armour it usually carried.
"Couldn't have done it without you," he said.
"You did it," you told him firmly. "I just held the torch."
"Still needed the torch."
You smiled so hard your face ached. "Go celebrate, Simon."
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter, "Thanks, sunshine."
â ⌠â
He was an apprentice at the butcher's on Renshaw Street after school â learning the trade with the same focused, physical competence he brought to everything else, solid and unhurried, his big hands learning new kinds of precision. You had a job at the bookshop two streets over.
On his lunch breaks you would walk over with a sandwich and a packet of crisps, and you'd sit on the low wall around the side of the shop while he ate and you talked about nothing in particular and everything in general.
He had sawdust on his boots and you'd have ink on your fingers from pricing stickers, and you'd sit in the thin afternoon light talking about books and people and where things might go from here, and it was the most ordinary, irreplaceable thing in the world.
You didn't know, then, that you were storing it up. You didn't know you were in the middle of something finite.
You were seventeen and you thought you had time.
â ⌠â
It was the eleventh of September, 2001.
You were at work when it happened â the bookshop had a small television in the back room, and you watched the footage with your hand pressed over your mouth and the world rearranging itself into a new shape around you.
Simon came to you that evening. He didn't knock â he had a spare key, had done for years â and you heard him come in and go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, the sound of him so familiar and domestic and real that something in your chest loosened a fraction.
He brought you tea. He sat on the sofa beside you and you watched the news together in silence, and at some point your head found his shoulder without either of you deciding it had.
"I'm going to join up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
You lifted your head from his shoulder. Frowned at him. "Join up what?"
"The military."
The word landed in the room and stayed there. You looked at his face â that flat, certain expression he wore when he'd already decided something â and you felt the ground shift slightly under you.
"Simon. You're seventeen."
"You can join at sixteen with parental consent," he said. Straightforward, as though he'd already looked into it. Which of course he had. "Seventeen without."
"That'sâ" You stopped. Started again. "You've thought about this before today."
"Yeah."
Of course he had. You could see it now, the shape of it â this was not a reaction to the footage on the television, not a hot, impulsive thing. This was something Simon had been building toward without telling you. The structure of it. The purpose. The particular kind of belonging that came from being part of something larger than yourself. You'd always known he'd go toward something like this. You'd just hoped, without ever quite admitting to the hoping, that it might be further away.
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it." Not a question.
"Would it work?"
He held your gaze. "No."
"Then no," you said. Your voice was very steady. You were proud of it. "I'm not."
He was quiet for a long moment. The television continued its awful repetition. Then his arm came around your shoulders, heavy and warm, and he pulled you in closer against his side.
You stayed like that until the tea went cold.
â ⌠â
The train station was grey and noisy with other leavings, other arrivals, other people in the middle of things.
Simon stood in front of you on the platform with his kit bag and his big, careful hands and the face he'd spent seventeen years learning to keep blank, and it occurred to you, not for the first time and not for the last, that you loved him.
That you had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life. That you did not know how to say it and were not sure it would do either of you any good if you did.
So you didn't say it.
You went up on your toes and you hugged him â truly hugged him, arms around his neck, your face pressed against his jaw â and he held you back with both arms, the kit bag dropping to the platform, and he was so solid and warm and real that you memorised it.
"Don't be an idiot," you told him, muffled.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. "Best I can do is try." The Manchester in his voice, low and warm and his.
"Simon."
"I know," he said quietly, against your temple. "I know, sunshine."
You stepped back. You held it together. He picked up his bag and he walked toward the platform and at the door of the train he turned, and looked at you standing there with your glasses and your coat and your hands pressed together in front of you, and for a second you saw something in his face that wasn't blank at all.
Then he was gone.
You cried on the way home. Proper, ugly crying, in the front seat of your mother's car, while she drove and said nothing and passed you a tissue.
You cried because you thought you might never see him again. Because the world had cracked open on a Tuesday in September and people were going toward the fracture and Simon Riley was one of them.
You cried because you never told him.
â ⌠â
He sent a birthday card every year.
They arrived with no return address and postmarks from places you'd never heard of, and sometimes they were late and sometimes they were so early you suspected he'd sent them weeks in advance in case he couldn't later.
They were always plain â Simon Riley was not a man who browsed the sentimental section â white or cream envelopes, the kind of card that was almost generic, and inside: his handwriting, which had improved vastly from the boy who'd struggled across the page in Year Three, and always the same thing. Your name at the top. Happy Birthday, sunshine. And then: S.
Just S.
Like he was still close enough that you'd know exactly who that meant. Like the initial was sufficient.
It was.
You sent his birthday gifts to a P.O. box he'd given you, wrapped carefully, the tag always: From your best friend. You didn't know if he received them all. You sent them anyway. It felt important to keep sending them â to maintain the thread, even when you couldn't see both ends of it.
â ⌠â
Thirty-four years old now.
You have no husband. You had come close, once â a man named Patrick who had been perfectly acceptable in every measurable way and who had wanted to marry you and had probably deserved someone who could give him more of herself than you could manage.
You had not been fair to Patrick. You knew that. You had been in love with someone else for most of your adult life, and even with the someone else absent and silent and possibly dead, there wasn't room for anyone else.
You have no children, though you wanted them. The timeline on that was becoming its own quiet ache, the kind you didn't prod too often.
You have a job that pays the bills and not much else â admin in an office building that smells of carpet cleaner and recycled air, the kind of work that requires enough of your brain to stop it from wandering but not enough to satisfy it.
You have an apartment that is functional and yours and that you have tried to make cozy, with books on every surface and plants that are mostly surviving and a kitchen you actually cook in.
It is not the house. It is not the house you told Simon about when you were sixteen and lying in his back garden on a summer evening, staring up at the sky.
No birthday card for five years now.
Five years of the particular, specific silence that was different from all the silences before, because the silences before had been interrupted. Annually, reliably, he had broken them.
Five years of nothing had the texture of conclusion. Of a chapter closing. And you had reached the point â slowly, painfully, with the kind of acceptance that doesn't feel like acceptance but feels like exhaustion â where you were fairly certain Simon Riley was dead.
Your heart ached for your best friend in the low, constant way of grief that has become so familiar it's almost structural.
You carried it the way you carried other things, quietly, with your spine straight.
Which is why you are sitting across from a man named â it didn't matter, it really didn't matter what his name was â on what your colleague Debbie had described as 'a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man' and trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in your own life.
The man sitting across from you was the complete opposite of Simon Riley.
He was trim and well-dressed and had the kind of face that was handsome in a way that required no effort to appreciate and inspired no particular feeling from you.
He had been talking for, by your reckoning, forty-seven minutes. In that time he had covered: his career (impressive, in his telling), his car (expensive, in his telling), his last holiday (exotic, in his telling), and his general philosophy on modern dating (nuanced, in his telling).
He had not asked about your job. He had not asked about your books or the one peeking out of your handbag; the one he'd glanced at and not commented on. He had not asked if your pasta was nice, which it was, actually, genuinely nice, and you'd have told him so if he'd asked. He had not asked you almost anything, come to think of it.
Simon Riley, who spoke perhaps a tenth as many words as this man, had always asked.
Simon Riley had always wanted to know. Not because it was polite. Because he actually, genuinely, in the particular way of people who care about very few things very deeply â wanted to know.
You excused yourself to use the bathroom and stood at the sink running cold water over your wrists and looking at your own reflection, and you thought: this is fine.
This is a perfectly nice evening with a perfectly nice man. This is what moving forward looks like. This is what being a person in the world, a person with a life and a future and reasonable expectations of company, looks like.
You dried your hands. You went back to the table. He had ordered himself another drink without asking if you wanted anything.
You finished your pasta and smiled at appropriate intervals and thought about Simon Riley and felt, as you so often felt, quietly furious at him for being gone.
â ⌠â
The birthday card arrived on a Thursday morning.
You almost missed it entirely â it was tucked between a pizza delivery leaflet and something from your energy supplier, the cream envelope almost camouflaged by the mundane. You shuffled through the post on autopilot and then stopped.
Your name, in handwriting you would have recognised anywhere, would have recognised in your sleep, had recognised in your bones for thirty years.
You sat down on the bottom stair. Your legs suddenly uneasy.
Your hands were not steady.
The envelope opened. The card was white. Plain. Almost generic.
Inside:
Happy Birthday, sunshine.
I'm sorry it's been so long.
I'll explain everything.
Come, if you want to.
If you can stand the sight of me.
Below that, an address. Three towns over. A postcode you didn't recognise.
And then, at the bottom, the way it had always been at the bottom: S.
You sat on the bottom stair for a very long time.
Then you got up, went to your room, and started thinking about what to wear.
â ⌠â
You plucked up the nerve to go on a Saturday.
The drive took forty minutes and you spent most of it trying to manage yourself â talking yourself through reasonable expectations (he is alive, that is enough, start there), warning yourself against things you could not control (the five years, the silence, the way your hands were doing that unsteady thing again), cataloguing everything practical (the address, the map).
The street was quiet. Semi-rural, the kind of neighbourhood that sits between things â between town and country, between the ordinary and the aspirational. The houses were spread out, set back from the road, each with its own front garden and its own character.
You parked. You looked at the address. You looked up.
And you stopped breathing.
It was a beautiful house.
Large, substantial and solid, the kind of house that had been built to last. White painted render, clean and bright in the afternoon light. A white picket fence surrounding the front garden, which was full of flowers. Roses climbing the gatepost. Lavender edging the path. Foxgloves and dahlias and great loose clusters of something purple you couldn't name from here. The kind of garden that had been planted with intention, tended with care, left to be a little wild in the best way.
A porch. And a porch swing, painted white, with a yellow cushion on it.
And flying from the corner of the roof, bright against the blue afternoon sky: the Union flag.
You sat very still in the driver's seat.
You were sixteen years old. It was a summer evening and you were lying in Simon's back garden on an old sleeping bag, looking up at the sky. He was beside you in the way he was always beside you â solid, quiet, taking up exactly the right amount of space. You'd been talking about the future the way teenagers do, in great floating hypotheticals that feel more like weather than plans.
"What kind of house?" he'd asked. He asked follow-up questions always, quietly, wanting the specifics. It was one of the things about him you loved.
And you'd described it. A big house, not ostentatious but real â space for books and for people and for a garden that did what it wanted within reason. A white fence, because you'd always liked them. A porch with somewhere to sit. A flag, because you were â despite everything â proud of where you were from.
Simon had been quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he'd said. Just: okay.
You had thought he was humouring you.
You had not thought â you had not let yourself think â what it might mean, that he was going to do anything about it.
You got out of the car. Your legs were not entirely reliable. You held the gate and walked up the path â lavender brushing your hand where it grew close, the scent of it too perfect, almost staged â and you stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
The door opened.
He had to duck.
That was the first thing you noticed. The physical fact of him, the sheer size of him, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe on both sides simultaneously, the automatic dip of his head as he stepped through onto the porch.
He straightened.
The afternoon light landed on him and you had to spend a moment recalibrating, because the last time you'd seen Simon Riley he had been seventeen years old with sawdust on his boots and a train ticket in his hand, and this man â
This man.
The white button-down shirt was simple, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and from his left wrist to well past the roll of the sleeve his forearm was dark with ink â a sleeve of tattoos, intricate and considered. A whole geography of imagery that you couldn't read from here but would, you thought, take time to learn.
His right wrist carried a watch. His black slacks were fitted close enough that you could see the muscle of his thighs pulling the fabric with every shift of his weight, and his shoes â loafers, black with gold buckles, completely unexpected and somehow exactly right â were precise.
His hair. A dark sandy blonde, longer than military specification presumably allowed and slicked back from his face, which meant you could see all of it, his whole face; the angles that had sharpened from boy to man, the jaw, the set of his brow, and those eyes. Those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old and had never, not once, looked at you with anything less than complete attention.
He was raking those eyes over you now. Slowly. With the same quality he'd always had â that comprehensive, unhurried assessment that somehow never felt like being measured â and his hands were in his pockets and he was standing there like that, on the porch he'd built or bought or arranged specifically around a description you'd given him at sixteen.
He looked like something out of a magazine and like Simon all at once.
You were going to murder him.
"Hi, sunshine."
His voice. Lower than you remembered, rougher, carrying all the years he'd lived since you last heard it. That Manchester accent â still there, unmistakably, that warm northern flatness underneath everything, the vowels shaped by a city, by a street, by a particular kind of upbringing that no amount of training had entirely smoothed out.
That nickname, in that voice, in that low, deliberate way he'd always said it: like you were his.
Like it was a prayer.
You opened your mouth. And you closed it. And you looked at him â this enormous, tattooed, stupidly handsome man who had stood on your mother's doorstep at twelve years old with bruises he didn't mention, who had kissed your cheek at thirteen and broken Ryan Marsh's nose at fourteen and waved goodbye from a train platform at seventeen and then sent you birthday cards from the edges of the world for a decade and then stopped for five years â
"Five years," you said. Your voice was very quiet.
Something moved in his face.
"I-,"
"I thought you were dead." You snapped cutting him off.
"I figured you wouldâve."
"Simon."
"I know, sunshine." He said it the same way he'd always said things he couldn't argue with â not deflecting, not dismissing, just absorbing. The Manchester vowels in his voice like a hand on your shoulder. "I'll explain everything. I promise. All of it. Whatever you want to know."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The afternoon settled around the house, around the garden that was your garden in your own sixteen-year-old description, around the flag and the porch swing and the lavender and all of it, and the distance between you on the path and him on the porch steps was perhaps four feet and thirty years and five years of silence and a whole life of choosing not to say the one true thing.
"You built me the house?" you asked, whispering it. Like you were afraid to say it.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Bought it. Had the garden done the way you said."
"Simon." Your heart ached.
"You said lavender at the edges," he said. His voice was completely level. "You said a porch with somewhere to sit. You said you wanted to see the flag from the garden."
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
The rage was still there â it was not going anywhere quickly. The five years of it, the grief of it â but underneath it, something else. Something that had been there since you were four years old at a preschool art table, larger and quieter and more permanent than anything else you'd ever felt.
"You were sixteen," he said. As though this explained it. "You told me what you wanted. I just..." He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to be enough first. I wanted to have what you needed."
There was a long silence. A bee moved through the lavender. Somewhere a few streets away, a lawnmower hummed.
"Come inside," Simon said. "I'll make you tea. And I'll tell you everything."
You looked at him on the porch of the house he'd built you from a word, and you thought: you absolute idiot. You wonderful, impossible, infuriating man. You thought I'd stopped. You thought thirty years of this was something you could be enough for eventually, like it was a bar to clear, like there was a version of you I was waiting on instead of just â
Instead of just you. Always just you.
The lavender brushed your hand again. You walked up the steps and he looked down at you with those brown eyes that had never once left you.
"Hi, Simon," you said.
Something happened in his face. Something opened.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you inside.
He made the tea.
You stood in the kitchen of a house that smelled of fresh paint and cedar and something faintly floral from the garden drifting through the open window over the sink, and you watched Simon Riley move around it like he'd always lived here â filling the kettle, finding the mugs without opening the wrong cupboard, knowing where the teabags were â and you thought: how long. How long has he been here, in this house he bought for you, learning where everything lives, waiting.
You sat at the kitchen table. It was a good table, heavy oak, the kind built to last and you ran your thumb along the grain of it and tried to arrange your feelings into some kind of order and failed.
Simon set the mug in front of you. Milk in last, the way you'd always taken it, which he knew because he'd made you approximately four thousand cups of tea over the course of your lives. He sat down across from you, his own mug between his big hands, and looked at you.
You looked back.
The kitchen light was warm and it caught the angles of his face. The jaw, the brow, the slight crook in his nose that was new, or newer, the result of something you didn't know about and weren't sure you wanted to.
He was watching you with that particular quality of attention he'd always had. Complete. Patient. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're not wearing your glasses," he said.
You blinked. Of all the things. "No."
"Contacts?"
"For about ten years now, yes."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face with that same unhurried attention, "I missed them."
"You missed my glasses?" You say with the deadpan tone you'd perfected over the years.
"Tortoiseshell ones," he said. "Used to push them up your nose when you were concentrating." He took a gulp of his tea, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.
You stared at him. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of distance and war and God knows what else, and he missed your glasses. "Simon."
"Just saying."
"You are unbelievable." You scoff.
"The contacts suit you," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved â barely, almost nothing, but you'd spent your whole life reading that face and you caught it. "Everything suits you. But I liked the glasses."
"Stop it." You snap.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is," you said, and you pointed at his face, at the not-there-almost-smile, at the quality of his voice when he said everything suits you, at all of it. "You don't get to do that. You've been â Simon, you've been gone. You've been gone for eighteen years and for five of them, I thought you were dead." Your voice stayed steady, which surprised you. You'd expected it to crack on that. "So you don't get to walk out onto your porch looking like â like that â and tell me you missed my glasses and flirt at me like no time has passed."
He listened without interrupting. He always had â it was one of the things about him, the way he gave you the whole space of what you were saying before he entered it.
"You're right," he nodded.
"I know I'm right." Your spine straightened.
"I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me considerably more than that, Simon Riley, but yes. An explanation would be a start."
He wrapped both hands around his mug again and looked at you across the table and there was something in his face that was not the blank-nothing face, was not the armour he'd worn since he was twelve years old but something that was quieter and more exposed and a great deal more frightening because of it.
"Not here," he said.
You frowned. "What?"
"I don't want to do it like this. Sat in a kitchen." He glanced around the room briefly, as though orienting himself. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night."
"What Iâ"
"The Grill on Merton Street."
You went very still.
The Grill on Merton Street. You hadn't been in years â not since you'd moved away from the area, not since things had shifted and the rituals of your old life had quietly been replaced by other things.
But you knew it. You knew every table in it. The way the light came through the front windows on a Sunday, the smell of it â roasted meat and old wood and the particular warmth of a place that had been feeding families for decades.
Your mother had loved it. Your father used to order the same thing every time and be pleased about it every time, and you and Simon had sat across from each other in the corner booth with the sticky laminated menus and kicked each other under the table and laughed.
"That's still open?" you managed.
"Had a look earlier this week," he said. "Still there. New owners but the same building. Same corner booth."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside, through the open window, a late bird was making itself known in the lavender.
"Fine," you said. "Dinner. Tomorrow. And you're going to tell me everything." you struck at him with a serious face.
"Everything," he agreed.
"I mean it, Simon. All of it."
"I know you do."
You drank your tea. It was exactly right. The temperature, the strength, the milk ratio and you hated him a little bit for that. For the fact that he still knew, that across seventeen years and God knows how many miles he still knew exactly how you took your tea, and he'd made it correctly on the first attempt without asking, and you were absolutely not going to cry about that.
You were not.
â ⌠â
You dressed carefully.
Not because you were trying to impress him.
You told yourself this firmly, standing in front of your wardrobe in the room you'd taken in the local B&B â you'd booked a night, not knowing how long this might take, not knowing what state you'd be in for the drive home afterwards â and you told yourself that you were simply dressing appropriately for a dinner at a decent restaurant.
That was all.
That was the entirety of it.
The dress was deep green. Fitted through the waist, falling to just below the knee, with a neckline that was elegant rather than dramatic.
You'd bought it for a work event two years ago and it had lived in your wardrobe since, waiting for an occasion that felt worth it. You put your hair up â not elaborately, just neatly, the kind of arrangement that looked effortless and had taken twenty minutes â and you wore the small gold earrings that had been your grandmother's. Low heels. The good handbag. A slick of red on your mouth that you almost wiped off twice before deciding to leave it.
You were not trying to impress him.
You were absolutely trying to impress him.
He was waiting outside The Grill when your taxi pulled up, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The air around him relaxed and easy. An anchored stillness, like a man who'd learned to wait and had made peace with it. He has the same dark slacks as yesterday, same loafers with the gold buckles, but the shirt tonight was black.
A deep, clean black that made his shoulders look approximately the width of a doorway, which was in fact an accurate assessment â and he'd left the top button undone. His hair was the same: pushed back, dark sandy blonde curling at the nape of his neck and catching the amber of the streetlights.
He saw you get out of the taxi.
He went very still. Completely, suddenly, entirely present in a way that landed on you like a hand against your sternum. Under your heartbeat.
You crossed the pavement toward him and his eyes moved over you â slowly, comprehensively, that same rake of attention he'd given you yesterday on the porch steps, only this time there was nothing restrained about what it did to your pulse.
He eyed you the same way he used to look at the extra cuts of slow roasted beef your mother added to his plate every time he joined you for a Sunday roast after church.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi, sunshine." His voice was low. The rough Manchester sending tingles down your spine.
He opened the door for you.
The Grill smelled exactly the same.
Roasted meat and warmed bread and old wood and something faintly of candle wax. It hit you the moment you stepped through the door and you had to stand still for just a second, just one second, to absorb the weight of it.
Your father's coat on the hook by the door. Your mother's reading glasses going into her bag as the menus arrived. Simon across from you, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, his big hands wrapped around a Coke glass, his eyes on you under that careful brow.
The layout had shifted slightly â new owners, as Simon had said â but the bones of it were the same. The dark wood panelling. The low warm lighting. The tables set with proper linen and actual candles in glass holders. And in the back left corner was the booth.
Simon's hand was at the small of your back as the host led you through. A light touch, barely there, the kind of thing that could be merely courteous and was absolutely not merely courteous.
You said nothing about it.
You were almost at the booth when a voice said, "Well. I don't believe it."
You turned.
Margaret and Gerald Howarth.
Margaret had been your mother's friend since before you were born â a small, bright-eyed woman who had somehow barely aged in two decades. Her silver hair cut the same way it had always been, her husband a large, genial man beside her with a napkin already tucked into his collar. They'd been eating here since before you were born too, you suspected. Some people were simply woven into the furniture of a place.
"Margaret," you said, and you felt a genuine, warm rush of it. Of being seen by someone who had known you as a child, who had watched you grow up, who carried that particular knowledge of you that only people of a certain generation can hold. She was already rising halfway from her seat, her hand extended, and you took it and she covered it with her other one, the way she always had.
"We heard you were back in the area," she said â which was interesting, since you'd only arrived yesterday, but news apparently still moved at its old speed around here. Her bright eyes moved to Simon, and something in them softened with recognition and surprise in equal measure. "And Simon Riley. My goodness."
"Mrs Howarth." Simon's voice was respectful, quieter than usual, and you noticed â because you noticed everything about him â that he straightened fractionally. Not stiffly. Just the particular adjustment of a man in the presence of someone he'd known when he was young and unguarded.
"Look at the size of you," Gerald said, not unkindly, staring up at Simon with the frank appreciation of one large man for another. "What are they feeding you?"
"Gerald," Margaret scolded mildly.
"It's a compliment." He shrugged.
Simon almost smiled. "Good to see you, Mr Howarth."
Margaret was looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who had been quietly observing people her entire life and drawing accurate conclusions from very little evidence. "Are you together?" she asked, with the particular directness that came with age and with having known you since you were in a pushchair.
"We're having dinner," you said carefully.
Margaret's expression said, quite clearly, that she had heard this and had also heard everything it was not saying. "Well," she said, patting your hand once more before releasing it, "it's lovely to see you both. You always did belong together, the pair of you. I said that to your mother once, do you know. I said those twoâ"
"It was lovely seeing you, Margaret," you said, with great warmth and only mild desperation.
She laughed, a bright, pleased sound and settled back into her seat.
As you turned to follow the host the rest of the way to the booth, you were almost certain you heard Gerald say, to his wife, "told you" in a tone of quiet marital satisfaction.
Simon was very carefully not reacting to any of this. You were very carefully not looking at him.
You saw two others you knew before you reached the booth.
Kim Ashworth, who had been in your form in Year Ten and who looked essentially the same as she had in school except that she had a baby on her hip and a husband trailing behind her with a changing bag.
She stopped mid-step when she saw you, did a small, delighted double take, said oh my God twice, and then looked at Simon in a way that was extremely uncomplicated in its appreciation before remembering the husband with the changing bag. There were promises exchanged to catch up properly, phone numbers that would probably not be used, genuine warmth on both sides.
And then at the bar, perched on a stool with a whisky, Dave Pearce â who had played alongside Simon on the secondary school rugby team and who greeted him with the particular vocabulary of men who knew each other at fifteen and have not changed as much as they think.
There was a brief, loud exchange that involved at least one shoulder-clap that could have knocked a smaller man sideways, and then Dave shook your hand too and told Simon he was punching. Which Simon received without expression and you tried your hardest not to laugh, biting your lip.
Finally the corner booth. You slid in. Simon folded himself into the seat across from you, the table scaled to ordinary human beings and therefore slightly absurd against the size of him, his knees bracketing it, his shoulders blocking the view of the room behind him entirely.
The menus came.
They were not laminated anymore â proper printed card, changed seasonally, the kind that meant the new owners had ambitions. But the roast was still on. The proper Sunday roast, the one your father used to order when you could afford to.
"Same corner," Simon said quietly.
"Same corner," you agreed.
He was looking at you across the table the way he used to look at you across this table, except that now his face was older and larger and had been to places that had clearly asked things of it. The look was different in its texture. Deeper, maybe. Older in the same way he was older. Like it had more weight behind it from all the years of being carried.
"You said everything," you reminded him. "All of it."
"I know."
"So." You gestured for him to start.
He set his menu down. Looked at you. And then he started talking.
He told it the way he told everything â without embellishment, without drama, in the flat, precise language of a man who had learned to communicate facts and trusted the facts to carry the weight without decoration.
He'd gone in at seventeen and he'd been good at it. Not surprising. He was built for the structure of it, for the clarity of having a purpose and a unit and a chain of things that made sense.
He'd moved up fast â faster than he let on in the cards he'd sent you, which had been careful, he explained, deliberately careful, because the more you knew the more you might worry. Which, you pointed out, had not been his decision to make. He didn't argue with that.
Task Force 141 came later. Years later, after deployments that he summarised in a sentence each and you understood enough from his face to know that each sentence was doing the work of much longer things.
He was a lieutenant now. He said it the way he said most things about himself, flatly, without vanity, presented as information. He had certain freedoms now that he hadn't had before, certain ability to make choices about where he went and when and what he did with the things the years had given him.
You both ordered your food.
"And the five years?" you asked, sipping your cocktail the waitress had brought over.
He was quiet for a moment, he stared at his San Miguel pint, the condensation sliding down the glass. Your food had arrived at some point during the waiting, while Simon collected his thoughts.
He picked up his fork and then set it down again.
"There was a man," Simon said.
Something about the way he said it made you put your fork down too.
"He ran drugs. Major operation, international â I won't go into all of it." He said this without flinching, looking at you steadily, not softening it. You'd always appreciated that about him â the way he treated your intelligence as a given. "After I escaped him, he decided to make it personal. He went after the people Iâ" He stopped. Chose the word carefully. "The people I was connected to."
The candle in the glass holder between you threw warm, unsteady light across his face.
"He killed them," Simon said. "My brother. Tommy's family." A pause that cost him something; you could see it cost him. "My Mother."
The restaurant continued around you â the murmur of other tables, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing softly near the bar â and you sat very still.
"Oh Simon," you whispered, you could feel the way your face formed the sympathy.
"I'm alright." He said it the way he'd always said it, the Manchester flat and absolute. The way that meant; don't make it bigger than I can hold right now. You knew that voice. You honoured it.
"He knew about you," Simon said and you froze. "That was the other thing. He'd done his research." His jaw shifted slightly. "As long as he was alive, you weren't safe. If I'd contacted you, properly contacted you, kept the thread going the way I wanted to, it would have given him a cleaner line. A more reliable way to reach me."
You understood the logic of it. You understood it clearly and immediately in the part of your brain that processed information. The other part â the part that had sat on the bottom stair with a birthday card after five years of silence, the part that had thought past tense â that part was going to take considerably longer.
"So you cut me off," you said. Not as an accusation. As a fact, laid down. You were starting to understand the shape of it.
"To keep you safe. Yes."
"Without telling me why." You sighed but you knew you were being unreasonable, but you hoped he would let you for a little longer.
"If I'd told you why, you'd have known there was a threat. And you'd haveâ" He stopped. The corner of his mouth moved, something that was not quite a smile and not quite not one. "You'd have done something about it. Gone looking. Made noise."
"I would not haveâ" You stopped, because you would have. You absolutely would have. You'd spent thirty years being completely unable to sit on the sidelines where Simon Riley was concerned, and the knowledge that someone was threatening him would have made you entirely unreasonable. "That'sâ" you huffed.
"Yeah," he said.
"You could have found a wayâ"
"There wasn't one. Not one that was safe." His voice was very level. "I went through every option, love. I promise you. Every one."
The word arrived quietly, without ceremony.
Love.
He'd never called you that â not in thirty years, not in all the time and all the familiarity of what you were to each other. He said it the way he said everything that mattered: without preamble, without dressing it up, laid down like the fact it was.
"And now?" you asked. Your voice was quite steady. Steadier than you felt.
"He's dead." No elaboration. None needed. The flat Manchester vowels carrying the weight of it cleanly, without mess. "And you're safe. And Iâ" He looked at you across the table, across the candle and the white linen. "I bought the house," he said. "I've spent a while making it what it is. Making if perfect. I saved up for years. The 141 pays well when you get to a certain level and I wasn't spending it on anything else."
"For years," you repeated, feeling a shiver rack up your spine and your toes go numb.
"Since I was about twenty." He said this without apparent embarrassment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to spend fifteen years saving money to buy a woman a house from a description she'd given you at sixteen years old. "Took a while to find the right one that wasnât too far from your parents. The lavender took three growing seasons to look like it did when you pulled up."
Three growing seasons.
He had planted the lavender three years ago. He had stood in a garden three towns from where you lived and planted lavender along a path because a sixteen-year-old girl had mentioned it lying on her back in his garden thirty years ago, and he had tended it for three years, and he had waited.
"Simon Riley," you said.
"It's got room for your books Sunshine, built the shelves myself." His lips quirked up at the corners at your flabbergasted expression.
"You are the mostâ" You stopped. Started again. "Do you have any idea what the past five years have felt like? Do you have any idea what Iâ" Your voice did the thing you'd been preventing it from doing, cracked at the edge of the sentence like a plate under too much weight. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "I grieved you. I sat in my flat and I genuinely, actually grieved you and decided you were dead. I had â Simon, I had a plan for getting through it. I was managing it."
"I know."
"Don't say I know." you snapped sounding more like a bratty child than angry.
"I'm sorry." And this was different. This was not the automatic I know, the absorbing of your anger. This was something he said the way he said very few things â carefully, with full weight behind it. His eyes on yours across the table. "I'm sorry for the five years. I'm sorry I couldn't find another way. I'm sorry you were on your own with it." A pause. "I'm sorry it took me this long to have something worth coming back with."
"The house is notâ" You stopped. "You didn't need to buy me a house, Simon. I didn't needâ"
"I needed to," he said. Simply. "I needed to know I was coming back with something real. Something that wasn't just me turning up with nothing after all that time, asking you to â to acceptâ" He moved his hand across the table, and his fingers stopped just short of yours. Not touching. Close. "Asking you to take me as I was. I needed it to be enough. I needed there to be something I could give you that wasâ"
"Simon." Your voice was very quiet.
"I know it's notâ"
"Simon." You turned your hand over on the table. Just that. The small, deliberate movement of turning your palm up.
He looked at it. Then he looked at you. Then, slowly, he put his hand in yours â his enormous, careful, tattooed hand. Not quite the one that had carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and pulled you up off the pavement after Daniel Holt and held you on the platform at the train station, but this one now and his fingers closed around yours and he held on.
"I only ever wanted you," you said softly.
"Sunshine-"
"You were always worth it," you cut him off. And then, because it was time â because it had been time for approximately thirty years and you were done waiting for the right moment when the right moment had repeatedly failed to arrive â "You were always enough. You were always the thing I was â Simon, you have always been the only one I wanted. Exactly as you are."
He was very still.
"I didn't tell you on the platform," you said. "I should have. I've thought about it every day since."
"So have I," he said.
The candle between you flickered in some movement of air from the kitchen, and in the warm unsteady light his face was open in a way you had waited thirty years to see. His hand was warm and sure around yours, and from the other side of the restaurant you were almost certain you heard Margaret Howarth say something to Gerald in a satisfied undertone.
"You planted the lavender," you grinned.
"Three years ago." He finally smiles back at you, it was crooked and uneven and you loved it.
"You are," you said carefully, "the most ridiculous man I have ever known." You shook your head still grinning.
"Missed you too, sunshine," he smirked.
Dinner ended the way the best dinners end â not with a definitive conclusion but with a gradual, reluctant unwinding, the kind where both people keep finding one more thing to say, one more thread to pull, because the alternative is standing up and the evening becoming past tense.
You ordered dessert.
Neither of you particularly wanted it but you both ordered it, and you both knew why, and neither of you said so. The chocolate brownie was very good. Simon ate his methodically, the way he ate everything, and at one point looked up and caught you watching him and said nothing.
The candle between you had burned down to a stub by the time the bill came.
He paid. You protested on principle. He gave you a look that had not changed at all since he was fourteen years old â flat, certain, faintly amused â and handed the card to the waiter without further discussion.
"That's notâ" you started.
"Next time," he said.
Next time. You let it sit there between you, warm and presumptuous and everything you wanted.
Outside, the evening had cooled.
The last of the summer still holding in the air, the kind of September evening that felt like a concession, like the year wasn't ready to be done.
The street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few couples moving between the restaurants and a group of lads outside the pub further down having a smoke. The amber of the streetlights made everything look like something worth remembering.
Simon stood beside you on the pavement, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he turned to look down the street, and you were very aware of the warmth of him and the black shirt and the lavender you couldn't smell from here but could somehow still feel in your hands.
"Walk with me a bit," he said. Not a question, not quite. He'd always done that â phrased invitations as though the outcome were already agreed, as though he simply assumed you'd say yes because you almost always did.
"Alright."
He fell into step beside you, and for a little while you just walked â past the wine bar with its fairy lights, past the old library that had become a gin distillery at some point in the last decade, past the post office that had been there since before either of you were born. You talked about small things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that runs alongside the real one underneath.
Then he stopped.
You stopped too.
Simon looked down at you. His hands were in his pockets. That brown gaze of his moved over your face in the way it had been moving over your face all evening â like he was cataloguing it, like he was making up for lost time in the looking.
"Dance with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head, "Come dancing with me."
You stared at him.
Simon Riley, who had sat against the wall at every school disco you'd ever attended, arms folded, watching everyone else with the expression of a man conducting a private risk assessment.
Simon Riley, who you had never, in thirty years of knowing him, seen voluntarily approach a dance floor.
"You don't dance," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But you do."
The simplicity of it landed somewhere very central.
You do.
As though that were reason enough. As though your enjoyment of a thing were sufficient justification for him to walk into it without hesitation.
Which, you supposed, when it came to Simon, it always had been.
"Alright," you said, for the second time in ten minutes.
His hand found the small of your back again, that same light, deliberate touch from inside the restaurant and he guided you down the street.
Simon said you weren't far, when you heard it.
The particular sound of a Domino's box. The slight crinkle of a carrier bag. And then your mother's voice, carrying across the quiet street in the way it always had â warm and clear and entirely without volume control.
"Oh honey! We thought - oh!"
"Oh fuck," you cursed.
You said it very quietly. Not quietly enough. Simon chuckled under his breath.
Your parents were coming along the pavement from the direction of the only car park around here â your father in his weekend coat, your mother in the blue one she'd had for fifteen years. A Domino's pizza box balanced in her arms and a carrier bag hanging from your father's hand.
Movie night. Of course. They still did it every other Saturday, had done since you were small, and of course they would do it tonight of all the Saturday nights in the entire calendar.
Your mother's face when she saw you was pure, unguarded delight â the face she always made when she encountered you unexpectedly, as though each time were still a pleasant surprise. Then her gaze moved, naturally and automatically, to the man standing beside you with his hand at the small of your back.
The delight didn't disappear. It did something more complicated.
"Oh honey," she said again, but differently this time. Softer. Her voice going somewhere else entirely. "Simon?"
The Domino's box dipped. Your father caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been catching things your mother nearly dropped for forty years.
Simon had gone still beside you. Not that controlled, present stillness he had, the one that wasn't tension but something adjacent to it. He was looking at your mother with an expression you couldn't fully read from the side, but you could see the line of his jaw, and it was careful.
"Mrsâ" he started.
"Don't you Mrs me," your mother said. Her voice was not angry. That was the thing â you'd prepared yourself, in the split second between seeing them and now, for anger, or for the brisk, self-protective coolness she used sometimes when she'd been frightened. But it wasn't that. It was something that had tears in it, which was considerably worse to witness.
She handed the pizza box to your father without looking at him â he took it with the silent competence of long practice â and she crossed the pavement in four short steps and she put her arms around Simon Riley.
He was so much larger than her. He had always been larger than her, even at fifteen when he'd eaten her shepherd's pie at the kitchen table and been careful to seem like it was casual and not like he was starving. Even when she gave him seconds and he looked like he would beg for thirds.
But now it was almost absurd, the smallness of her against the width of him, and he stood there for just a fraction of a second â that fraction where you could see him recalibrating, receiving something he hadn't prepared for â and then his arms came around her and he held on.
Your mother was crying. Small, quiet sounds, the kind she made when she was trying not to. Her face was pressed against his chest and her hands gripped the back of his black shirt and she said, muffled and with great feeling, "You absolute boy."
Simon said nothing. His eyes, over the top of your mother's head, found yours.
You had to look away. The street was very interesting. The lamppost in particular.
You bit into your lip.
Your father appeared at your shoulder.
He was a quiet man, always had been. The kind of steady, observant presence that took things in without making a production of the taking in. He stood beside you with the pizza box over one arm and the carrier bag in the other hand and watched his wife hold the boy who had eaten at their table for a decade, and he said, very quietly, to you,
"Well. He's not dead then."
"No Dad," you managed. "He's not dead."
"Good," your father said.
As though this settled it. As though the entirety of the past five years of your grief and his, because he had grieved Simon too in his quiet way, in the way of a man who doesn't say things aloud but feels them thoroughly. He looked at Simon over the top of your mother's head and gave him a single, deliberate nod. The kind that meant; we'll talk. The kind that meant; I have things to say to you. The kind that also, underneath both of those, meant; I'm so glad son.
Simon received the nod with equal gravity, which was exactly right.
Your mother finally pulled back. She held Simon by the arms â or tried to, her hands not quite making it around the circumference of them â and looked up at him with red eyes and the particular expression of a woman who has a great deal to say and is choosing, for now, not to say most of it.
"You'll come for dinner," she said. Not a question. The same tone she'd used on him at fifteen and apparently intended to continue using indefinitely. "Sunday. Proper dinner. Not a restaurant. Mine."
"Yes," Simon said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
"Good." She released his arms and reached up and patted his cheek once, firmly, the way you might with someone who had done something frustrating and beloved in equal measure.
Then she turned to you, and her expression did something complicated and warm and knowing, and she didn't say any of the things she was clearly thinking, which you appreciated deeply.
What she said instead was: "Don't stay out too late. You're thirty-five, not seventeen."
"Mum." You scolded.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged.
"We're going dancing," you told her, with the energy of someone redirecting a conversation through sheer momentum.
Your mother looked at Simon. Simon looked at your mother. Something passed between them that was private and thirty years old and not yours to have.
"Of course you are," she said.
Your father passed the Domino's box back to your mother, and said, "Right then. We'll leave you to it." He looked at Simon one more time. "Sunday," he confirmed.
"Sunday," Simon said.
Your parents moved off down the pavement.
Your mother looked back once â just once â and her face when she did was the face you'd seen her wear at your primary school nativity and at your GCSE results and on the morning you'd gone to university; the particular face of a woman watching her child be happy and feeling the full, complicated, loving weight of it.
Then she turned back to your father and said something you couldn't hear, and his hand found her shoulder as they walked, and they rounded the corner and were gone.
You stood on the pavement in the September evening and breathed.
Beside you, Simon was also very carefully just standing there.
"She cried on me," he said, after a moment.
"Yes."
"Didn't expect that."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the corner your parents had turned, and his face had the quality it sometimes had when something had reached him â not visibly, not dramatically, just in that particular stillness that meant something had got through.
"She cried about you," you told him. "When you stopped writing. Three years ago â there were several times, actually, but three years ago was the worst. She held me in her kitchen and we bothâ" You stopped. Managed the next part carefully. "She loves you too, Simon. She always did. You were at our table every other night for years."
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his jaw. "I know," he said. And this time the I know was different from all the other times he'd said it tonight â heavier, and private.
"You agreed to Sunday dinner," you giggled.
"Of course I agreed to Sunday dinner," he said knowing full well he would have been stupid not to and gotten an earful from your mother.
Simon offered you his hand.
Not at the small of your back this time. His hand, palm up, in the space between you. Old-fashioned and deliberate.
You put yours in it.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's go dancing."
There was, as it turned out, only one place to go dancing in this town on a Saturday night if you meant actual dancing â the kind with a proper floor and music with a real structure to it.
It was not a club.
It was not a bar with a cleared space near the speaker.
It was the old church hall on Callow Street, which had been hosting the Saturday Evening Social Dance since before either of you were born, and which Simon seemed to know about with the specificity of a man who had done his research.
"A dance hall," you said, standing outside it. Through the tall, thin windows the warm light was visible, and the sound â strings, a proper band, something with a waltz rhythm that made the windows hum faintly. "You're taking me to a dance hall."
"Only place with a floor."
"Simon, this is a â there will be pensioners in there." you said quietly.
"There'll be a dance floor," he looked down at you. "And you said yes." he shrugged but looked smug.
He pushed the door open and held it, and because you had in fact said yes, and because the music through the door sounded genuinely lovely, and because you were still holding his hand from the pavement, you went in.
The church hall smelled of floor polish and tea. Fairy lights were strung along the rafters â someone's addition, not the original fixtures, and they made the whole space amber and soft.
Round tables lined the edges, most of them occupied by couples in their sixties and seventies and eighties, a few younger faces dotted among them, everyone dressed with the particular care of people who still believed an evening out was worth dressing for.
On the small stage at the far end, a four-piece band was working through something in three-four time with the ease of musicians who had played together for years.
And at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, wearing the same expression of organised authority she'd worn every PE lesson for fifteen years was Mrs Valerie Croft.
She was smaller than you remembered. Or perhaps you were simply larger.
She'd retired at some point â the hair was fully silver now rather than streaked â but the posture was identical: spine straight, chin up, the bearing of a woman who had spent decades telling teenagers to stand properly and had eventually simply become the embodiment of the instruction.
She looked up from her clipboard as you approached and her eyes moved from you to Simon, and to her credit, she didn't miss a step.
"Well," she tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Riley."
"Miss," Simon said. Which was technically incorrect given that she had a ring on her finger and had for as long as you'd known her, but you suspected it was because he'd called her Miss in secondary school the way you had. "Mrs Croft. Sorry. We were passing andâ " He paused, which was unlike him. "Is there any chance we could crash it?"
Mrs Croft looked at him. She looked at you. She looked at your joined hands with the expression of a woman who had supervised enough teenagers to recognise a development when she saw one.
"Can you behave yourselves?" she asked.
"Yes," you said nodding.
Simon said nothing.
Mrs Croft made a sound that was not quite a laugh but was adjacent to one. "Floor's open," she said. "Don't knock anyone over." And she turned back to her clipboard.
The first dance was not elegant.
Simon was, as he had always been and had openly admitted, not a dancer.
He was a man built for other kinds of movement â purposeful, directed, the kind that had somewhere to go. Dancing required a different relationship with your body, a willingness to be present in it without agenda, and that was not naturally his.
But he was trying. And Simon Riley trying at something he wasn't good at with complete, unhesitating commitment was one of your favourite things in the world.
He held you correctly â one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at the right height â because he had clearly looked this up at some point, which you were choosing not to think about too hard. His footwork was careful. Deliberate. Slightly behind the beat in the way of someone counting silently.
"You're counting," you told him trying your hardest not to laugh.
"Shut up."
"Simon, I can see your lips moving." you snorted.
"I said shut up."
You were laughing now. Properly, helplessly, the kind that came up from somewhere real â and he looked down at you with that face, that flat, long-suffering, completely fond face, and something in his eyes that was warm in a way that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that your laugh had always been, apparently, one of his favourite sounds.
"You're doing fine," you told him, once you'd recovered.
"I'm doing terribly," he answered. "Keep going."
By the second dance, he was better.
By the third, he had found something. Some adjustment in the way he held you, the way his hand settled more fully at your waist, drawing you closer so the movement between you became less about individual steps and more about one shared thing. He was a quick study. He always had been, once he'd decided something was worth doing.
You became aware, gradually, of the room watching.
Not intrusively. Not all at once. But in the soft, peripheral way of a room full of people who have been in love for decades and recognise the particular weather of it when it walks through the door.
An older couple near the stage â she in pale blue, he in a suit that had been good once and was still cared for â had stopped talking to watch you.
A woman at one of the corner tables had her chin in her hand.
Mrs Croft, by the door, was very deliberately looking at her clipboard and failing to look only at her clipboard.
You didn't mind. You were too busy watching Simon watch you.
The band changed tempo at half past nine.
The waltz gave way to something with a different shape entirely â something that moved from the hips rather than the feet, a rhythm that was slower in its pulse and considerably less innocent in its intention.
A rumba.
You looked up at Simon.
He looked down at you.
"I don't know this one," he said.
"I'll show you." you breathed.
You took his hand and placed it lower at your waist, right above the curve of your ass. Deliberately watching his face when you did it, watching the shift in his expression, the way something in his eyes went very still and very focused. "Hip to hip," you told him. "Slower than you think. Let the music pull you."
He followed your lead with an attention that was frankly overwhelming in its completeness.
Simon Riley giving you his full, undivided, physical focus was not a small thing. He was so large and so present and he moved with you rather than against you, adjusting with every shift of your weight, and somewhere in the second minute of the song the counting stopped and something else replaced it.
He drew you closer. His hand at your hip pulled you in until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the warmth of him through the green of your dress and you were very aware of every point of contact, of the music and of the room full of people who had gone very quiet.
Then he turned you.
It was not technically correct. It was not what the dance required. But he turned you in a single, smooth movement that his body had decided on and yours simply followed, because that was what it did with him.
And then he dipped you.
The room tilted. His arm was across your back, solid and immovable, and you were suspended in the amber light with the music around you and your hand at his shoulder.
He lowered you â slowly, with complete control, no hesitation in the hold and then his face was close, very close, and his nose grazed the line of your throat making your breath hitch.
A slow, deliberate graze. The warmth of his breath against your pulse point. You felt it in places that had nothing to do with dancing, between your legs throbbing.
His hand â the one at your hip â slid down, just slightly, just enough, finding the outside of your thigh where the fabric of your dress lay, and he hooked your leg, slowly, around his hip. His fingers at the back of your thigh. Holding you there. His nose still at your throat.
The music resolved. Somewhere behind you, someone started clapping.
He brought you upright. Smoothly, slowly, until you were standing again and his hand was still at the back of your thigh. Your leg still around his hip and your faces were very close. Your heart was conducting itself in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
You were panting. Slightly. Just slightly.
He was not panting. He was looking down at you with the almost-smile, the one that had always been rarer than gold and twice as valuable â and his eyes were warm and very dark and entirely, completely satisfied with themselves.
"You looked that up as well," you managed.
"No," he said.
"Simonâ"
"That one," he said, "I just wanted to do."
From the table by the stage, the woman in pale blue was applauding with great enthusiasm. Her husband had two fingers in his mouth and was whistling.
Mrs Croft had given up entirely on the clipboard.
The taxi back was not a long ride.
It felt longer than it was, and shorter than you wanted.
You sat beside him in the back seat with his thigh against yours and the city moving past the windows and neither of you speaking. The silence had a texture to it that was thick and warm and anticipatory in a way that made the air feel heavy in your lungs.
His hand was on your knee. Just resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything â with complete, unapologetic certainty.
You did not move it.
The house appeared at the end of the lane with its white fence and its dark windows and the lavender silver in the moonlight.
You were out of the taxi before it had fully stopped and you were aware how eager this appeared and you didn't care.
Simon paid the driver and caught up with you in three strides because his legs were considerably longer than yours and always had been.
He got to the door first. Key in hand.
The door opened.
And you did not wait for him to step through it.
You took him by the front of his shirt, that black shirt, warm from his body, the fabric bunching in your fists and you lips were suddenly on his.
You walked him backwards through the doorway and you felt the moment his back met the wall just inside and you were already kissing him before he'd fully registered the sequence of events.
Your mouth on his. Your hands in the front of his shirt. Thirty years of it finding its way out all at once, without ceremony, without preamble, without any of the careful management you had been applying to yourself since you were four years old at a preschool art table.
He kissed you back.
He kissed you back the way he did everything â thoroughly, completely, with his full attention and no apparent interest in doing anything else ever again.
His hands came to your face, big and careful, tilting your jaw, and for a moment you were simply inside the realness of him and the warmth of him and the fact that he was here and alive and kissing you in the hallway of the house he'd bought for you.
He pulled back.
"Easy, sunshine," he said against your lips. Low. A little breathless, which you would be privately triumphant about later. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that crooked smile.
You became aware, in the slightly dazed way of someone returning from somewhere, that your hands were still in his shirt and his hands were still on your face and you were standing approximately two inches apart in his hallway.
You also became aware, in the refocusing of your vision, of his mouth.
Of the scar on his upper lip.
You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it before â through dinner, through the dancing, through all of it.
Perhaps you had simply not been this close before. Or perhaps you had been looking at so many things that you hadn't been looking at everything.
It was small, a thin pale line bisecting the left side of his upper lip, old enough to have faded to silver, the kind of scar that had been there for years and had been lived with so thoroughly that the face had absorbed it.
You lifted your thumb and touched it, gently. "How'd you get this?"
He went very still, alert and present and reading you.
You kissed it. Softly. Just that.
Something moved in his throat.
His hands shifted from your face to your waist, warm and settled, and he began to move you gently â backwards, one steady step at a time â turning you both away from the wall and deeper into the hallway. His foot found the door behind him and pushed it closed with a quiet, final click.
"If I tell you about that one," he said, his voice low and even above your head as he guided you past the entrance and toward the stairs, "I'll have to tell you about the rest."
He looked down at you as he said it, that look, the one that said you were the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. The one that made you feel simultaneously seen and slightly undone â and his expression had in it something that was fond and amused and entirely, devastatingly warm.
You kicked your heels off at the bottom of the stairs. They went somewhere behind you. You didn't look.
Your bag went next, dropped against the banister.
"The rest?" you repeated. Your voice came out slightly smaller than you intended. Your eyes, entirely without your permission, moved down the front of him â the black shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, his torso, his thick thighs, all of him â and back up again. Slowly.
He watched you do it. He said nothing.
You swallowed. "Tell me then."
His hand at your waist steered you up the first step, and then the second, and the stairs curved slightly toward the landing above, and at the top of the stairs he pushed open the door to a bedroom.
The room was large and furnished.
A bed, properly large, the kind that accommodated a man his size without complaint. Low lamps on either side casting the same amber warmth as the hall below. Dark wood floors, a window looking out toward the garden, the curtain shifting slightly in a crack of night air.
He kissed you, just inside the door you kissed him back and his hands were at your hips.
Then he pulled back with a groan. Both of you breathing slightly harder than was strictly accounted for by climbing one flight of stairs.
"I want to, sunshine," he said. His voice was very low. Restrained. His hands still on your body, holding you there, his thumbs moving in a small slow motion against the fabric of your dress that was doing nothing to help you think clearly. "I do. But I need to hear it from you first. Your permission. Clear words. I don't want to misunderstand you."
You opened your mouth.
And then your eyes moved, over his shoulder, to the dresser.
A skull mask looked back at you.
You closed your mouth. You looked at it. The mask, white and stark and precise but somehow both alien and completely, recognisably his. The balaclava beside it, folded neatly. And tactical gloves â enormous, black, reinforced, approximately the size of your head.
"That yours?" you asked.
Simon turned his head, following your gaze. He looked at the dresser, then back at you. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"What I wear on missions."
"Oh," you said.
And then your brain did something entirely beyond your authority. It constructed, with great speed and considerable detail, an image: Simon, broad and enormous, in black tactical gear. Gloved hands. That mask. Hovering over you.
You swallowed.
The image did not leave. It simply settled in, warm and vivid and decidedly unhelpful.
"Sunshine."
His hand came to your face â his big, warm, ungloved hand, his actual hand, the one you knew â his thumb sweeping gently under your eye, bringing you back into the room and the amber lamplight and the present moment.
"Hmm?" you managed meeting his gaze.
His eyes moved over your face with the same comprehensive attention he always gave you.
"Your permission, love," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"Oh." You blinked. "Yes. Yes, you have it. Always."
The almost-smile. "Not for everything I want to do to you." His thumb was still moving, very gently, under your eye. "I'll ask. Multiple times."
You stared at him. "Multipleâ"
"Times," he confirmed. His voice was entirely level. His eyes were not.
You pushed his shoulder and your cheeks burned.
He caught your hand as you pushed it and laughed, a low, real, full sound, the kind that you had spent most of your life engineering because it was so rare and so completely, unreasonably good.
You laughed too, properly, the helpless kind, and his forehead came down to rest against yours and you were both laughing in the amber light of his bedroom with the skull mask on the dresser and the lavender outside the window and thirty years behind you and everything in front.
The laughing settled.
Not all at once â it unwound gradually, the way laughter does when it's the real kind, leaving something warm and loose in its place.
His forehead was still against yours. His hands had moved from your face to your waist, both of them now, holding you the way he'd held you on the dance floor â with that complete, unhurried certainty, like you were something he'd been waiting to hold properly for a very long time and intended to do it right.
The amber light of the lamps lay across everything. Through the gap in the curtain, you could see the edge of the garden â the pale shapes of flowers, the dark of the lawn.
"Tell me about the rest," you said quietly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "The scars?"
"You said if you told me about the one on your lip you'd have to tell me about the rest." You reached up and touched the scar again â that thin, silver line â with the pad of your thumb. "So tell me about the rest."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and began, without ceremony, to unbutton his shirt.
You were very still.
He did it the way he did everything â without drama, without performance, button by button from the collar down, and when he shrugged it from his shoulders and set it aside you understood, in a way you hadn't before, what eighteen years of that life had written on him.
He was enormous.
You'd known that in the abstract â had known it from the doorframe and the dance floor and the way rooms seemed to reorganise themselves around him â but this was different.
This was the specific, undeniable reality of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the muscle of his arms that carried the tattoo sleeve on the left, the ink wrapping from wrist to shoulder in dark, intricate patterns that in this light you still couldn't fully read but wanted to.
And the scars.
There were more than you'd expected.
Each one a different shape and age and story, written into the topography of him in pale and silver lines. A long one along his left ribs. Something older, fainter, across the top of his right shoulder. A circular scar below his collarbone on the left side that your medical knowledge was sufficient to identify and that made your chest constrict briefly and completely before you put that particular knowledge away for now.
He was watching your face as you looked. Careful. Giving you the time of it.
You stepped forward. You placed your hand flat against his sternum â his heart under your palm, steady and real â and you felt him exhale.
"The lip," you said.
"Kandahar. 2004. Caught the stock of a rifle." He said it the same way he'd told you everything tonight â flat, factual, trusting the fact to carry the weight. "Bit through my lip. Wasn't pretty for a while."
You moved your hand from his sternum to his ribs. Found the long scar there, traced it gently with your fingertips.
"That one."
"Knife. 2009. I moved the wrong way and the other man moved the right way." The shadow of something in his face that was not quite humour and not quite not. "Lesson learned."
Your hand moved to his shoulder. The older, fainter scar.
"Before the military," he said, before you asked. His voice changed, just fractionally. Flatter. Doing more work to stay level. "Not a mission."
You understood. You didn't ask further. You pressed your lips to it instead â gently, just that, your mouth against the old pale mark â and you felt the breath go out of him in a way that was different from all the others. Slower. Deeper.
"Sunshine," he said. Very quietly.
"The one below your collarbone," you said.
A pause. "That one's not a story for tonight."
You tilted your head back to look up at him. "Is it a story for eventually?"
His eyes on yours. Something in them that was considering, assessing, "Yeah," he said. "Eventually."
"Alright," you said. You meant it. You had waited thirty years; you could wait for the story of one scar.
His hand moved to your face. That same gesture from the hallway â his thumb at your cheek, slow and deliberate and he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Not urgently this time. Slowly. Deeply.
His hands found the zip at the side of your dress â careful, unhurried â and he looked at you, a clear question in it, and you nodded, and his hands were very steady and very gentle. Your dress went the way of your heels and your bag, somewhere behind you, unmissed.
He looked at you the way he had looked at you on the porch yesterday, and outside The Grill tonight, and across the restaurant table, and on the dance floor â with that complete, comprehensive attention.
Only now there was nothing restrained about what was in it. It was simply there, open and certain, and it was thirty years of something finally being allowed to be exactly what it was.
"Hi," you said. Which was absurd. Which made him laugh again, low and real.
"Hi, sunshine," he said. His hands at your waist. His forehead dropping to yours.
âSi I need to-â you breathed in deep, âI um,â he pulled his head away from yours, looking into your eyes with those brilliant brown ones of his.
âWhat is it Sunshine?â He asked, his finger under your chin tilting your head up.
âIâm, Iâve never-â you sigh, âIâve told you so many things, I canât believe I canât even say this to you.â
âDo we need to slow down?â He asked, his voice softening.
âNo. Itâs not that. I mean Iâm not a virgin if thatâs what youâre thinking I just, no guy has ever-â you sigh again, your eyes dropping from his.
Simon is quiet. He waits, the way he always waits â giving you the whole space of it, not rushing you toward the end of the sentence.
âMade it good,â you finally say, to his chest. âFor me. Itâs always just, fine. Maybe sometimes I get close but then itâs over. Not that thereâs been loads of guys, maybe three.â
A beat.
You make yourself look up at him.
Something changes in his face.
You see the flare of it.
Anger.
Not toward you â you feel that immediately, the anger isn't at you, it moves through him and settles somewhere else entirely. His jaw shifts. His eyes, for just a moment, go somewhere dark and quiet.
"Every one of them," he says. Low. More to himself than to you.
"Simonâ"
"Had you," he says. "And didn'tâ" He stops. The jaw again. His eyes squeeze shut. "Didn't pay attention."
"It's notâ"
"It is." His eyes open. He looks at you, his hands moving to your hips, both of them, settling there with a weight that feels like anchoring, like he needs the contact as much as you do. The darkness has settled now, controlled, underneath everything else.
"And I wasn't here." Something moves through his expression â not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it, something private and old. "Should've been your first, sunshine. Should've been there toâ"
He stops himself. His forehead drops to yours.
"I've waited years for this," he says quietly. "I'm not rushing it. And I'm going to pay attention."
âPay attention?â You ask breathless.
âTo every sigh,â he kissed your cheek, âwhimper and moan.â His lips moved down to your jaw. âTo the way your hips move, the way your back arches, the way youâll writhe under me, how Iâve imaged it every time Iâve gotten off for the last two decades.â He whispered the last bit into your ear, teeth tugging on your earlobe.
You gasp, âSimon.â Your cheeks burn.
âOh donât tell me you never thought about it.â He grins pulling back to look down at you.
You look at the floor sheepishly cause of course you have. Of course youâve cum the hardest you ever have in your life only when thinking about Simon fucking you.
"Oh you have." He smirked titling his head.
âShut up.â You push his shoulder and he laughs.
His hands leave your hips and then you're moving, his arms around you, and the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees.
Then his massive paws are in your hair and his lips are on your neck as your back meets the sheets. His weight heavy and solid on you. You could tell he was holding himself up so he didnât squish you.
He leaned back on his heels, kneeling between your legs. You sighed in satisfaction when his fingers ran over your bare skin. His blunt nails scratching softly where your pelvic bone sits.
"So beautiful Sunshine," He grabs your hips and squeezes, "Fill my hands with you finally." Simon groans. A noise you've been picturing in your head. This and everything else that happens this evening, you truly believe, will be one of those times when reality is better than anything you have imagined.
Simon's brown eyes have always been intense, but right now the way he's looking down at you it's like he is someone else entirely. His eyes almost black with how much they have darkened.
"Simon." You tangle your fingers with his.
"Can I?" He asks. His hand, the one not in yours, trailing down your thigh and stopping on your mound. You clench around nothing when he pushes down, just a little bit of pressure that you feel in your clit and makes your hips buck.
You don't miss the way his lips do the almost smile thing. You nod furiously but he shakes his head.
"Need your words love." He raises a brow.
"Yes, yes Simon touch me." You breathe out, your chest feeling tight when he nods, moving his hand down to cup your cunt over your underwear.
And maybe its because you haven't had sex in three years, maybe its because you are touch starved or maybe its simply because its Simon, but your back arches and your moan is down right pornographic with a simple touch over your underwear.
"So responsive." He mumbles, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric. "Get your tits out for me Sunshine, wanna see em." he grunts feeling your underwear getting wet.
Shakily you reach behind your back and unclip your bra. "Been thinking about them for years. What they look like, how they'll bounce when I fuck you." He groans as you pull the straps down your arms and fling the bra on the floor.
His eyes are on your chest, he doesn't blink. Then as if his system has rebooted, he blows air out of his cheeks and whistles low. "Fuck lovie, so pretty. You're a dream." Simon leans forward and wraps his lips around your breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple as his thumb continues circling your clit.
You moan, fingers tugging at his hair.
He comes off your breast with a pop making you whine and push at his shoulder. He grins pressing his thumb firmer against you, while sliding his other hand over your leg, index finger tracing over the small scar on you leg from when you fell off your bike after Simon broke your training wheels.
There was something comforting about this. Simon wasn't someone you had to explain yourself to, he already knew every version of you, he was simply adding this one to his list. This version, open and honest and begging the man you'd known for thirty years to make you cum on his fingers.
This didn't feel like a hook up, not like other guys have, but it felt like two people who have been each other's home for years and they're finally admitting it.
"Kiss me Simon." You're not even sure if what you said made sense with how much you were panting. But he leaned down to graze his lips along yours. Teasing and soft, despite the fast past he'd started to set with his thumb.
"Stop teasing." You huffed.
"Its my favourite pastime." He grinned hooking his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down and moving with them to settle between your legs.
You gasp, when his tongue slides from your asshole to your clit. "Simon!" His dark eyes are locked on yours as he swirls the tip of his his tongue around your entrance. Your toes curl, your head falling back onto the soft bed sheets.
A few occasions, you could count on one hand, had a guy you were with eaten you out and it was good but fuck, it didn't feel like this.
You felt like you were burning all over with each swipe of his tongue, each dip inside your entrance, each pattern he begins to circle over your clit.
He was learning you.
Simon groans against you, his breath hot, it made you dizzy. You feel everything, its too much to quick and your hips start to buck against his mouth.
Simon clearly had no intention of slowing down or stopping as he slides his arms around your thighs and splays his hands over the tops of them locking you in place.
It feels like fire, like molten lava pooling low in your abdomen the harder his tongue presses against you.
You donât even recognise the sounds coming out of you, itâs as if every movement pulls a new one from you.Â
His thumb replaces his tongue and he rubs the bump in small circles until you can barely breathe. âSound so pretty,â he murmurs just as your back arches and you moan loudly into the night air.Â
He is still speaking but you canât hear anything he is saying, itâs all blurring together the way your vision is blurring. His thumb slides from your clit down until itâs pushing its way inside you. Your hips jerk away but his other hand is quick to hold you in place.
âNo running.â Simon growls.
You cry out when his tongue comes back to torture you, lapping at you like heâs never had a drink and you're fresh water. Soon enough the rhythm heâs built has your hips rolling forward seeking more of whatever he has to give you.
Your hand reaches for his arm and squeezes hard the exact moment your vision turns white and your body shakes, dissolving into pleasure. It's like lightning pulsing through you. He works your through your orgasm, wringing every last wave of pleasure from you before he moves to your lips, kissing you.
âDid so good Sunshine. Iâve got you.â His arms wrap around you, your nipples grazing against the hair on his chest, that alone has you whimpering.Â
"Need more, want you inside me Simon. Please." You look into his eyes, your shyness gone with your orgasm.
"Okay Sunshine." Simon chuckles, the sound vibrating against you.
He pulls back and gets off the bed before he starts to unbuckle his belt. He pushes his black slacks down along with his underwear, his large, and he was so fucking big, cock already hard.
"Always wondered what you'd be like in bed," He tilts his head with a smirk, "If you'd like being in control. Or if you'd prefer me to lead," He knelt on the bed again, and oh my god Simon Riley, your best friend of thirty years and the love of your life was crawling up the bed towards you until his cock was flush with your entrance. "If you'd be needy and beg. Or if you'd bark orders at me." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit. "If you'd be loud or quiet."
"If you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you," his head titled back, eyes shut, "Fuck Sunshine, the things I've imagined doing to you," He looks down at you with the most intense gaze, pining you there on the bed, "Would you let me lovie? Do whatever I want to you?" He asks, pearly whites peaking out to sink into his bottom lip.
"Like what?" Your breath is so unsteady, so hitched and uneven you feel your cheeks heat even more than they have done at his words.
He grins, "Like what?" He chuckles pushing the head of his cock against your entrance, not in, but resting against it, "Wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk. Make love to you slow and so deep you'll feel me everywhere. Bend you over every surface in this house and make you cry on my cock-"
"Simon!" You gasp.
"Can I Sunshine?" He groans pushing in a little more and your eyes sting with tears at the stretch.
"Yes! Please yes!" He pushes in slowly. One of his hands coming next to you on the bed and the other gripping your hip. He keeps sliding in further, so slowly until its sheathed inside you.
Simon does not move. You can see the restraint within the way his teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed, sweat forming on his forehead.Â
âFuck you feel amazing wrapped around me, so tight.â He groans.Â
You donât have any words and even if you did, you doubt you would be able to say them. You have never felt soâŚfull. So filled to the brim and unable to get a reprieve from it.
âMâgonna move, gotta move Sunshine,â Simon growls and the fullness disappears for a second before heâs pushing himself back in.Â
âFuck you feel so good Si.â You shudder and stars appear in your vision when he moves forward and takes your legs with him folding you in half.
Simon Riley has you in fucking mating press and didn't even break the slow rhythm he's building. He continues this push and pull movement until it begins to flow, each movement begins where the other ends. The pattern making you sob, âDonât stop!â
You can't function and its only now that you understand the phrase 'being fucked dumb', rocking your hips, trying desperately to keep up with each thrust, back arched so beautifully.
Simon lets his hand slip and curve around your jaw without thinking about it, "Taking me so well Sunshine." The feral look in his eyes sends a shiver up your spine.
"Too big." You sobbed, your hands grabbing at his large biceps as he thrusts harder. He could feel every ridge and curve of your sopping cunt.
"You can take it." He encouraged you, biting at your neck leaving marks in his wake and looking so damn happy whilst doing it.
You continued to moan and whimper, tears of pleasure falling down your face while Simon's huge body hovered over you. Protecting you from the outside world, in here, it was just you and him.
"Si..oh!" you cried out feeling him hit that rough spot inside your weeping, swollen cunt.
"There it is." He didn't mean to grin like a obsessed man in such an intimate moment but he couldn't help himself. He never can with you. Each thrust hits the one place no man ever seems to be able to find but Simon seemingly found with ease. A spot that makes a tightening begin like a coil, being wound with every drive of his hips.
Your sinful noises morph into higher pitched breathy little screams.
"I know lovie, I know." He cooed, holding you closer. His sweat glazed skin meeting yours as his large veiny hand slips under your head, his other arm curling around your waist.
You move your hips and he groans vulgar into the air, his hand gripping your hair and pulling your head back, a little to the side before he attacks your neck all messy. Smearing his lips across your throat, you donât even recognise the sound that leaves your mouth.
He pulls away, his dark eyes flit to your squelching pussy, the noise attracting his attention pupils dilating, honing in on the way your cunt sucks his cock back in. He couldnât pull away even if he wanted to and fuck he doesnât, he wants nothing more than to stay in your pretty pussy forever.
âSimonfuckyespleaserighttheredontstop!â All the words and moans blend together until your mumbling nonsense trying your hardest to keep conscious, itâs difficult with the way heâs fucking into you so deliciously itâs making you delirious in the best way.
His big body towering over yours, big hands gripping you almost bruisingly. His thick muscular hairy thighs press against your skin compellingly, the sight before you, it's irresistible. All you have to do is look down to see his massive cock sliding in and out of you, a ring of white collecting at the base.
It's too much seeing him like this, feeling the sweet pleasure burn through you and yet Simon moves one of his hands off your head and presses a thumb to your swollen, aching clit.
You're done for.
You sob, so fucking loud you swear everyone in the world can hear it, hot tears flow down your cheeks staining them.
"That's it." The words wash over you with your orgasm, it swirls around you, clings to you, and pushes you down down down the rabbit hole of pleasure. Oversensitivity sets in making you whine at his touch, but you can't stop yourself from wanting more.
Your hips buck into his touch eliciting a dirty chuckle from him.
As Simon picks up his thrusts, he comes to the conclusion that he loves you like this, wants to see it everyday. You're so drunk, so delirious and he loves it. Loves the far away look in your eyes right before they roll back into your skull.
He shoves his face into your neck groaning, "Gonna cum Sunshine, need to. Where?" his thrusts pick up again, as if that were even possible.
"Cum inside me Simon, fill me up." You cry out.
Simon must have been right there as he cums the second you finish your sentence. Hot thick robes of cum pushing deep inside you. He rubs your clit faster and another smaller orgasm zips through you leaving you whimpering.
He stays in you, holding you until he goes soft. He moves your legs so they don't cramp. "Did so well for me Sunshine. I love you so much." He looks into your eyes as more tears spill down your cheeks.
"I love you Simon." you bring your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to kiss you. The contrast between the way he just destroyed your guts and is now kissing you so softly, is astounding.
He is careful when he picks you up and walks into the ensuite bathroom to the right, flicking the light on and placing you on the toilet. "Gotta pee sunshine, don't want you getting you a uti." He says and you're so tired you don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Your eyes as still closed as you pee. Your hand moves to find the toilet paper but a warm flannel is being pressed against you, Simon's other hand on your knee to keep them open. You whine and push his hand away, "Simon that's icky." You frown at him opening your eyes to see him looking at you with a frown of his own.
"Nothing about you is icky Sunshine. I'm clearing up my mess, now move your hand." You do as told and it occurs to you, through your tired haze, while Simon gently wipes you clean that he must be used to clearing up mess with the job he does.
"All done. Want a shower or straight to sleep?" He asks.
"Sleep." You yawn making him smile at you.
He carries you back to the bed, lifting the duvet and settling you both underneath it.
The particular quality of afterwards settles in the room.
The warmth of it, the specific silence, the way the world outside the window continues to exist and you become aware of it again in layers. The sound of the garden. The distant sound of a car somewhere. The sound of him breathing.
You were lying with your head on his chest. His arm around you, heavy and warm. His heartbeat under your ear, steady and unhurried, the same heart that had been beating beside you in one form or another for thirty years.
His hand moved. Slowly, idly, up and down your back.
You watched the lamplight glow on the beside table. You thought about the lavender. You thought about the train station in 2001, and the birthday cards, and the bottom stair with the cream envelope, and Margaret Howarth saying you always did belong together with the satisfied certainty of someone who had known it before either of you did.
"Simon," you said.
"Yeah."
"You planted lavender for three years."
"You mentioned that already."
"I'm still processing it."
A low sound in his chest that was the rumble of a laugh contained. "Take your time Sunshine."
You propped yourself up and looked at him. His face in the lamplight â older, marked, those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old, now watching you from a pillow in the house he'd bought you.
His expression was open in the way it had been open on the porch and at the restaurant table and in the dance hall, the way it had been open perhaps three times in thirty years before tonight and was now, apparently, simply his face when he looked at you.
You loved him so much.
You had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life and now you loved him in this one too, this new one, and it was the same love and completely different and you thought you would be discovering its dimensions for a considerable amount of time.
"You should have told me," you said. "Years ago. Before the train."
"Yeah," he said. No argument.
"I would have said it back then too."
Something moved in his face. "I know," he said. And then, quieter, "I wasn't ready then. Wasn't enough yet."
"Simonâ"
"I know what you're going to say."
"You were alwaysâ"
"I know," he said. "I believe you. Now." His hand came up to your face, tucking a strand of hair back, his thumb at your cheekbone. "Took me a while to get there. But I'm here."
"You're here," you agreed smiling.
"And you're here." his hand tangled itself in your hair.
"I'm here." you giggled.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, "Stay with me."
Not a question, not quite â more like a hope said aloud. The rarest thing from him. He had carried so much silently for so long, and this one small thing cost him something, and you could see it, and you loved him for it.
"It's my house," you said cheeky and bright.
He blinked. Then that laugh again â the real one, the rare one â and your heart did what it always did when you earned it, that particular, irreplaceable lurch.
"Yeah Sunshine," he said. "It is."
You lay back down against his chest. His arm came around you. His heartbeat under your ear.
Outside, the lavender moved. The Union flag was still on the roof. The porch swing sat in the dark with its yellow cushion, waiting for morning.
"Sunshine," he said. Into your hair.
"Hmm."
"I love you."
You pressed your lips to his chest, above his heart.
"I love you too," you said. "I've loved you since you were that chubby four-year-old who stole my crayons."
A long pause.
"Chubby," he repeated.
"Stocky," you amended, grinning into his chest. "You were very stocky."
"I was four."
"You were a very solid four year old."
His arm tightened around you â not painfully, just firmly, the way of a man making a point through the medium of holding â and you laughed again, helplessly, into the warmth of him.
He made that sound, that low rumbling laugh that lived in his chest, and the lamp burned warm and low and outside the lavender moved in the dark.
Simon Riley.
Who stole your crayons at four and broke your glasses at seven and learned to read because of you and carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and punched a boy for pushing you over and kissed your cheek in a toilet corridor and sat beside you through every lunch and glared at anyone who called you a nerd and came round to your kitchen table for years and went to war at seventeen and sent you cards from the edges of the world and planted lavender for three years and bought you the house you described at sixteen and came home.
㠤㠤â â â â â ă ¤â â ââŠËËË tattoo artist simon 'ghost' riley x reader (extended)
synopsis : Fate is a strange forceâpushing a shy, insecure flower into the den of the big, bad Ghost. But with enough dedication and time, that delicate flower can finally bloom perfectly.
cw : angst, smut, body shaming, eating disorders, ex toxic relationship, anxiety, violence, blood mentioned, age gap (reader in mid 20's, simon in late 30's), undertone of daddy kink, chubby and insecure reader.Â
words : 20,3k
Tears were slipping down your cheeks as you locked the bakery door behind you. The closing shift always did that to you, the quiet, careful way you placed the remaining pastries into small takeaway boxes. Your boss believed it was better for the baked goods to go home with her bakers than to end up in the trash.
But those treats werenât for you. Not anymore. They hadnât been for a long time. Not since him.Â
On the way home, you passed the nearby fire station, gladly handing over the dayâs leftover pastries. The firefighters always accepted them with wide grins. They knew the routineâwhenever they saw you approaching with boxes in hand, theyâd rush over, eager to get their share of the sweet, flaky treasures you brought.
Had you not been so self-conscious, you might have noticed a few of them were actually flirting with you.
Once you got home, you walked straight to the bathroom, undressing in silence, your eyes darting everywhere but the mirror, and never at your body. His words still echoed in your mind, making it impossible not to notice the way your stomach folded when you bent over, the way your thighs and butt creased with cellulite, or how big your arms looked in your shirt today. It was a sight you couldnât bear.
As hot water trickled down your skin, more tears followed. There was no stopping them now.
He left. He actually left, just like heâd threatened so many times before.
An eight-month relationship ended with a single text that morning. Words you wouldnât be able to forget : Since you donât want to understand that I need you to stop neglecting yourself, itâs over.
Neglect. Thatâs what he always said, claiming you were neglecting yourself because you were a few kilos over what he thought a woman should be. He called himself a "gym bro," though he wasnât exactly sculpted or strong, he couldnât even lift you if he tried. But he had defined muscles, and he worshipped them. Killed himself at the gym every day, the only one town, next to the tattoo shop. He was cocky about it, constantly giving you unsolicited advice on how to lose belly fat, what meals to eat to slim down, which exercises would stop your arms from "flopping around" when you moved.
You endured all of it, all the veiled insults and body shaming, because you loved him. He was one of the only men in your life whoâd ever given you any attention. He was your second boyfriend, and youâd been so deeply insecure that you fell for the first fucker who batted his eyes at you.
All you had ever wanted was to feel love, to feel seen.
The worst part was, you hadnât gained weight during the relationship. You had already been overweight when he met you. And he had chosen to be with you. Or at least, thatâs what you thought.
A few days after the breakup, you found out the truth, from people you once believed were your friends. He had made a bet with his buddies: that he could sleep with the fat girl from the bar and get her in shape within a year. And when he realized he was going to lose the bet, because no matter what, you weren't turning into the woman he wanted, he broke up with you.
He had never loved you. Never even cared. You had been a joke. A fucking bet.
And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.
Fidgeting with your hands, you stared at the plate in front of you. It wasnât anything specialâjust some pasta with a bit of ham. A small portion, far less than what you used to eat. Your appetite had shrunk since he dragged you down that dark road, and it had only gotten worse after he left.
Some nights, you didnât eat at all. Just showered, slipped into bed, and forced your body to lie still. Even when your stomach growled, you ignored it. Youâd gotten used to skipping lunch, too.
But it never led to anything. Not a single kilo lost. Because during the day, you had manic episodes, eating everything in sight like you were trying to fill a void you couldn't name. Sometimes you threw it all up within hours. Sometimes it just sat in your stomach, but always made you sick in your head.
The numbers on the scale never dropped.
And the truth was, the real you didnât even want them to. Youâd been okay with how you looked before him. It wasnât a runway modelâs body, but it was yours. It had been healthy. It had been enough.
Now, it was neither slim⌠nor healthy.Â
Like always, you took the plate and emptied it into the trash, untouched. Not a single bite.
The plate clattered into the sink, nearly cracking as your trembling fingers let it go. Your hands shook from the sobs wrecking your chest, but also from how weak your limbs had become in the three weeks since the breakup.
You were barely holding yourself together.
And you knew it, you had let yourself spiral down a very dark path. One that was slowly, quietly, killing you.
It was a strange feeling. Youâd always thought youâd leave the moment a boyfriend insulted or degraded you. You believed you were stronger than that, stronger than what you turned out to be.
But the truth was different.
You had lacked attention from boys growing up. No one really looked at you. You were always the fat friend, the funny friend, the friend. Never pretty. Never sexy. Never interesting enough.
It took a toll on you, especially as high school ended and you remained the only virgin in your group. While your friends went off to college, experimenting with sex, parties, and boys, you took a job at the bakery. The same one you still worked at, six years later.
So in a way, it was predictable. When the cute boy from the bar approached you, showed interest, made you believe he was in it for more than just sex, you fell. Hard. You wanted to believe it was something real.
Truthfully, your first âboyfriendâ hadnât been any better. He never pretended to care. Once you gave him your first time, he vanished. His reason? I always wanted to fuck a fat girl.
Fat.
That word felt branded on your forehead.
Your mother always told you that you werenât fat, just chubby. She said it in a way that made it sound cute, harmless, even lovable. And maybe it was. You werenât anywhere near obese. But in your mind, it felt like you were.
Fat wasnât just a wordâit was a weight, a sentence, a quiet shame that followed you into fitting rooms, into photos, into silence when boys looked past you.
No matter what anyone said, you carried it like a scar only you could see.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you sank back into the chair, eyes closed, trying to will the tears to stop. You still had twenty minutes left on your break.
Gulping down a full glass of water to quiet the gnawing in your stomach, you stepped outside into the small backyard behind the bakery.
Technically, it was your bossâs backyardâshe lived in the flat upstairsâbut she let the staff use it. It was a welcome escape from the cramped, fluorescent-lit break room. Out here, at least, the rare English sun could warm your face, even if everything else felt cold.
You sat in silence, head tilted up, wishing the sunlight could burn the tears away the moment they surfaced. But it never did.Â
They always fell.
The rest of your shift was hard, but no harder than the other days. They all blurred together now, each one just as heavy as the last. You werenât really living anymoreâjust surviving. And the worst part was, you werenât even sure why.
The walk home was pleasant enough. The sun was still out, lingering a little longer, casting gold across the pavement. You lifted your face to it, letting the warmth settle against your skin.
On impulse, you decided to take the long way home.
You hadnât dared to for weeks, not since the breakup. That route passed by the gym where your ex worked out. The same one he had begged you to join. Pushed you to subscribe to. Promised it would âchange everything.â
You had been grateful you never joined.
So lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. Almost.
You stopped abruptly, something catching at the edge of your vision. You turned around.
They were beautiful, the most beautiful flowers youâd ever seen.
And yet, it was just a simple drawing. If you could even call it that. A quick scribble of sunflowers on a sheet of paper, taped messily to the front window of the tattoo parlour. Still, despite its roughness, it stopped you cold.
Just a couple of sunflowers, side by side. The details were rushed, uneven, like it had been sketched in a hurry. Probably tossed up there to draw in a certain kind of customer. You wouldnât be surprised if it had been stuck there for years, long forgotten and sun-faded.
But to you, it was beautiful.
This wasnât a new tattoo shop, it had been around for years and carried a certain reputation. People in town whispered about the artist known only as Ghost, an ex-military famed for his harsh, intricate designs: skulls, weapons, bombsâanything steeped in military grit. But what truly set him apart was his skill with scars. He was known for working over them with precision and care, turning what was once pain into something powerful, something claimed.
Veterans traveled from across the country just to get inked by him. Yet no one in town ever really saw him. Ghost, they called him, and the name fit.
He had settled here years ago, but beyond his clients, no one could say what he looked like. The rumours were consistent: a body covered in scars and tattoos, a nose broken more times than anyone could count, and a bluntness that sent most people running. That was all the town really knew about Ghost.
And yet, somehow, he had drawn the sunflowers, the small skull scrawled at the bottom of the sheet was his signature, his mark.
A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision pulled you out of your admiration.
There it was, the neon green wifebeater. That horrible, fluorescent shirt your ex always wore to the gym. You knew it all too well. Too painfully well. You hated it with a quiet fury. Not wanting to face him, you spun around abruptly, your head snapping as you caught the movement. Without a word, you turned and hurried away, taking yet another detour.
You ducked behind the block, your pace quickening. You kept glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, as if he might actually be following you. But you knew better.
He wanted nothing to do with you. He never had.
You were hyperventilating, your heartbeat pounding so loudly it rang in your ears. It was racing far too fast. Panic was settling deep into your bones, tightening its grip with every breath.
More tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. So when you turned your head forward, you didnât see the man you were about to stumble into. Your panicked mind was confused, convincing you it was your ex, that he was following you, coming to hurt you even more. More insults. More laughter at your naivety.
Your ears were ringing, and you couldnât make out the words the stranger was saying. You couldnât even see his face clearly. But you felt something burn the side of your armâa cigarette, most likely. Which was strange, because your ex didnât smoke. It didnât fit his lifestyle. But your panicked mind was too tangled to make sense of anything.
Rushing past the man, you almost fell on the floor from missing the sidewalk, and mostly because of how, in a panic, your legs had become too heavy, ready to let go of your body.Â
You didnât remember how you made it home, just muscle memory taking over.
Hours later, you woke up to find yourself lying on the floor in the middle of your entryway. The sun had long since set. Youâd passed out the moment you crossed the threshold, your homeâs safety stealing away the panic and stress that your tired body could no longer bear.
Your head throbbed, from the fall and the tears. Your body ached, drained and pleading for any kind of energy after being pushed to its limits.
That night, you ate.
It was automatic. You couldnât do anything else. Eat. Shower. Sleep.
It had been weeks since that day.
It almost felt like a dream now, a blur of memories and trauma, if not for the small, round scar on your arm.Â
The strangerâs cigarette had left its mark. You knew it hadnât been intentional, just a moment of bad timing in a chaotic panic. But still, it remained.
It mocked you. A quiet reminder of how twisted your mind had become. Proof of how deeply the fear had settled into your bones. You still couldnât walk past the gym, not without your chest tightening, your legs wanting to flee. That moment had felt like the end of the world. It had drained you out, body and soul, until youâd had to call in sick the next morning. You stayed in your flat for three days after, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
Now, sitting behind the counter during a slow closing shift, you stared absently at the scar on your forearm, waiting for a client who was already ten minutes late.
And somehow, your thoughts drifted back to the sunflowers. Those pretty, messy sunflowers hanging in the tattoo shop window.
A single idea crossed your mind. Wild. Irrational. Something you would never actually do.
You couldnât.
It was another thing your ex had wanted to change about you, your routine, your refusal to step outside the familiar. You never strayed far from what you knew. Never looked for a better job, never tried to find a nicer flat. You never chased the things you always said you wanted, like traveling to Scotland, opening your own coffee shop with a bakery, or adopting a dog. They were just dreams, floating around in your mind, never acted upon because they didnât fit neatly into your routine.Â
And he hated that. Said you were boring. Bland.
You wouldnât let him win. You couldnât keep letting him dictate your life, not after heâd walked away like none of it had ever meant anything. Because to him, it hadnât.
So when you stood in front of the tattoo shop the next day, you had to remind yourself, this was for you. Not for anyone else. This was your choice, your body, and this would be your mark. A beautiful piece to adorn your hips, because he hated them. And you were tired of hating them too.
Tired of letting him win.Â
Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the front door of the shop.
It looked exactly how youâd imagined. The walls were dark, lined with harsh, aggressive designsâskulls in every shape and size, weapons, tanks, grenades, and bold, blocky lettering. Classic tattoo motifs were scattered among them too: lions, clocks, roses, eagles. But nothing remotely close to the delicate, forgotten sunflowers in the window.
The bell above the door rang sharply, announcing your arrival.
A single sign greeted you, taped to the wall behind the counter. Thick black marker on plain paper, the writing was a little fancy, almost elegant, like someone trying to show off a bit of flair. The message, however, was blunt.Â
Don't talk. I heard the door. Sit down and wait.
You obeyed the sign without hesitation, too nervous to do anything else. The waiting area was small, just a battered leather couch and a scratched-up coffee table covered in tattoo magazines and crumpled receipts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old smoke, like the place had absorbed years of ink and silence.
You sat down, trying to steady your breathing, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The hum of a tattoo machine buzzed faintly in the distance, like a swarm of bees behind the walls. It was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the building settling.
It was all a stupid idea.
You shouldnât even be here. It was ridiculous. He had been right, you were boring and bland, and maybe that was fine. Safe. Predictable. There was no need to change just to meet someone elseâs idea of who you should be. So what were you doing here?
Sure, the flowers were pretty⌠but this was a tattoo. Permanent. Big. Bold. Everything you werenât. And what if you couldnât even afford it? This Ghost was popular, people traveled for him. He couldnât be cheap.
The panic crawled up your throat again, wrapping around your breath like a vice. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You stared down, letting your thoughts twist and spiral until your chest felt too tight and your legs itched to leave.
You didnât even hear the tattoo gun stop. Didnât hear the two voices, low and rough, approaching from the back room.
Another thing your ex hated. How easily you slipped away in your head. How you dissociated, zoned out, became unreachable when the world got too loud. Said it made you âweak.â Said it made you âa burden.â You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You didnât notice the footsteps until they were right there in the room.
And then, silence.
Looking up, you were met with three men, but one stood out immediately, like a sore thumb.Â
He was taller, broader, commanding in a way the others werenât. His arms were covered in tattoos that trailed down to his hands and fingers, dark ink etched into thick skin. His blond hair was cut short, close to his scalp, like a grown-out buzzcut that hadnât seen a comb in days. His eyes landed on you, curious, confused, and sharp. There was something harsh in them too, like your presence disrupted something, and he didnât like that. It wasnât outright anger, but it simmered just beneath the surface.Â
Still, he was striking. Easily one of the most handsome men youâd ever seen, in a rugged, untouchable way. And judging by his presence alone, there was no doubtâthis was Ghost.
The man next to him had kinder eyes, warm brown and alert, framed by thick lashes and a subtle crease at the corners that hinted at easy smiles. He was shorter, leaner, with a trimmed beard and a calm steadiness in the way he held himself. His dark skin was smooth, his features sharp but approachable. There was something disarming about him, like he was used to diffusing tension before it sparked.
And then there was the last one. His eyes met yours like the othersâ, but there was a gentle smirk playing at the corners of his lips, amused. He didnât bother hiding it, the moment his gaze landed, he openly checked you out from head to toe, unapologetic and bold. He had that rugged, battle-hardened look, dark hair kept in a weird shape, a faint beard tracing his jaw. His face held the kind of confidence that came from surviving countless fights, both outside and within. A fresh tattoo peeked out from beneath a second-skin plaster on his forearm, barely visible but telling of a story still unfolding.
âWell, LT,â the last one said, his deep Scottish accent rolling around the words, âLooks like yeâve been hidinâ things, wee bugger.â
The dark-skinned man laughed at the remark while the taller one snapped a deadly glare at the Scot. If looks could kill, Mactavish would have been six feet under by now.
âFuck off, Mactavish,â Ghost said, pushing the door open for his visitors.
Not even bothering to respond to the rudeness, the two men stepped out of the tattoo shop, whispering and giggling like schoolboys as they glanced back over their shoulders at you one last time.
You admitted to yourself that you must have looked out of place, sitting there in a space so obviously far outside your comfort zone. You wore a simple blue dress, dotted with tiny flowers and birds. Nothing fancy, but enough to hide your stomach, hips, and thighs. Much easier than trousers, at least. It was the kind of dress heâd called âten years too oldâ, words that still echoed in your mind.
Before him, it used to be your favourite one.Â
âWhat dâyou want?â His blunt words cut through the silence, doing nothing to ease your anxiety. His sharp eyes pinned you in place, unblinking and intense.
You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. âUm⌠I was walking by the other day, and, uh, I saw the sunflowers outside. The pretty ones.â
Your voice was rushed, barely more than a whisper. At the mention of the flowers, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up as if youâd just said something absurd.
He turned away, glancing back toward the window, his eyes scanning quickly for the drawing youâd mentioned. It was clear on his face, he didnât recall ever drawing sunflowers.
You fidgeted with your fingers, your leg bouncing nervously as anxiety gnawed at you.
Maybe he hadnât drawn it. Maybe it was another artist. But youâd lived in this town for years, and youâd never heard of anyone else. Ghost was the only tattoo artist around.
âFuck,â he let out with a sigh, walking over to the sunflowers and tearing them off the window. âListen, darlinâ, I donât do that sort of stuff no more. Look âround, find something you like, Iâll do it, but sunflowers? Nah, that ainât me work.â
Oh no.
This was your worst-case scenario: rejection. Your heart was pounding wildly, feeling like it would burst right out of your chest. You should have known, it was a terrible idea. All the signs had been there.
The place was way out of your comfort zone. So was getting a tattoo. Youâd even run into your ex while staring at the flowers. It was like the universe was sending you signs not to do this. But youâd already taken the first step, and now it was turning into a disaster.
Youâd been silent far too long, not to mention awkward. Social skills had never been your strong suit, itâd always been a struggle.
âUh, itâs okay, mister,â you stammered, pushing yourself up from the worn-out sofa, ready to bolt. âI donât want anything else, really. Just the sunflowers,â you added quickly, your fingers nervously twisting the ring on your middle fingerâa stress habit.
His eyes softened a little, noticing the clear discomfort and anxiety etched across your face.
Closing his eyes, he sighed again, not in anger, but in resignation. It didnât take much, but something about you stirred a strange protective instinct inside him, the same feeling heâd only experienced when his teammates were in danger.
âAlright then,â he groaned, settling behind the desk by the door. He gestured toward the chair on the other side, inviting you to sit. âTell me where you want it, the size and all that. Iâll have to redraw it. Looks like shit,â he added bluntly, not bothering to hide that the sunflowers were a poor sketch, especially given his skill.
With shy, hesitant words, you explained that you wanted the sunflowers on your left hip. As for the size, you werenât quite sure, maybe four or five flowers, enough to stretch across the width of your hip.
At the mention of âwidth,â the way you said it, Ghost twitched ever so slightly. Hatred had filled your voice a little. So that was what this was all about, a tattoo to cover up insecurities. He was no stranger to this. Soldiers came to him all the time for the same reasonsâcovering scars, quieting traumas, memorializing lost comrades. He was used to pain and healing inked into skin.
But seeing you, a soft, sweet flower like yourself, hating on your body broke his heart. From what he could see, even with the way you tried to hide yourself under that dress, you were exactly his type: all curves and softness, just right to fit into his big, calloused hands.
After gathering all the details you wanted, which werenât many, he gave you a knowing look and asked, âGot any other tattoos?â
A deep blush spread across your cheeks. It was too easy to read you. You shook your head, unable to hold his gaze for too long. It made you uncomfortable, but in a strangely pleasant way, something new, something youâd never felt before, not even with him.
âCome âround in a couple days, aye?â he said, glancing down at the sunflower drawing as he thought. Then, looking back up at you, he added, âIâll have a sketch ready, and if you like it, we can set a date.â
âYeah,â you sighed, biting your lip nervously. âOkay.â
ââNeed time to do something nice for you,â he said with a small smirk. âWouldnât wanna fuck it up.â
Your body stayed locked in the chair, and with a nod toward the door, he made it clear you wouldnât be getting any work done today, not exactly chasing you out, but closing the session gently.
Frowning, you glanced from the door back to him, then at the door again.
âYou donât want a deposit?â you asked, confused.Â
Glaring past him, your eyes caught the big sign in bold letters: NO DEPOSIT, NO PROJECT.
Knowing exactly what you were staring at, Ghost let out a short laugh. When you looked back at him, you were surprised to find that familiar knowing look shining in his brown eyes.
âSomethinâ tells me you ainât gonna make me waste my time, flower,â he said, a rare intensity flickering behind his gaze. âDonât you worry your little head âbout that, just come back in a few days.â
And with that, he sent you on your way.
As you stepped outside, your stomach churned, not with anxiety, but with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A strange, giddy feeling settled over you, sparked by the memory of the man you had just met.
There was something about his quiet dominance, the effortless way he commanded the room. Nothing like anyone youâd ever known before.
And you found yourself longing for more.Â
Anxiety had been eating away at you in the days following your meeting with Ghost.
In some strange way, you were excited, nervous, yes, but genuinely thrilled about this new thing. It still felt surreal that you were actually going through with it. And then there were his words, echoing in your mind like a quiet challenge: you ain't gonna make me lose my time, flower.
It made you want to prove him right. To please him.
His calm confidence, the way he filled a room without needing to say much, lingered in your thoughts longer than you cared to admit. That deep, gravelly voice of his had sent a shiver down your spine, and every time you remembered it, it happened all over again.
After that encounter, your days had started to feel a little lighter. The dark clouds that usually hovered in your mind seemed to part for longer stretches of time, letting in slivers of calm before the heaviness crept back inâusually around meals. Still, you were more present during your shifts, less likely to break down during your breaks, less caught in the spiral of exhaustion and tears.
But it all felt ridiculous to you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still hear his voice, mocking, condescending. Whispering that it was just the same old story again. That a man had given you a shred of attention, and now you were overthinking like some pathetic daydreamer.Â
âLittle dumb naive girl,â he had once spat, voice thick with hatred and spite.
And despite everything, that voice still echoed.
You heard his voice again the moment you stood in front of the tattoo shop. Your eyes had wandered, unintentionally, toward the gym just next door. That place made your skin crawl. You hated it. Hated the way it made you feel small and enormous at the same time. Hated the way the women walked outâslim, glowing, confidentâcarrying something you had always been told you lacked.Â
He used to say he could replace you with any one of them if you didnât start losing weight. Said they were better than you. Slimmer. Prettier. More dedicated. Then would come the sweet words, how you could be just like them if only. Always the same routine. Break you down, then pretend to build you back up, exactly the way he liked. Like he was doing you a favor.
"Gonna stay out there all day, or you coming in?" The deep voice startled you, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like a blade.
You turned to find Ghost holding the door open, his broad frame filling the entrance. You hadn't realized youâd let a tear fall until the cool air hit your cheek. Quickly, you wiped it away, sniffing once. If he noticed, he didnât mention it, just watched you with unreadable eyes.
You managed a shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry." And with that, you stepped inside, the warmth of the shop swallowing you whole.
The shop was empty. Silent.
It felt almost sacred, like youâd stepped across the threshold of some hidden temple where quiet was a rule, not a choice.
A low groan broke the stillness, followed by a huff as Ghost sat down behind the desk. He sounded like an old man, despite barely looking over forty. You figured the military took its toll, grinding away at a person until even sitting down hurt. That theory was confirmed when his knee popped audibly as he stretched out his legs. Another groan slipped out.
You giggled, just a little. A quiet, surprised sound that escaped before you could catch it.
Ghost looked up at you with one brow raised, catching you mid-mockery. There was no anger in his face, no sharp edge to his gaze, just something unreadable and calm, a small smirk playing on his lips. Still, your chest tightened at the expression.Â
It mirrored one you'd seen too many times before, except back then it had always come with a bite. With anger. With disgust.
You looked away quickly and sank down onto the old chair without a word.
He said nothing either. Just pulled open a drawer and pushed three pieces of paper toward you. Sketches. Sunflowers.
Each design more intricate and beautiful than the rough draft youâd first seen weeks ago. Sunlight captured in ink. Petals curled with care. You blinked, your throat suddenly tight.
He hadnât just redrawn the flowers. Heâd turned them into something tender. Something yours.
They were all beautiful, but one sketch drew you in more than the others.
It was a single sunflower, its petals open wide in full bloom, surrounded by gently arching leaves and smaller buds just on the verge of flowering. The lines were soft, almost tender, yet preciseâeach stroke intentional, like every vein on a petal had been studied before being drawn.
What captivated you most, though, was the smallest detail: a single bee, hovering mid-flight near the flowerâs heart. Its wings were barely open, caught in that frozen moment of approach, as if deciding to land. It wasnât just decorative, it was alive with motion, with intent.
It made your chest ache in the best way.
The sunflower stood proud and open, the bee drawn to it naturallyâunafraid, unashamed. You saw yourself in that flower. Or at least, who you wanted to be.
It was a very singular design, nothing like the harsh, brutal lines that filled the walls around you. No skulls, no weapons, no eagles with razor-edged wings. Just a bloom, soft and open, alive with quiet strength. It almost didnât make sense. That a man like him, this towering, intimidating presence wrapped in scars and ink, had drawn something so delicate, so intimate. So⌠you.
There had been something about you that stirred something different in him, something that made him want to create something truly special, just for you. It was unlike the bold, aggressive lines and masculine designs he was known for. He could do delicateâheâd always had the skillâbut he usually chose not to. Until now. And as you sat in the chair across from him, eyes glassy and wide like a startled fawn, he knew heâd made the right call. Heâd been right not to turn you away.
The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.
Ghost had spent nearly two decades learning to read people, it had been his job, his survival. And everything about you screamed damage dealt in silence. The way you sat, small and unsure, like you didnât want to take up space. The constant fidgeting of your fingers in your lap, tugging at your clothes like they might shield you from being seen. The way your voice barely rose above a whisper, like you werenât sure you deserved to be heard.
He recognized the signs. Heâd seen them in soldiers, in strangers, in too many faces over the years. The fallout of cruel words and twisted truths. Of someone telling you you werenât enough, or worse, that you were too much.Â
But it was always the same origin, someone, somewhere, had tried to make you small.
A mother, maybe. Or more likely, he thought grimly, a man.
And sitting across from you now, he felt something cold and quiet settle in his chest. Not judgment. Not pity. Just the sharp, familiar awareness that some people carry battles you canât always see, and you were fighting yours with nothing but a soft voice and trembling hands.
And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.
âPicked one, flower?â he asked, tone softer now, careful. Not wanting to scare you off. Not wanting to break what little peace you had mustered to sit in that chair.
"Yes, this one," you said, almost too quietly, your finger hovering over the design with the bee. Even though it looked small on paper, you hoped he could make it biggerâbig enough to cover the part of your hip you were so desperate to hide.
Ghost glanced at the drawing, then at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "My personal favourite," he said, voice low and smooth, before rising from the desk and walking toward the back of the shop. With a practiced motion, he pushed aside the curtain and held it open, looking over his shoulder with an expectant glance, clearly waiting for you to follow.
You hadnât expected it to happen today. You werenât ready, not mentally, not emotionally, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. Hesitating at first, you followed him into the back, unsure of what else to do, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.
There was no turning back now.
Noticing the way your body language had shifted in an instant, your shoulders tense, your steps uncertain, Ghost let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension.
âRelax. Not gonna tattoo you today,â he said, voice calmer than you'd expected. âJust testing out the size, yeah?â
âOh,â you breathed out, almost like a sigh of relief. âYeah⌠yeah, thatâs okay,â you added, biting your lower lip, a nervous habit you couldnât seem to shake.
After he gestured to the tattoo bed, Ghost moved behind the computer, likely resizing the design to fit your hip. The room settled into silence. It wasnât awkward, at least not on his end, but the quiet gave your thoughts too much room to spiral.
What if he thought you were fat? What if he looked at your body with disgust, just like he had? You reminded yourself this was his job, heâd probably seen hundreds of bodies, maybe thousands. All kinds. Worse than yours, surely. But the thought still clawed at your chest like something sharp and cruel: what if you were the worst of them all?
Especially when the man preparing to see your hips, thighs, and stomach was, without exaggeration, one of the most handsome men you'd ever laid eyes on.
With a few stencils prepared, Ghost stood and approached, ready to test out various sizes.
Not wanting to be in the way, you immediately got up as well, stepping in front of the full-length mirror while he settled onto the stool beside it.
Youâd worn another dress today, plain yellow, modest, simple. It reached your knees and clung just a little too snugly around your stomach. It used to fit better. Had you gained more weight again? You hoped not. Maybe it had just shrunk in the wash. That had to be it.
âThe left one, yeah?â he asked, not looking up as he carefully trimmed the edges of the stencil.
You gave a soft hum of agreement, your voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. Ghost didn't pause, just wheeled himself around behind you with ease, still focused on cutting. His strong thighs pushed him forward effortlessly in the chair, and for some reason, watching the quiet confidence of that movement sent a subtle thrill down your spine.
"Alright," he said once heâd finished trimming all three stencil sizes. "Pull this up for me, yeah?" He motioned toward your dress, voice casual, efficientâlike this was just another task in his day.
And why wouldnât it be? He didnât care about your insecurities. He didnât even know you. You were just another client. Youâd come to him for a service, and he was simply doing his job.
Still, your throat tightened as you nodded, swallowing hard. With a deep breath, you slowly pulled your dress up.
"A little more, flower," he said, glancing up quickly while preparing the stencil products, his tone still calm, focused, professional.
Your chest constricted at the request. Your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. But by some miracle of will, you managed to lift your dress a bit higher, high enough that your plain cotton underwear was fully visible.
You felt exposed, hyperaware of every flaw. The natural light from the window beside the table streamed in, illuminating everything.
Panic fluttered in your chest until your eyes darted to the glass, and you realized with a wash of relief that it was treated with a one-way mirror film. You could see the street, but no one could see in.
You flinched slightly when you felt his warm hand settle on your hip, the unexpected contact sending a jolt up your spine. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of how close his face was, far too close for your nerves to handle.
He looked somewhat ridiculous in that moment, crouched down low, the stool adjusted to its minimum height. And still, somehow, he was a giant. He had to curve his broad back just to meet the right angle, shoulders hunched, every movement careful and measured.
"Alright?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm, catching the way your body tensed and the goosebumps rising along your skin.
There was a flicker in his eyes, something more than concern. Ghost had always been a man whose emotions burned low and slow, but now something stirred. A spark of frustration, not directed at you, but at whoever had made you like this. Whoever had taken someone so soft, so lovely, and left them flinching from simple touch.
To him, you were stunning. Like those old Greek goddesses carved in marble, soft, full, timeless. The kind of beauty meant to be admired, not torn apart. It filled him with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness, a simmering anger on your behalf.
And yet, you couldnât see it. Couldn't see what he saw. And that, more than anything, pissed him off.
"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, not entirely sure what you were apologizing for. "Keep going." You added the words with a small, tight smile tugging at your lips.
He understood his mistake, he hadn't told you what he was doing. Just like with the vet with PTSD, he needed to explain everything, to avoid catching you off guard.
"This is just so the stencilâs ink sticks to your skin. Itâs just a gel, but itâs gonna be cold," he explained, showing you the dab heâd applied to his finger. When you nodded, he began to gently spread it across your skin.
Without realizing, his thumb brushed higher on your hip, nudging your panties up slightly. It was unconscious, just a way to keep the gel from touching the fabric, but it sent your mind spiraling. His fingers felt so good against your skin: soft, careful, like he was handling something fragile he didnât want to break.
No one had ever touched you like that before. It felt strange, but in the best way, and you found yourself wanting more.
As soon as he peeled the stencil off your skin, your eyes dropped to your hip, and you cringed.
It looked so small against the stretch of skin. Heâd used the medium size, but it was still far from what youâd imagined. Barely bigger than your hand, it looked... wrong. Out of place. Like it needed room to breathe, to grow into something more.
âBigger?â he asked, watching your reaction closely.
You nodded quickly, and he stood without another word, heading back to his desk.
The largest version heâd printed wasnât much bigger than the one youâd just seen. Heâd have to resize it again. As he sat in front of his laptop, he glanced up, just in time to see you frowning at your skin, letting the dress fall back over the spot the second he was no longer beside you. Like you couldnât bear to look at it alone.
Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head, disbelief darkening his features.
Whoever made you feel that way, he hoped they were ashamed.
After a few more tries and several rounds of resizing, you finally found yourself staring at the stencil with something like admiration, no longer disgust. Heâd added more details with each versionâmore leaves, more petalsâto better match the vision youâd had in your head.Â
And now, it was perfect. It began just above your hip and flowed down almost to the middle of your thigh. It fit your body like it had always belonged there.
It felt right.
A quiet moment passed, the room still, until the chime of the front doorbell jolted you from your thoughts.
âItâs perfect,â you said at last, your voice soft but certain.
Ghost raised his eyebrows, then offered a genuine smile. âYeah?â He asked, as if he had been ready to size it up again.Â
You nodded. âYeah.â
âGreat,â he said, glancing toward the trash bin overflowing with discarded stencils. âOnly took, what⌠seven tries?â he added with a teasing lilt.
âSorry,â you murmured, guilt creeping in. You felt like youâd wasted his time, been too picky.
âDonât be,â he said easily, already making a note on the final stencil so he could refine it later. âTell you what, keep it on for a couple of days. If you still like it, give me a call and weâll set a date.â
âOkay,â you agreed, letting the hem of your dress fall back down, covering the design once again.
âPerfect, then,â Ghost said, standing with a grunt as he stretched his back. He handed you a small card with his name and number. âItâll wash off eventually, donât worry.â
And with that, you were sent on your wayâa flower now adorning your hip, waiting to be etched into your skin forever.
A pretty flower for the prettiest, Ghost thought, as he turned to greet his next client.
Sadness settled over you when the sunflower finally faded from your hip.
It had taken about three days. Three days where you couldn't stop looking at it, admiring it in every mirror you passed at home. It had made you feel pretty, maybe for the first time in months. For once, you had felt good in your own skin. And the moment you realised that, you called the tattoo shop, your voice trembling with quiet determination.
You told Ghost you were ready.
He had sounded genuinely pleased, even told you so himself. You set a dateâtwo weeks from now, the only opening he had. He explained it would likely take two, maybe three sessions to complete, each spaced about a month apart.
He also began talking about pricing, but you barely listened. You were so far gone in the process, so invested in this strange little dream, that numbers didnât scare you anymore. He couldâve asked for two thousand pounds and you still wouldâve paid it, no hesitation. Yet he stayed evasive about the exact number.Â
While he went over the rules, you mostly listened to the sound of his voice. Deep and soothing, it made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
âWear comfortable clothes,â heâd said. âBring books, music if you want. Drink water. Eat before, and bring snacks too.â
That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.
Snacks. You hadnât had a snack in months. You barely had a regular eating routine at all anymore.
Your anxiety spiked immediately. You fumbled a quiet, âWhat do you mean?â
He explained gently that tattoos were draining on the body, and he didnât want you passing out in his shop. That it was important.
You nodded, but deep down you knew you wouldnât follow that rule. Eating beforehand would be a battle. Snacks were⌠complicated.
Unknown to you, Ghost quietly made a note to bring some of his own snacks. Something told him you wouldnât show up with anything. And he wasnât about to let you faint on his table.
He also wasnât about to let you slip through his fingers.
He told himself to be patient, to tread carefully, but something in him had already shifted. He was ready to catch you. To keep you close. Warm. Safe.Â
He had tried to restrain his thoughts during the short time heâd known you. Told himself he was too old, too rough for someone like you. But hearing your soft, fragile voice on the phone, nervous over something as small as snacks, it undid something in him. Broke open a place he hadnât touched in years.
You needed someone to take care of you. And whether you knew it yet or not, he was already planning to be that someone.
The day of your first session came. By 10 a.m., you'd already thrown up your breakfastânerves twisting your stomach into knots.
But you needed to eat. Heâd told you to eat. And something inside you, quiet but insistent, wanted to make him proud. Wanted to follow his instructions, not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to trust.
So when noon came, you sat down and ate a light lunch. Slowly. Carefully. You even finished it with a small pastry you'd saved from your closing shift the night before. You had another one waiting in the fridge, meant for him.
Youâd eaten more than your body had grown used to these past few months. It left you with a dull ache in your stomach and a familiar, rotten urge clawing at your throat, to get rid of it. Purge it all.
But you didnât.
This morning had been different, your body rejecting food out of sheer stress. But now? If you threw up now, it would be by your own hand. And somehow, you felt like Ghost would know.
Somehow, heâd see it in your eyes. And you couldnât bear the thought of disappointing him.
Youâd chosen another plain dress that morning, simple, soft, something that wouldnât draw attention. You made sure your panties were in place, covering everything they needed to. Modest. Safe.
Still, the thought of being half-naked in front of a near-stranger made your skin crawl just a little. Not because of him, not really. But because of you, because of how exposed it all made you feel. But you needed this. You needed that sunflower on your hip, something beautiful, something permanent, something just for you.
You could handle a few hours of discomfort. Youâd endured far worse for far less. This time, at least, there would be something to show for it. Something that might make you feel like yourself again.
When you crossed the threshold, you didnât feel nearly as nervous as the first day. There was still tension humming beneath your skin, but it felt quieter now, softer. Familiar, even.
You were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but you showed up at 1:30. Anxiety had been gnawing at you in your flat, pacing circles in your mind. Better to wait here than there. Your grandmaâs voice echoed in your head: âShow up on time and youâre already late.â
It had stuck with you, like most of the things she said.
The sharp buzz of the tattoo machine stopped abruptly. A second later, Ghost appeared, only his face visible behind the half-drawn curtain. His eyes scanned the shop, then landed on you, clearly surprised.
Glancing at his watch, he let out a quiet laugh. âA bit early, flower, aye?â he said, the mockery in his voice softened by fondness. He tilted his head toward the waiting area. âGet comfy, Iâm almost done.â
Then he vanished again behind the curtain, and the machine started buzzing once more.
You were left alone with your takeaway box, a simple things that somehow made you feel even more exposed. But you were here. That counted for something.
Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.
You glanced up just in time to see Ghost walking his client out, peeling off his gloves with practiced ease. His expression was serious, sharp eyes fixed on the bulky man who thanked him before heading for the door. âSemper fi,â the man added as he left.
Ghost gave a small nod in response, shutting the register drawer with a decisive click.
âFucking Marines,â he muttered under his breath, not loud enough to offend, just loud enough for you to hear.Â
Then his eyes found yours again, and something in him visibly softened. Like a soldier slipping out of uniform. âCome on then,â he said, motioning toward the back room as he held the curtain open for you. His tone was quieter now, gentler. Meant just for you.
You stood, your heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs, and stepped past him into the familiar quiet of the studio.
You spotted the familiar stencil waiting on the small stool next to the mirror, just like last time. Before Ghost could sit down, your nerves got the better of you, and you blurted out, âBrought this for you.â
You handed him the small box, your fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. It was nothing special, just a simple ĂŠclair. Youâd chosen it because it was safe. Everyone liked ĂŠclairs... right?
Well, he didn't like it.
âThanks, didnât have to,â he said casually, taking the box from your hands.Â
He didnât hesitate to open it, eyes widening as he caught sight of the pastry inside. Before you could brace yourself for rejection, heâd already picked it up, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and let out a low, guttural moan of appreciation.
âItâs good, flower,â he said through a mouthful, lips curled into a grin. âMade it yourself?â
All you could do was nod, stunned.
It was almost... pornographic, the way heâd eaten it. Like he didnât care about appearances or manners or calories, just enjoyment. Ghost, with his thick muscles and calloused hands, clearly someone who probably hit the gym daily, had devoured your cake like it was the best thing heâd eaten in weeks. Moaned for it, even.
Your ex had always asked for the ingredients when you baked, always calculating the calories, dissecting the fat content before heâd even touch it.
This? This was something new. This was acceptance. This was appreciation. And it was almost too much.
After washing his hands, Ghost clapped them together once before settling onto the stool beside you, just like last time.
âShall we get going?â he asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you, watchful, calm.
Once you gave him a small nod, he got to work.Â
âGonna shave your skin first, alright?â he said, pulling out a fresh razor and a bottle of shaving gel.
He hadnât told you to shave. You shouldâve known, you shouldâve looked it up beforehand. Your skin shouldâve been smooth already, prepared. Now he had to do it for you, and it felt like youâd already messed everything up.
âStop,â he said firmly, his eyes focused on your skin as he gently worked the razor over it. âStop overthinkinâ. Thatâs on me, I forgot to tell you. So just... breathe, yeah? I donât care. I do this for guys ten times hairier than you, and they donât lose sleep over it.â
Then stencil was placed with careful precision, exactly where you wanted it. When you approved with a quiet "Thatâs perfect," he let you lie back on the tattoo table. From there, everything moved with quiet, practiced rhythm.
Gloves. Ink. Needles.
Each item was either unwrapped from sterile packaging or pulled from sealed containers. And for every step, he explained what he was doing.
You listened closely, really listened, with those wide, soft doe eyes trained on him, absorbing each word like it mattered. He noticed that, too. Knew it gave you a bit of comfort. Knew that being informed made the fear quieter. You even stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a few seconds.
âIâm not much of a talker, yeah?â he said while slotting a needle into the tattoo machine. âBut you can do whatever. Read, listen to music, nap. I wonât get distracted, donât worry.â
It was time now. Everything was ready. His voice softened again.
âIt might hurt a little at first. Like a few electric shocks. But youâll get used to it. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? Got the whole afternoon just for you, flower.â He motioned toward a small table you hadnât noticed before, tucked just beside a door marked PRIVATE. On top sat a neatly arranged water bottle, some juice, a protein bar and bananas.
âSnacks and waterâs over there too. No excuses,â he added with a faint smirk, like he already knew you were planning on ignoring that part.
Your heart swelled in your chest. You hadnât said a word, and still, heâd thought ahead. Heâd prepared for you.
You werenât used to that. Not the consideration, not the gentle forethought. Not someone thinking of what you might need without being told. It caught you off guard in the softest way.
It made something flutter deep inside, something that had been dormant for too long. A warmth that started in your belly and crept up to your chest, into your cheeks. That familiar tingling sensation. You were starting to associate it with him. With the low rumble of his voice, with the way he looked at you, sharp, but never unkind.
It was becoming too common, that feeling. Too easy.
The first few minutes were uncomfortable, your body needed time to adjust to the needle. To the harsh overhead light that seemed to highlight every imperfection. And then there was the smaller lamp strapped to his forehead, casting a focused beam directly onto your hip. His face was so close to your skin, you could feel the warmth of his breath.
His left forearm rested gently on your thigh, solid and warm, steadying himself as he wiped away excess ink with practiced ease, while his right hand moved with careful precision.
Heâd started with the sunflower at the center of it all. It wasnât pleasant, but the pain was manageable. At first, you were too tense to even breathe properly, afraid the slightest movement would throw him off. But after a few minutes, you relaxed enough to pull out your phone and headphones, letting a podcast fill your ears.
The first hour passed like that, calm, almost meditative. A serial killer podcast buzzed in your ears while Ghost worked in steady silence. Sometimes, youâd glance down, watching as the sunflower slowly bloomed on your skin.
But the calm cracked when he asked you to change position, to lie on your side, your back turned to him.
After a few minutes in that position, you couldnât help it, your hand moved on its own, trying to tug your dress down over your stomach. Ghost gently pushed it back up without thinking, completely unaware of how exposed and uncomfortable it made you feel.
Lying like this felt unbearable. All you could focus on was the cellulite on your thighs, the way your stomach bulged more on your side, how visible everything was under the harsh light. Your mind spiraled. Your body tensed. Without realizing it, you began fidgeting, squirming just enough to make his job harder with each passing second.
And then the voices came back. Your exâs voice.
Fat. Ugly. Big.
"Okay, letâs stop," Ghost grunted suddenly, pulling away as he set his machine down. "Canât do anything if you keep moving like that."
Dread hit you like a wave.Â
Youâd ruined it. Youâd let him down. He was angry, disappointed, you could see it in his eyes. Your chest tightened as your vision blurred. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating, pooling in your lashes.
Your thoughts scattered, running a mile a minute, grasping for an escape plan. Maybe you could say you were sick. Maybe pretend you were fainting. Anything to get out of this room, this moment, this shame.
Youâd never come back. You couldnât. Youâd find another artist to finish the piece, who cared if it wasnât perfect anymore? You didnât deserve perfect anyway.
When he got up, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash, it felt like the floor dropped from under you.
Your heart pounded against your ribcage, loud and panicked. Your breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, your palms slick with sweat. You couldnât even bring yourself to look at him at first. He was mad. He had to be.
Glancing down, you saw how little had been doneâthe center of the sunflower, a few petals trailing toward your hip, the ones closest to your butt. That was why the position had been necessary. That was why youâd ruined it.
A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.
You were about to sit up and start apologizing, maybe even crying, when he returned, quiet steps, calm energy. He placed a water bottle beside you, then crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with yours.
âAlright, sweetheart,â he said, voice gentle, like he was trying not to spook you. âBreathe for me, yeah? Just breathe. I'm not mad." You forced your eyes to meet his. He wasnât lying. His eyes werenât hard or annoyed, they were soft. Understanding.
"I'm not mad," he repeated, slower this time. âNot at you, anyway."
He opened the water bottle for you without a word, gently guiding it into your hands. âDrink,â he said quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.
You obeyed, taking a few gulps while your trembling fingers gripped the plastic too tightly. He stepped back just enough to give you space, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Normally, a sight like thatâhis tattoos, his frame, the quiet command of his postureâwouldâve made your stomach flutter. But your mind wouldnât let you feel anything but shame right now. Not when you were half-naked, having a full-blown panic attack in front of him.
Before you could fumble out an apology or excuse, his voice cut through the buzzing in your head.
"I'm taking you out tonight," he said. Not a question. An order. His tone had shifted, gruff, decisive. The same voice, you imagined, that barked commands on the battlefield.
You blinked at him, stunned.
"Nice little restaurant,â he went on. âYouâre gonna sit down across from me, and you're gonna tell me about the fucker who put those ugly thoughts in your head. The ones I see behind your eyes every time you look down at yourself, 'right?."
You stared at him, wide-eyed, the words settling like a warm blanket and a shock of cold water all at once. It was too much and somehow exactly what you needed.
He had phrased it like a question at the end, but you knew better. There was no room for doubt in his voice. Not with the way he looked at you, not with the quiet command laced through every word. He had your address anyway. Youâd filled it in on the paperwork before he started the tattoo.
âAlright,â he said, final and firm. No room for argument.
The rest passed in silence. Ghost moved with careful efficiency, preparing the second skin while glancing at you with eyes that silently urged, Drink more. So you did.
He let out a soft humâsomething like approvalâthen turned his attention back to cutting the perfect size for the blister shield. Once it was applied over the small section of tattoo he'd completed, sealing the delicate lines and color beneath, he reached forward and gently tugged your dress back down himself.
Once you were both out of the back room, you found the courage to speak. âHow much do I owe you?â Your voice sounded pitiful, hoarse from the panic attack, weighted with unshed tears.
âDonât worry about that,â he answered quickly, without even glancing back. âBe ready at seven, yeah?â
You didnât get the chance to respond. His warm hand settled between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently toward the exit. Under different circumstances, you mightâve taken it as a dismissal. But after his blunt, unexpected invitation, it didnât feel like rejection.
âIn the meantime, get some rest,â he added softly, pausing before the door. âTake a nap. Eat something. Can you do that for me?â
There was something different in him now. A shift in the air between you. The way he carried himself around you had changed. Less detached, more... possessive. Protective.
You didnât mind. But the suddenness of it left you reeling, like emotional whiplash.
Still, you hummed softly in response, nodding along like you agreed, like you would do what he asked.Â
But deep down, you knew you wouldnât.Â
Not today. Not after what had just happened. Your body wouldnât keep anything down anyway, not with the weight of shame and panic still lodged in your chest.
Thatâs how you found yourself in a cute but upscale Italian restaurant, sitting across from a ghost. No, across from Simon. He had told you his name when you got into his car. The drive had been quiet. He wore the same thing he always did when you saw him: all black.
Except this was a fancy all blackânot the comfortable, worn-in black he wore at his tattoo shop.
When you had arrived at the restaurant, you immediately felt underdressed. It was far more elegant than you had imagined. The other women wore cocktail dresses, while you had on your âold womanâ dress. One of your favourites, sure, but it felt completely out of place. Like you had just stepped out of a quiet little cottage and accidentally walked into high society.
The first few minutes had been awkward. You didnât really know what to say, and Simon was watching you with an intense look in his eyes, like he was expecting something.
The smells of the restaurant blended together into something mouthwatering. Your stomach growled loudly in response.
âYou didnât listen, did you?â he asked. His tone wasnât patronizing, but he had clearly heard your stomach over the ambient noise of the restaurant. When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and spoke again. âYou didnât eat.â
This time, it wasnât a question. It was a statement, firm and undeniable, leaving you no room to lie.
No one had ever cared whether you ate or not. The fact that he did made something twist inside you. It felt⌠strange. Unfamiliar. And it sent your anxiety into overdrive. The disappointment in his eyes, the quiet sigh before he spokeâthey felt like signs. Signs that you had let him down. Just like you always let people down.
He had been right. You were incapable of taking care of yourself, let alone making someone else happy. In nearly nine months of being together, you hadnât made him happy. Not once.
âCare to tell me why?â Simonâs voice broke the silence. It was still firm, but there was a gentleness woven into it.
âTook a nap⌠didnât have time toâbefore I had to get ready,â you whispered, almost pathetically. You felt like a child being scolded, like youâd done something wrong.
And in a way, you werenât lying. You had taken a nap after getting home, right after staring at your new tattoo for a good half hour. When you finally got up, the anxiety hit. Hard. It made eating feel impossible and pushed you to start getting ready far earlier than necessary. Once ready, you just paced around your apartment, running through every way the night could go wrong.
Simon being upset because you hadnât eaten wasnât one of them.
That was the moment the waiter chose to arrive at your table, ready to take your order. You had been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes before Simon spoke, yet everything on it felt like too much. That realization hit hard. You used to love Italian food, loved eating out, dressing up, sitting around a table with friends, laughing over shared plates.
Now, you just felt⌠empty. Like all of that joy had been drained out of you.
Simon ordered first. He asked for three antipasti, one of the biggest pizzas on the menu, and a side of fresh mozzarella, like it was nothing. Meanwhile, you barely managed to mumble a request for a Margherita. The fewer ingredients, the better.
Everything he ordered made your mouth water, but the idea of actually eating made you swallow hard, your throat suddenly too tight.
Just before the waiter walked away, Simon added, âWeâll take your best red wine as well. Bring the bottle.â
Then his eyes were back on youâsteady, unreadable, and unwavering.
Once the wine had been poured, it became easier to speak, mostly because its warmth spread through you faster than usual, thanks to the fact that you hadnât eaten much all day. Conversation flowed effortlessly, like youâd known each other forever.
At first, you didnât say much. He talked about his old world, because you had asked him why he called himself Ghost. Then he began asking questions in return. Nothing intrusive. Just gentle curiosity: your job, your studies, a bit about your family, the places you dreamed of visiting. Easy conversation. And he listened, really listened. It felt like he actually cared about the answers.
When his antipasti arrived, you kept talking, pausing only when he lifted a fork toward you, offering a bite of caprese salad like heâd done it a thousand times before. You were so surprised, all you could do was open your mouth in response, letting him feed you.
And then he did it again. Casually. Like it was nothing. Sharing everything heâd ordered without comment or ceremony. It was intimate, unexpectedly so, but he said nothing, just kept asking questions, humming thoughtfully at your answers, occasionally offering his own stories in return.
Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it wasnât. But you felt the urge to press your thighs together under the table, seeking the smallest bit of pressure. There was something about the quiet confidence of his actionsâthe way he simply took charge without making a show of itâthat made heat bloom across your skin. Your cheeks, your ears, your neck flushed with it.
And he noticed. You knew he did, from the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didnât say a word.
He just kept feeding you.Â
With the antipasti finished, his questions shifted, deeper now. The kind you usually avoided. The kind you never talked about. But there was something about Simon⌠something that made you feel safe. Protected, even. You knew he wouldnât mock you. He wouldnât laugh at you for not leaving sooner. He wouldnât pity you for still struggling now.
So, you told him. Not everything. You left out the sharpest edgesâthe outright insults, the way he punched the walls, the time he almost hit you. The way heâd keep pushing for sex even after you said no⌠until youâd finally say yes, just to make it stop. Those parts still lived in a locked room inside you, sealed tight. You werenât ready to open that door. Not yet.
But you told him everything else.
And as the words spilled out, you didnât even notice when your pizza arrived. Didnât realize youâd eaten more than half of it until your story trailed off and you looked down, surprised. Half gone. In your stomach.
No overthinking. No guilt. No sick knot twisting in your gut.
Just food. Just nourishment. And, for once, peace.
And when Simon offered you a forkful of his pizza, you let him.
He didnât say much in response to your confession. Just listened, thoughtfully. His fists had tightened under the table when you spoke about the things that bastard used to say about your body. The way he tore you down with words sharper than knives. Simon had suspected your ex had left a mark, especially when he noticed your strained relationship with food, with your body. Heâd even gently suggested once that an ex mightâve been the cause.
But he hadnât imagined this. Not the depth of it. Not how cruel someone could be, how calculated. He had seen things during his time in the military, seen how dark people could get in a warzone. But he never thought he'd come across that same cruelty in civilian life, in someone you once trusted. It made his blood run cold.
So he made himself a quiet promise: to help you find your way back.
No pressure. No rushing.
Just gentle hands and steady praise. A protective presence at your side. Patient and solid. Until, one day, eating a meal didnât feel like a shameful act. Until your body wasnât something to battle, but something you could simply exist in, without guilt. Without fear.
Until you no longer felt like trash for giving your body what it needed.
When dessert time came around, you still felt uncertain. Full, yesâbut youâd been watching the tiramisu pass by your table all night, carried by waiters like little temptations on porcelain plates. You wanted to try it. Badly.
But it felt wrong.Â
The thoughts crept in, sharp and familiar. Youâve already eaten too much. Youâre already too fat. You donât need the extra sugar.
Simonâs finished eating anyway, he probably doesnât even like sweets.
As you spiraled, againâfor what felt like the millionth time todayâSimon watched you quietly. Heâd noticed you eyeing the tiramisu throughout dinner. But now, with the menu back in your hands, your eyes were filled with guilt. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a silent giveaway that your thoughts were turning cruel.
He hadnât known you long. But you were easy to read. Too easy, even.
So without a word, without needing your permission, Simon stopped the waiter as he passed. âOne tiramisu,â he said, slowly taking the menu out of your hands. âTwo spoons.â
Another silence settled between you.
âYou know youâre gorgeous.âHis voice cut through it, steady and sureâtaking you completely by surprise. That firm tone was back. âEasily one of the finest bodies Iâve ever tattooed.â
Simon wasnât poetic. His words werenât flowery, but they werenât crude either. Just raw truth, spoken without hesitation. He wasnât the type to lie to protect feelings. If he thought something, he said it, simple as that.
And right now, he thought you were beautiful.
You let out an embarrassed laugh, your eyes darting to the table, the walls, anywhere but him. He had shown you he was blunt, sure, but this felt unexpected. Too kind. Too generous.
âYou donât have to say that,â you murmured. âJust because you feel bad for meâŚâ
He simply raised an eyebrow, the expression cool and challengingâlike he was daring you to keep going.
âStop thinking youâre in my head, flower,â he said, voice low and steady. âI'm no liar like he was. Not here to play with you. Iâd get no pleasure out of that.â
There was no softness in his words, but there was something better, certainty. The kind that didnât ask for belief, just offered it freely. A quiet anchor in a sea of doubt. And for the first time in a long while, part of you wanted to believe someone.
âIâm past playing little boysâ games,â he added, his gaze steady.
The implication was clear, he was nothing like the others youâd known. More mature. More grounded.Â
âOkay,â was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper.
Too shy to admit you still didnât quite believe him. Too scared to ask if he really meant it. Too pathetically grateful to even offer a compliment in return.
Youâd never been more relieved to see a waiter in your life. He placed the tiramisu gently at the center of the table, setting down two spoonsâone by each of your sides.
Looking up from the plate, you watched Simon with wide, expectant eyes. You didnât even know what you were waiting for, approval, maybe. A signal. Something. And when he gave you a small nod, you finally dug in.
His blood rushed south the moment he realized it, you had waited for his permission to take the first bite.Â
He'd been right. Spot on.
You didnât need someone to fix you. You just needed someone steady. Someone to quiet the noise in your head, to give you permission to breathe, to be, until you were strong enough to claim that space yourself.
Simon was more than ready to be that person for you.Â
And he had no intention of going anywhere.
Steady, firm hands on your hips. That was all you could feel.
You were trying to unlock your front door, but your hands wouldnât cooperate, shaking too much, fumbling the key. You missed the lock again and again, until a larger, warmer hand gently stilled yours. Simonâs. He took the keys from you without a word, his touch calm, certain.
You werenât even sure how youâd found the courage to invite him up.
After the shared dessert, heâd paid for everything, brushing off your protests when you tried to cover your half, or at least the part youâd eaten. Heâd only laughed, that deep, low sound that seemed to settle right into your chest.
Then he offered to drive you home. Youâd accepted.
And once he parked outside your building, your voice had moved ahead of your thoughts, quietly asking if he wanted to come up.
He didnât hesitate. He just said yes.
The front door finally gave way, and that same steady, gentle hand guided you inside.
Simon didnât speak. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click, turned the lock, and stepped in. He took off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, all slow, unhurried movements. And then he looked at you.
Not at your apartment, not at the space heâd just entered for the first time.
You. With eyes heavy with desire. Quiet, smoldering intensity.
It wasnât fleeting or coy. It wasnât something he was trying to hide behind polite restraint. No, he let it burn, open and unashamed. He wanted you. Fully. Honestly.
And that was new. No one had ever looked at you like that beforeânot even the two men youâd once shared a bed with. Not like this. To be the object of desire, not obligation or performance, was strange. Disarming. A little overwhelming.
Simon didnât move. Didnât rush you. He just stood there, waiting. Letting you decide what happened next.
A few seconds passed. Neither of you said a word.
Anxiety gnawed at your insides, making it impossible to process anything like a normal person. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting together in a nervous rhythm. You kept glancing up at Simon, then down at his shoesâthen yoursâthen back again.
His eyes never left you. Not once.
You didnât know how to do this. How to act on your own desire. Youâd never felt lust this strong. Never felt safe enough to let it bloom.
âI donât know howâŚâ you began, voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability. âIâve never really⌠humââ
The words tangled in your throat, burning with shame. Tears prickled at your waterlineâtears of embarrassment, of frustration. This was where it ended. Heâd leave. You were sure of it.
But then, across the space between you, he growled: âFuck it.â
And suddenly his lips were on yoursâhot, certain, unshaking. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious. Like touching you wasnât just about want, it was about care. About something deeper.
He didnât rush. He didnât devour. He anchored you.
And for the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself lean into that.
His lips felt good, not demanding, not forceful. They werenât taking. They were offering. Giving only what you were ready to receive.
One of his hands slid from your cheek, fingers brushing down to the nape of your neck. He eased you closer, guiding, never pushing. His other hand found its place again on your hip, grounding you, drawing you gently into his space.
The kiss remained unhurried. Measured. As if time didnât matter. As if this momentâyouâdeserved to be savored.
Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, soft, slow. A quiet question. Not a demand, not a test. Your lips parted before you even realized it, instinct moving faster than thought.
The moment you granted him entry, Simonâs tongue slid against yours with the same care heâd shown in every small gesture tonight. It wasnât frantic, it was exploratory, reverent. Like he was learning the shape of you through the kiss alone. Like this wasnât just about pleasure, but presence.Â
Being here. With you.
His hand at the back of your neck shifted slightly, his fingers threading into your hair, cradling your head with firm tenderness. The other remained firm on your hip, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress. It sent sparks up your spine, the contrast of restraint and intention making your knees wobble.
You made a soft sound in the back of your throatâpart surprise, part wantâand he responded with a low hum, deep and approving, vibrating against your lips like a secret shared only with you.
There was no pressure in it, no rush to pull you further than you were ready to go.
Just Simon, steady and real, kissing you like he could piece back together everything someone else had broken.
Simonâs back was starting to ache from leaning over, but he didnât pull away. Instead, both of his hands slid lower, settling just beneath the curve of your ass. He gave you a light tap. Silent instruction : jump.
He shouldâve known that kind of command would short-circuit your brain. And it did.
But before your thoughts could spiral, before shame or self-consciousness could take the wheel, he moved. Reflexes faster than your fear.
One moment, your feet were on the ground, the next, you were lifted easily into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
âSimon, no⌠Please,â you rushed out, voice high with panic, your hands pressing against his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to let go.
âPlease what, lovely?â he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your cheek, your jaw. Soft kisses. A grounding rhythm. Each one whispered reassurance: Youâre safe. Iâve got you.
âYouâll hurt yourself,â you whined, the words thick with guilt, not logic. You wriggled again, but he only held you tighter, firm, but never harsh.
âIâve carried more than you in full gear, uphill, under fire,â he muttered, voice a low rumble against your throat. âTrust me, flowerâyouâre the lightest thing Iâve ever held.â
You stilled. Breath catching.
Because it wasnât just what he said. It was how he said itâlike it was fact. No room for doubt. No softness in the truth, only strength. He was slowly coaxing you exactly where he wanted you, you let him. You wanted to let him.
"Naive", the word hit like a slap. Not Simon's, but his voice echoed in your head.Â
Simon mustâve felt the shift in your body instantly. His mouth paused against your skin, his breath stilling where it ghosted across your collarbone.
âBreathe,â he instructed softly. âFeel this. Me. Here.â
He knew, you didn't need to explain, not after all you had told him. He knew your brain was playing tricks with you, trying to get you out of this moment. He wouldn't let it happen.Â
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as Simon turned, carrying you effortlessly through the apartment. He didnât ask where your bedroom was, just moved like he already knew, confident and unhurried, every step measured, deliberate.
The soft creak of your bedroom door opening sounded loud in the quiet, and then he was lowering you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache. Like you were something breakable. Like he wanted to make sure you didnât break again.
His hands didnât leave you once your back hit the mattress. One stayed at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, reading you like only someone truly paying attention could.
âItâs just me, love,â he whispered, careful not to startle you. He took one of your hands in his and gently placed it over his pounding heart. It was racing, not as fast as yours, but definitely quicker than normal.
He wanted you. Just as much as you wanted him.
You nodded softly, taking a deep breath before releasing it. Ready to move forward, but needing him to lead, and he did exactly that.
Kissing you again, Simon eased your legs open with his knee, settling himself comfortably between them. The simple movement drew a soft, whined moan from your lips. A low chuckle escaped Simonâs mouth at the sound, but then he kissed you once more, with renewed fervour.
Once his kisses left your mouth, they trailed slowly down, lingering at your neck. He took his time there, planting sweet, deliberate kisses, mixing in the occasional nip that made your breath hitch. Reaching your cleavage, Simon continued his path, dotting kisses over the soft skin exposed by your dress.
When he reached your breasts, he kissed them gently through the fabric of your bra, soft little pecks that made your skin burn. Then came your nipples, stiff and sensitive under the thin fabric. He didnât ignore them, his mouth found them with teasing precision, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through you.
The soft sounds he coaxed from you were divine. Too shy, too hesitantâbut beautiful nonetheless. Still, he knew. He could unlearn that shyness from you. Teach you how to let go. How to let yourself be.
âGonna take this off, alright?â he asked, voice low but steady. Just like when he worked on your tattoo, he explained each step. No surprises. No pressure. Just care.
Your eyes were shut tight, almost like you were trying to disappear. Simon sighed softly and rose up again, cupping your cheek as he looked down at you.
âLook at me,â he saidâsharper than he intended, but it worked. Your eyes snapped open, wide and uncertain. âWhen I ask you something, I need words. Understand?â
You nodded reflexively.His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.
âYes,â you added, voice barely above a whisper.
âYes, who?â
ââŚYes, Simon.â
That would doâfor now.
You werenât ready to give the answer he truly wantedânot yetâbut heâd tried, just to see if it would come naturally to you. It hadnât. Still, he didnât hold it against you. He knew it was there, buried deep insideâthe part of you that needed to give in, to trust, to let someone else lead.
But he wouldnât push.You werenât ready. And he understood exactly why.
He hadnât earned it yet. Hadnât proven he was worthy of that part of you, the most vulnerable one. But he would. He had every intention of showing you, again and again, that he could be trusted to hold you, protect you, guide you⌠without ever taking more than you were ready to give.
"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, before his hands slid to your shoulders, pushing the dress down slowly. It pooled around your waist before you kicked it off with your legs, landing somewhere across your bedroom floor.
Now you were left in the fanciest panties and bra you owned, still just plain cotton. Comfortable, with a subtle push-up effect. Nothing seductive by conventional standards. Not lacy. Not sheer. You felt suddenly self-conscious, convinced you must look like a granny in Simon's eyes.
âCute,â was all he said, with a soft grin, before kissing the doubt right off your lips.
His fingers trailed deliberately along your sides, over your stomach, until they found their way back to your breasts. He eased the cups of your bra down, exposing you fully, and cupped one in his large hand. It fit perfectlyâso perfectly that he let out a low groan against your skin. The sound sent a shiver down your spine and a hot pulse between your thighs.
You could feel it now, just how soaked your panties had become. Youâd never been this wet before, never felt this⌠eager. Sex had always felt like a duty, something to endure. But now?
Now, you were starting to understand why some people craved it, why they ached for connection, for touch like this. For someone like him.
The warmth of his hands, the way they moved so gently over your chestâfingertips tracing, teasing, coaxing soft whimpers from your lipsâwas nothing short of euphoric. Each delicate pinch of your sensitive nipples sent sparks across your body, grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.
"Can I?" he asked again, voice barely more than a breath. His hand hovered at the clasp of your bra, seeking permission rather than just taking.
"Yes, Simon," you whisperedâno, whinedâthe need threading through your voice.
"Good girl," he rewarded you, and the phrase made something melt inside you. The words hit somewhere deeper than just your ears. They reverberated through your chest, made your thighs shift involuntarily. You didnât even try to suppress the noise that left you this time.
There was just something about the way he said it, like he meant it. Like you were doing something right simply by being here, by letting him in. Like you didnât have to perform, or prove anything. Your thoughts blurred, the inner voice that so often berated you now silenced by something quieter, kinder. Something like safety.
With your bra gone, Simon took his sweet time with you. His hands and fingers explored your chest before his mouth joined in. He pressed soft kisses to your skin, occasionally nipping and sucking gently, leaving behind traces of his presence. Little hickeys bloomed across your breastsâmarking you so quickly, it made Simon's blood rush south even faster.
Then his tongue found one of your nipples. He licked it slowly, toying with the hardened peak in his mouth, gently sucking while his hand fondled the other breast, fingers moving in lazy, tender circles.
The sensations were surreal, too much and not enough all at once. Your body moved instinctively, hips shifting, trying to grind against Simonâs in vain. Until he shifted, sliding one of his thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed pussy.
The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.
"SorryâŚ" you whispered, your breath shaky.
That stopped him cold. His movements stilled as he looked up at you. He took in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Up until now, heâd thought you were enjoying this.
"What for, sweetheart?" he asked gently, worry threading his voice. A part of him feared you were hiding discomfort for the sake of his pleasure.
"The noises⌠I'm sorry," you said quickly, already breathless. "I'll be quiet now."
Simonâs gaze darkened, not with anger, but with something heavier, deeper. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped, low and steady.
âNo,â he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. âDonât apologize for that.â
His hand slid up your side, grounding you, reminding you of the way he touched you like you were something precious.
âI like those sounds,â he murmured, his tone commanding but tender. âThey tell me what you like⌠what feels good. Donât ever hide that from me.â
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. âI want to hear everythingâevery moan, every gasp. They're mine, sweetheart. Donât you dare keep it from me.â
The way he reassured youâwith that quiet, unshakable dominance, the kind of confidence that came so effortlessly to him, did something to you. It tugged at something deep, something vulnerable and aching, something that craved to be undone.
You felt it in the way your body responded, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs tightening around his. That calm authority in his voice, the certainty in his touch, it made you feel safe. But it also made you feel desperate. Desperate to give in, to let him have every part of you.
Something inside was ready to snap. Ready to break wide open for him. Ready to surrender completely to whatever he wanted.
And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.
His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as he leaned in again, his breath warm against your neck.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, voice like velvet and command all at once. One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch in response. âIâll take care of you,â he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. âAll you have to do is feel.â
When he kissed you again, his fingers were already moving, gently caressing you over your knickers. He had to feel how soaked they were, how your body betrayed just how much you wanted him. But there was no teasing in his eyes, no smugness in his touch. No mockery. Just more kisses, slow and tender, his lips claiming yours again and again while his fingers toyed with you, patient and precise.
Then his mouth returned to your breasts, as if he hadnât quite satisfied his hunger for them. He began his worship all over againâkisses, licks, gentle bitesâwhile his fingers never lost their rhythm.
And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.
A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingers moved with confident ease, parting the fabric and exploring your most intimate place. He passed over the little patch of hair you hadnât bothered to shave, never imagining youâd end up here, under him like this. But he didnât hesitate. In fact, his fingers slowed, twirling gently through it for a brief moment, appreciating the softness, the realness of you.
And then he moved lower, fingers finally finding where you needed him most. Where your body ached for him.
Feeling your wetness, Simon's teeth clamped down gently on the nipple still in his mouth, a careful, deliberate bite that made you arch into him with a soft gasp. He soothed it immediately with his tongue, warm and slow, like a silent apology laced with intention.
This was all he wanted: you comfortable, safe, utterly undone beneath his touch. Every movement he made, every kiss and stroke, was filled with purpose. He wasnât just touching youâhe was learning you. Mapping every reaction, every breathy sound, storing it all away like sacred knowledge.
You could feel it in how he handled you, like you were something precious and wild at the same time. And he was determined to take his time taming every inch of you.
When you let out a frustrated whine, Simon knewâit was time to move on.
He placed two tender kisses, one on each nipple, a soft farewell to the attention heâd been giving your chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to trail kisses down your body. Each one slower than the last, deliberate and reverent, until his mouth reached the hem of your panties.
His fingers, once exploring your soaked core, now gripped your thighs, firm and commanding, holding you open for him.
With a wicked glint in his eyes, he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth, tugging them gently as he murmured, âIs thisââ
âYes, Simon, yes⌠please,â you breathed out, cutting him off, your voice trembling with desperation and need. There was no hiding it, no pretending. The ache in your voice was raw, real, and it hit him like a pulse of electricity straight to his cock, making it twitch painfully in his pants.
He chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with heat and pride. âGood girl,â he whispered. âThatâs what I like to hear.âÂ
There was just something about the fact that he was still fully dressed and you were now completely naked. A weird sense of submission overflowed you, and for the first time when this feeling came to you, you embraced it.Â
Simon made you feel safe, so protective. Something in you knew he would stop if you told him to, that he wouldn't force you to do anything you weren't ready or attracted to. Surely why you were now soaked from his actions.Â
Insecurities still clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your mind as Simon's eyes swept over your naked body, slow, lingering, reverent. You felt exposed, completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. And yet, in his gaze, there was no judgment. Only hunger. Admiration. Like he was about to devour the finest meal of his life.
âFuck,â he muttered under his breath, one hand palming at the bulge in his pants. It was getting tightâpainfully soâbut he didnât look away from you for a second. His arousal was obvious, but even that didnât quiet the voice in the back of your head. That old, familiar one.Â
The reflex hit before you could stop it.
âYou want me to suck your dick?â you asked quietly, the words slipping out not from desire, but from conditioning. From a past where your worth felt tied to what you could give, not what you could feel.
Simon froze. His eyes met yours, and in an instant, something shifted. He saw it, not just the question, but where it came from. The old wound behind it.
âHey,â he said gently, but his voice carried that same commanding edge. One hand reached out, cupping your cheek, grounding you. âLook at me.â
You did.
âYou donât owe me anything,â he said firmly. âNot your mouth, not your body, nothing. I want you, yeah. Badly. But I donât want you because you think you have to do something to keep me interested.â
His thumb stroked your cheek, softening his tone. âIf you ever get on your knees for me, itâs gonna be because you want it. Because youâre desperate to taste me, not because some asshole made you feel like it was expected. Okay, sweetheart?â
Something in you cracked at his words, not in a way that broke you, but in a way that made space. For breath. For feeling. For safety.
For the first time, you felt seen. Like he chose to want you, not for what you could give, not for how you performed, but simply for who you were.
Sitting back on his haunches, Simon remained patient. He could see the storm behind your eyes, the internal battle waging quietly inside your mind. One of his hands rested on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patternsâa silent way of grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.
But when he saw your lips tremble, your eyes begin to fill with tears, he knew he couldnât stay still.
He leaned in without a word, wrapping one strong arm around you and gently guiding you onto his lap. His warmth enveloped you, your bare skin brushing against his still-clothed body, a contrast that made you shiver.
Simon felt it, and without hesitation, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. The heat of his skin met yours, bare chest to bare chest, and you exhaled like youâd been holding your breath for hours.
Your arms wrapped around him before you even knew you were moving, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like warmth and safety, like skin and musk and something undeniably him.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, the words instinctive.
âDonât be,â he replied immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense but soft. âStop apologizing.â
His bare skin against yours sent another shiver through you, this one different. Not from nerves, but from the quiet, overwhelming intensity of being wanted and held at the same time. You could feel his desire beneath you, pressing up where he had you seated on his lap. It was raw. Primal. Undeniable.
But Simon didnât rush.
He simply held you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles along your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, like you were something fragile, but never weak.
You werenât sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, stillness wasnât enough.
Your lips began to move, seeking, remembering. You started at his jaw, pressing soft kisses there, then down to his neck, his collarbone. You kissed every small scar, every freckle, every beauty mark. As if your mouth was memorizing him. As if your lips were begging to remember his skin.
Sensing your need, your craving for more than just touch, for connection, Simon pulled you in closer, pressing your body against his like he wanted to mold you to him. Like even skin-to-skin still wasnât enough.
He dipped his head, his voice low and careful. âGot any protection, sweet girl?â
He didnât want to break the moment, didnât want to pull you out of the space you were both sinking into.
But your lips never stopped their slow, tender assault on his skin, your mouth mapping his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. You didnât lift your head to respond. Just a faint shake, a soft, muffled âNoâŚâ against his throat.
He felt the word more than he heard it. And still, he didnât pull away.
With a low groan, Simon stood, holding you tightly against him as he moved toward the entryway. Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him, squeezing just enough to pull a breathy moan from his throat. Heâd half-expected some kind of protest about him lifting you, some insecure remarkâbut you said nothing.
You were deeper in your headspace than heâd realized.
You just kept pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone, little whines slipping from your lips like they couldnât stay caged. You were pliant in his arms, needy, trusting, and it lit something fierce in him.
Reaching the coat rack, he shifted you just enough to dig into his coat pocket, fingers searching until they closed around his wallet. He flipped it open, fishing out the small stash he kept tucked inside. Three condoms.
Just in case.
He had never been more grateful for his own foresight than now. He grabbed all three, not knowing if theyâd need them all, but hoping they might. Better safe than sorry.
Whatever you wanted, he'd give it to you. However you needed him, heâd be there. No hesitation.
Once you were back in the bedroom, Simon gently laid you down on the bed, breaking the contact between you, just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. He had wanted to take his time with you, to worship you with his mouth and fingers, to ease you into it with care and patience.
But he could feel that wasnât what you needed right now. And that was okay. That could wait.
He wasnât going anywhere.
For a moment, he just looked at you, laid out on the bed, bathed in soft light, looking almost ethereal. It hit him then, how surreal it was. That you were here with him. A sweet, young thing like you tangled up with a man like himâolder, scarred, and worn at the edges.
It almost felt twisted. But it wasnât.
Because he could see it, you needed this. Needed him. His steadiness. His patience. His hands that knew how to hold without hurting. His body that knew how to move with purpose, not just urgency. You needed someone who could see past the surface and let you unravel safely.
And maybe, just maybe, he needed it too. Maybe he was a little selfish in that way.
Crawling back over you, Simon kissed you again, slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world for you. The second you felt his warmth again, your legs locked around his hips, arms winding around his neck like instinct. Like some part of you couldnât stand the idea of being apart from him for even a second.
There was something in your brain, an ache, a need, that clung to him with a desperation you didnât fully understand. The part of you your ex always mocked. Called naive. Called needy. The part he tried to shame out of you.
But with Simon, that part felt⌠right.
It felt like maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like Simon had been meant to walk into your life now, of all times, when you needed someone steady, someone who saw you, not just used you.
So when you watched him roll the condom on with glazed eyes, you thought this is it. Heâs finally going to fill you, press into you, anchor you. But instead⌠he shifted.
He laid back, tugging you with him until you were straddling his soft stomach, your thighs spread over his warmth.
Confusion flickered across your face as your hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly to squeeze the soft skin of his pecs. You looked down at him, unsure.
And then his voiceârough, low, but gentle. âWant you like this, yeah?â His hands rested on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Grounding. âSo you can control it. Take whatever you want.â
That took your breath away.
The fact that he, a man who radiated dominance and control with every breath, was giving you the reins⌠it made your thighs instinctively tighten against his sides. It felt overwhelming in the best and scariest way.
You had never had the upper hand in sex before. Never been given the space to explore, to move at your own pace. To feel. It had always been about someone elseâs pleasure, someone elseâs needs. And just like that, this man you barely knew was handing over the power youâd never been allowed to hold.
âIâve never⌠I donât know how to do this,â you murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, shame creeping in uninvited. âIâll mess it up,â you added, beginning to shift, to pull away from him.
But Simon didnât let you.
His hands tightened at your sides, not rough, not demanding, just steady. Grounding. âYou wonât,â he said, voice low but firm. âItâs not that hard, yeah? Just do what feels good.â Then, softer, he added. âBounce. Rub. Sit still. I donât fucking care. Whatever you want, âm yours to use.â
With those words, Simon reached between you, wrapping his hand around his cock and gently encouraged you upward onto your haunches. Just enough for him to line himself up with your entrance.
As you lifted off his stomach, he felt the heat and slickness youâd left behind, and the sight alone made his cock twitch in his grip. He hadnât been this hardâthis desperateâin a long time.
Still hesitant, you hovered there, uncertain. That was when he casually rolled the tip of his length up from your entrance to your clit, slow, like it wasnât intentional. But you knew better. You saw it in his eyes: that flicker of reassurance hidden beneath heavy, lust-filled lids. A silent, steady Youâve got this.
You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself, and slowlyâcarefullyâbegan to lower onto him. He was bigger than what you were used to. Girthier. More there. But as he stretched you open, bit by bit, something surprised you.
It didnât hurt.
It felt uncomfortable a little, full, yesâbut there was no sharpness, no sting. Just pressure. Just him. When you finally settled fully onto his pelvis, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted, you looked down at him with wide, amazed eyes.
âDoesnât hurt,â you whispered, a hint of wonder in your voice, as if you couldnât quite believe it.
Simon swallowed hard, his hands now splayed at your hips, holding you in place like you were something precious. His voice was low.Â
âShouldnât hurt, baby,â he said, voice rough with restraint as your heat pulsed around him. âNever.âÂ
You nodded softly, almost to yourself, as his words settled deep inside you. Shouldnât hurt. Maybe it was the first time someone had ever said that to you. Meant it.
Your palms pressed gently against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your fingers. You took a deep breath, and then moved. Just a small shift of your hips at first. A slow grind, barely more than a sway. You werenât even lifting off him yet, just adjusting, testing. Simonâs breath hitched beneath you, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, encouraging but never forcing.
âThatâs it, good girl,â he murmured, voice filled with lust. âJust like that. Youâre doing so good for me.â
That praise, so simple and steady, made something bloom in your chest. Your body responded on instinct, hips lifting slightly, then pressing back down, gently, carefully. The sensation dragged a quiet breathy moan from your lips.
He filled you completely, the stretch no longer strange but grounding. Your movements grew braver, more curiousâlifting a bit higher now, then dropping back onto him with a gasp. He grunted below you, the sound of his pleasure feeding your own.
âFuck, sweetheart⌠just like that,â he growled, voice rough with want but still wrapped in something tender. âTake your time. This is all yours.â
You believed him. Just by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't lying.Â
It felt so good, you just kept moving, bouncing slowly on him, taking your time, savoring every deep, delicious drag of his cock inside you.
Simonâs hands were everywhere now. One cupped your breast, fondling it in his broad, calloused palm. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but firmâdrawing out soft gasps from your lips. The other hand had settled low on your stomach, pressing down slightly, as if trying to feel himself through the soft give of your belly.
That shouldâve sent you spiraling. His hand, there, touching all the places youâd been taught to hide, to apologize for. The softness. The rolls. The parts you always kept covered.
But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.
Because you were too far gone, in the best way. Lost in the headspace he had so carefully coaxed you into. A place shaped by Simonâs hands, his voice, his praises. His quiet, steady worship. And when he realized it didnât make you flinch, didnât make you pull away, he smirked. Just a little.
That was when he knew he had you exactly where he wanted you: safe, open, adored.
Slowly, the hand on your stomach began to travel lower, fingers dragging over overheated skin until his thumb found your clit. One gentle stroke, and your thighs clamped tighter around him. Your eyes flew open with a gasp.
And the sight that greeted you? It stole your breath.
Simon, his chest slick with sweat despite barely moving, stared up at you with eyes full of silent declarations: hunger, admiration, awe, lust. His jaw was tight with restraint, his body trembling slightly beneath yours.
It was a miracle he was still letting you lead, still lying there, letting you use him.
Another brush of his thumb over your clit, slower this time, and your arms gave out. You collapsed onto him with a broken moan, your chest pressing into his, your sweat mixing with his. And then that soundâdeep, low, sinfulâa chuckle rumbling from his chest.
The hottest thing youâd ever heard.
A sweet kiss pressed gently to your cheek, followed by the filthiest words whispered into your ear.
"Want daddy to take over now, sweet girl?" he growled, voice low and rough against your ear.Â
The most pathetic whine slipped from your lips, your thighs and pussy clenching harder than ever around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder, scratching through his skin, even breaking it slightly.
Yes, he knew it was in you. He had seen it, that desperate need to be pampered, to be taken care of. To turn off your mind and simply feel. The fact that you trusted him so quickly was worrisome, but in this moment, Simon didnât care.
âYes, yes, please,â you whimpered again, breath heavy against his neck.
âYes who, baby?â he taunted, ready to give you everythingâyou just needed to say it.
"Yes, daddy." You finally let out.Â
"Good girl."Â
Then his hips began moving, faster than the steady pace you had settled into before. He held you close, whispering praises into your ear: how good you felt, how well you were doing, how beautiful and soft you were. His words kept you suspended in that hazy headspace, even more so when he hit that spot nestled deep inside you, the very spot that sent thrilling waves up your spine.
His hand, the one not tracing soothing patterns on your back, returned to your clit, fingers expertly working until your pleasure started to overwhelm you. Your brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. It was all too much: the warmth of his skin against yours, the relentless thrust of his hips, his gentle caresses on your back, the low groans and grunts he breathed right into your ear.
As if he could feel itâand you were sure he couldâhe groaned.
âJust let go, yeah?â His voice was deep, steady, and it triggered something deep within you. âIâve got you.â
That was all it took. The mix of his voice, his thrust and his thumb on your clit.Â
Something in your lower belly snapped, a heat bursting through you as your body trembled uncontrollably. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, unrestrained, your mouth falling open as drool slipped onto Simonâs chest.
âThatâs it. Good fucking girl,â he growled, his own movements turning rough and erratic.
By the time your senses returned, he was still inside you, moving with a slow, languid rhythmâlike he couldn't bear to let you go just yet.
And then something else cracked open inside you. Sobs began to wrack your body, sudden and uncontrollable. You didnât even know why you were crying. It just came, natural, raw. A release. All the pressure youâd buried for months, the cruel voices still echoing in your mind, the quiet loathing youâd carried for so long.
Your body, your mind, your soul, they were healing. And it was overwhelming.
Still, he didnât stop. The slow thrusts continued, as did the gentle caresses across your skin. He pulled you even closer, grounding you, holding you through it. Letting you feel. Letting you find yourself again.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. âJust let it all go, sweetheart.â
âI donât know whatâs happening,â you choked out between sobs, the tears impossible to stop.
Simon didnât say a word at first. He just held you tighter, cooing softly, shushing your worries with gentle sounds. He let you have your moment, no pressure, no questions, just grounding you with the steady comfort of his presence.
It was his way of telling you he was here.
That he wasnât going anywhere.
That you were okay. That you were enough.
Lying there felt almost therapeutic.
The soft buzzing of the tattoo machine was familiar now, comforting, even, as you closed your eyes and let yourself breathe. Youâd been here for hours, finally ready to see the tattoo in its full form.
Months had passed since that first night with Simon. Months filled with quiet dates, focused attention, and earth-shattering sex. But more than that, he made you feel like you again. The dark thoughts still came and went, shadows that never fully left, but Simon was always thereâsteady, patientâsilencing them with his presence.
So now, nearly bare in Simonâs tattoo shop, his arm awkwardly bent across your stomach as he worked on your skin, you felt nothing but warmth and want. Your fingers trailed unconsciously along his forearm, soft touches that spoke louder than words. Your thighs pressed together, the ache beneath your skin growing.
Simon let out a breathy chuckle at the movement, but said nothing. Heâd been the one to coax you into rediscovering your body and your wantsâhe wasnât about to make you feel ashamed of them now.
The bell above the shop door chimed, drawing your gaze to the curtain. It was almost closing time. You silently hoped Simon hadnât booked another client, you had other plans for the night. Judging by the slight frown on his face as he glanced toward the sound, you guessed he hadnât expected anyone else, either.
Still, he turned back to your sunflower.
When he was finally done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the healed part of the tattoo, his hand warm as it patted your stomach.
âAll done, baby. Go take a look,â he said, peeling off his gloves and turning around to prep the second skin.
It felt like dĂŠjĂ vuâbut this time, there was no shame in your chest, no tears waiting to fall. Just you. Whole, and wanting.
The sight took your breath away.
It was beautiful. Perfect, even more so when tattooed arms snaked around your waist, and the big man attached to them pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
âSo,â he murmured near your ear, voice low and smug, âwhatâre you thinking? âCause if you ask me, Iâd say thatâs my fucking masterpiece, aye?â A smirk tugged at his lips.
âItâs so beautiful, Si,â you whispered, turning to pepper his face with kissesâanywhere your lips could reach. âEven better than I imagined.â
âAlright, alright, little minx,â he chuckled, gently guiding you back. âStay still a little longer, yeah?â
He dropped onto the stool again, rolling back toward the second skin before returning to you. Your eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved, which didnât go unnoticed, another soft laugh rumbled from his chest.
Once the bandage was secured, he pressed one more kiss to your skin, then looked up at you through the mirror. He saw the look in your eyes. Lust. Hunger. Heâd expected it.
And honestly? He was no better.
âJust let me check whoâs at the door,â he said, straightening. Then his fingers caught your cheeks, gently squeezing them into a playful pout. âAnd thenâŚâ he leaned in, voice thick, lips brushing yours, âIâll take care of you.â
Simon left you with a soft kiss, disappearing through the curtain.
You turned back to the mirror, eyes tracing the delicate lines of your tattooâhis masterpiece. The warmth in your chest lingered, until it shattered. Because then you heard it.
That voice.
The one that had haunted your nights, crept into your thoughts, poisoned your sense of peace. His voice.
No. No, it couldnât be.
He hated tattoos. Always had. Called his body a temple. Said only the weak marked themselves to feel something. He couldnât be here. He wasnât supposed to be here.
But the voice, familiar, sharp, real, broke through every ounce of logic you tried to summon.
Panic rooted itself deep in your bones. Your fingers trembled as you pulled your dress back down, your eyes glued to the curtain like it might come alive. Wide. Fearful. Breath catching in your throat. Each inhale felt like a struggle, your heart thudding violently against your ribs.
Youâd thought it was over.
Youâd thought Simon had helped you heal. But healing doesnât mean forgetting. And the past doesnât always stay buried.
An unknown force pulled you toward the curtain. You had to be sure. You had to know.
You pushed your head through the fabric, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. First, you saw Simonâs broad back, the solid comfort of his presenceâbut then your gaze locked onto him.
Your ex.
He was really there. Actually there.
The movement of the curtain caught his attention. His eyes landed on you.
âWhat the fuck are you doing here?â he snapped instinctively, like his words were a reflex. Said with so much venom.Â
That was all it took.
Simonâs entire body went still, rigid with tension. He turned his head just enough to see your face, and that was it. The fear in your eyes. The way your hand clutched the curtain so tightly your knuckles were white. The tears threatening to fall.
He knew. He didn't need you to say a word.
Because the thing about Simon was, he was a soldier. Had been for most of his life. And when he registered danger, his instinct wasnât to talk. It was to eliminate it.
And while he wasn't in danger, you were. At least emotionally. And that was enough.
Before you could blink, your ex was on the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The sharp crack of cartilage echoed like a gunshot, Simon had broken his nose cleanly, without hesitation. No wasted movement. No remorse.
He stood over him, expression unreadable, calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage.
âGet. The fuck. Out.â Simon growled, each word edged in steel. There was something in his voice youâd never heard before, something dangerous, something primal, something begging to be unleashed.
And for once, the man who used to haunt your dreams scrambled without a word.
Simon locked the door behind him without a word, his movements steady, deliberate. Then he turned to you.
He didnât speak, didnât need to. He simply crossed the space between you and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs found their place around his waist, and he carried you to the old, worn couch in the back of the shop.
He sat with you cradled in his lap, as if it was the only place you belonged.
He knew what was coming.
So when your body began to tremble, when the sobs finally broke loose from your chest, he just sighed softly, not with frustration, but with quiet grief for what youâd endured. Maybe this couldâve been avoided. Maybe you shouldâve stayed behind that curtain.
But none of that mattered now. He didnât blame you. Would never blame you. Instead, he just held you tighter.
Soft, reassuring words spilled into your ear, barely more than whispers. His hands traced gentle, grounding circles across your back, keeping you tethered, safe. Present.
You had come so far since the day Simon met you. Heâd seen you break, seen you rebuild. Heâd offered his strength, his patience, his warmth, everything you needed to find yourself again. To bloom.
And sometimes, the past still reached out with cold, clawed hands. But that was okay.
Because Simon would always be there to chase the darkness away. No questions. No hesitation. Just you, safe in his arms.
the other Bennet sister fills me with so much hope. for the girls who were never chosen. for the girls who have never fit in. for the girls whoâs sisters naturally seem to flourish socially but couldnât understand why it wasnât the same for them. for the girls who are overlooked. for the girls who dream of a gentle and stable love. for the girls who tell everyone theyâre okay with being alone. this one was for us, love is possible.
forever_the_artist @kylamia19 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
