Simon Riley x Reader | Pure fluff!
I headcanon that Simon—who grew up under irresponsible and intoxicated parents—never got birthday cakes growing up. Like, he’d gone to other people’s birthday parties and saw what they had, but knew he could never expect it for himself because his mom and dad were either too drunk or too careless to ever get him one.
You’ve been dating for a year and his birthday rolls around. When he walks in on you carefully icing a big, beautiful chocolate cake, it’s immediately like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over his head.
“Love, have you seen my—“ he barges into the kitchen looking for his car keys, but freezes in his step when he sees you leaning over the counter, a look of supreme concentration on your face as you pipe a few chocolate roses.
“Hm? What’d you say, babe?” Your delayed reply eventually comes, almost too absorbed in the task to even hear him.
“I asked if you’d seen my car keys. What—what are you doing?” He asks, voice quieting.
You merely scoff, “What do you mean ‘what am I doing?’ I’m making your birthday cake, dummy! What else would I be doing?”
You giggle, as if he were silly for even asking the question in the first place. Meanwhile, Simon’s entire world is shaking on its foundations.
“Oh—chocolate cake is still your favorite, right?” You hurriedly jump back from the cake, “I went to the store and I thought about making confetti cake, but then I remembered how much you liked that lava cake we got at the cafe…and then I saw they had that fancy dark chocolate on sale! Y’know, the one that’s too expensive to justify, and since it’s your birthday, I just knew it would be perfect! But if you want a different flavor then—“
“No, no,” he meekly interrupts your passionate explanation, “It’s perfect, love.”
For a second, he watches your face curl into a pleased smile, before you grab him by his tattooed wrist and drag him closer to the cake.
“Look—Look, I even found little star sprinkles to go on the edges! They’re super cute, right?”
You blink at him—entirely clueless to the way his heart is currently beating out of his chest, and through the force of the pain in his throat, he manages to speak.
“It’s beautiful. You’ve done a great job,” his voice sounds like a robot, tense and to-the-point. He’s so stuck in his head he literally flinches when you jump excitedly into a hug.
“Gosh, I’m so glad you like it! I was so worried, y’know, cause the frosting melted a little bit, and then the sprinkles left stains on the top, and then—“ like always, you ramble nonsensically, voice muffled from where you squish your face into his t-shirt.
All the while, he simply stares down at the little cake, wobbly and imperfect, struggling to breathe.
“—but it was all worth it in the end,” you breathe a deep sigh of relief, before suddenly snapping out of your reverie, “Oh, what did you want again? Sorry, I was distracted.”
He cluelessly blinks a few times, “Uh—asked for m’car keys.”
“Oh, I think I saw them by the couch. Try there,” you reply, before you step out of his arms and go back to your task, smiling all the while. You pick up the frosting bag once more.
He merely watches on, breathing too loud, something hard and immovable collecting in his chest. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice is garbled and soft, “I’m—I’m goin’ to the grocery.”
“Sounds good, babe,” you hum, “Oh! Pick up some milk while you’re there, too.”
With that, he SPEED WALKS out of the kitchen, ducking aimlessly into the bathroom. For a moment, he stands, looking at himself in the mirror. The tightness in his chest chokes him to the point where his breaths come out in small, silent pushes. And when he glances at his face, the tears in his eyes finally spill over.
He cries silently to himself for the first time in years, shaking arms leant up against the bathroom counter while he muffles the sobs into the crook of his elbow. In the background, he can hear the sound of your phone blaring pop music, can hear the noise of your sneakers as you dance to the beat. Somewhere between the overflowing love bursting from his chest, and the sugary sweet air of his now peaceful home, he crumbles.
When he finally manages to pull himself back together, he takes a moment to steel himself in the mirror, unable to contain the smile that tugs at his lips. He looks deranged almost, eyes bright red from crying yet grinning like a maniac. It’s only when he goes to turn the faucet on that he sees it: a little spot of buttercream frosting amidst the blue-black ink of his tattoos.
Slowly, he lifts his wrist to his mouth, feeling the sugar melt on his tongue. If anything, his smile only widens.
When he finally gets into the drivers seat of his car, it’s not the grocery store that he ends up navigating to. Rather, it’s the jewelry store.
You needed milk. But, hell, he’d been meaning to buy an engagement ring soon anyway.
