cw: sexual themes, strong language.
Sometimes it feels just like how it used to be when in reality, a lot has changed.
He still comes around. More often than the average ex husband. Still fixes your creaky doors, your leaky faucets, your congested toilet. Repaints the peeling cabinets doors, takes your car to maintenance, checks and rechecks your locks and security system. Makes sure anyone who's not supposed to be there isn't there.
He's not supposed to be there. He knows that. Simon, who is cold, detached, blunt like a trauma to the head, finds it hard to let go of you, to accept the change that has happened so suddenly. Simon, whose hands are scarred with everything that struggled to live under his palms, struggles to understand that this, too, this marriage, struggled to live under his palms.
The first time you brought up the divorce, you said it wasn't his fault, but he knew better. All the arguments that led to the inevitable end revolved around the same issues: his struggles with prioritizing, with finding time, with remembering (birthdays, anniversaries, date nights). The worst part, for you, wasn't even the forgotten milestones. It was the lack of romance, the absence of trying from his part.
The slow shift from married to roommates that occasionally fuck was the final nail on the coffin.
And perhaps his greatest mistake was his readiness to expect that it was over. It solidified your belief: he doesn't love you anymore.
But the divorce wasn't a quick signature because Simon doesn't care, but because he was raised to believe his feelings didn't matter. They were a hindrance, an annoyance, and he believed he had caused you enough misery.
By nature, Simon is reserved, quiet, collected. Never raises his voice, never raises his fists. There isn't much that shakes him, except when you casually drop that you have a date later that week. Simon knows you. Knows the casualness of it is forced. You're testing the waters, gauging his reaction. He takes a sip of his tea, glances at you, the protective walls rising behind his eyes. Doesn't say much, just murmurs, "hopefully not a loser," with a half smile.
You force a smile. "Doesn't seem like it."
"That's how they get you." Perhaps a dig at himself.
"That's the point of a blind date."
Simon pauses. "A blind date? So you know nothing about this bloke?"
You can't meet his eyes. You look at everything but him, focus on a chipped spot on the wall behind him. "I know enough."
"Yeah?" Simon watches you, finger tracing the rim of his now empty mug. "What's his name?"
"John Smith?" He levels you with a deadpan look. "Sounds fictional."
"Or something. I don't remember."
"You don't remember his last name? Do you know anything about him other than his first name?"
You bite your lip and turn away from him, pretending that rinsing your mug is a task of utmost importance. "The whole point of a blind date is to get to know the person."
You turn, surprised and a little embarrassed, if the flush on your cheeks is anything to go by. "Foot size doesn't matter."
He agonizes over it when he's alone. Not just over the fact that you're back on the market. But also about how weak and stupid he is when it comes to you. He shouldn't be still clinging to you with every fiber in his being. He picks up all your phone calls, answers all your messages, rushes to help when you complain about a leaky faucet or a faulty door lock. And he blames himself for that. Not you. He should've gone no contact. Cut you cold. He fooled himself into believing he just needed a little more of you before quitting, now he's three knees deep in whatever the hell is happening between you two. You call it friendship. Fuck that.
The next time he sees you, you tell him the date was nice. John or whatever the fuck was the bloke's name showed up with flowers, opened the doors, said all the right things, but there were no sparks. As much as Simon feels bad for the guy, he's actually twice the amount relieved. But he can't do anything with this failed date. You treat him like a friend.
The next week, he's fixing your leaky kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, while you complain about work. He looks at you just to look at you, and you're staring at his arms, rambling on and on like you're in a trance. Your eyes have always been so expressive, so telling. It was one of the things he loved about you. It's one of the things he loves about you. He draws in a shuddering breath, a little more of his resolve crumbling.
He takes your car for a maintenance check before he's deployed. He helps you build furniture, paint the walls of your apartment, change the tiles in your bathroom. Once, twice, three times. Change cabinet doors. He's helping you move on while your hand is still around his throat. But fuck, he can't help it.
He can't help it but he doesn't touch you. Gives you a side hug, sure. But no unnecessary lingering touches. He respects your space, doesn't think just because his chest is bubbling and overflowing with lingering feelings, he has the right to just touch you, like it means nothing to him.
So when you touch him, it feels a lot like a short circuit in his brain, and any thought that was in his head dissipates.
He blinks down at you. "What's that, luv?"
"I asked if that's a new scar?"
His hand instinctively lifts to touch his lower lip. A nasty punch from his last mission, but your hand around his bicep (barely) is more painful. "Uh yeah, it's nothing. Doesn't hurt anymore."
"It looks fresh," you murmur, inspecting his face closer. He wants to run away, but the gentle hold you have on his arm is enough to keep him in place, like a leash around his neck. Pathetic, but the idea of being leashed by you makes his cock throb.
He clears his throat, the tips of his ears warm. "Don't worry about it," he says, voice husky with want.
But you're hard to shake off. Always has been, when it comes to these things. Stubborn to a fault about his well being, and what a relief it is that you still are. Part of you still cares about him, and that's all he can think about as you lead him to your small, cramped bathroom and point to the lidded toilet seat.
He sits without a word, barely fitting in the space, so massive everything around him shrinks down and away. You rummage around in the cabinet on top of the sink, standing on your tiptoes. He watches, eyes on your ass, gaze tracing the sliver of skin as you stretch and your shirt lifts.
His lips part, pink tongue peeking out, a tortured exhale wretched out of his throat. His fingers flex, muscle remembering what skin long ago forgot: the feel of you in his palms, the softness of you, the warmth. How you break and melt under him, how you sound when he's deep-
"This is a good excuse to use my med kit," you say, interrupting his thoughts. You walk up to him and press his legs open with your knee. To you, it's a harmless gesture. To him, it's torture. His cock swells and pushes against the zipper of his pants. You're too focused on him to notice the very obvious sign of arousal, even though your knee is close enough to brush against his dick. And all he can do is focus on his breathing, and resist the urge to put his hands on your hips and pull you closer.
"You have any more dates lined up?" he asks, feigning nonchalance, as he stares up at you with needy eyes. The words come out like he intended for them to be: casual, like he's asking about the weather, not the love of his life and the woman he fantasies about every time he's got his fist around his cock if she's entertaining any other men.
"Shhh," you murmur, cleaning his cut with gentle fingers. "Don't talk."
But he wants to know. Desperate for a confirmation that no one else does it for you like he does, so he grabs your hand, holds it millimeters away from his mouth.
You look down at him and he can see, in your eyes, the moment you become aware of your proximity. Or lack of, therefore.
He swallows and, fuck, your eyes dip to his throat, stretched out for you with his head tipped back like this, for you, to look at you and only you, like you're the sun, the center of his existence.
He opens his mouth, closes it. Coward, he tells himself, because he can't say the words on his tongue. Too raw, too real. "Just curious," is what he settles with.
Your shoulders dip with disappointment. He knows. "Is that all?" you ask, still hopeful despite everything.
Fuck, if only he wasn't such a coward. He stabbed men, was stabbed, looked death in the eye and recognized it's just his reflection in the mirror and yet, yet, this is the scariest thing he's ever done. To want something so violently. It bothers him at times how want is not enough. He has to show it in a way your understand. He has to love you in a way you understand.
"No," he murmurs. "I'm jealous."
You search his stormy eyes. For what? He doesn't know. Isn't what he said enough? Christ, isn't words enough?
He knows they're not. His own father was a big fan of words: I'll change, I'll never hurt you again, I'll get help. And what did that accomplish? Nothing. What did it cost his mother, his brother, himself? Everything.
He brings your hand to his mouth, kisses your fingers, bunched in his hand like a handful of sticks. "I hate the idea of your being with other men," he whispers into your palm, looking up from under thick lashes, eyes locked with yours in reverence. "It's torture."
"Simon," you say calmly. "You know why we divorced. We don't work well together. I-" you sigh, pushing a hand through your hair. You leave your other hand in his. A small mercy. "I have different needs from what you're willing to offer."
"I can change." He hates how he sounds so much like his father. It grates at his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "I will change."
"What are you asking of me?"
"A chance," he says. "Give me a chance to win you back."
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if you want to read the whole nsfw fic (5 extra chapters) without waiting for updates, you can find it here
vaporwave
germansingergirl
annaxmalina
areudirty
