fake-marriage!simon who treats it like a mission because simon doesn’t know how to do anything halfway. if he’s committing to something, even something fake, then he’s going to do it properly. thoroughly. completely.
fake-marriage!simon who sits you down at the beginning like he’s briefing you before an op. boundaries. expectations. contingency plans. “we keep it consistent,” he says evenly, arms crossed over his chest. “no contradictions. no mistakes. people ask questions, we already know the answers.”
fake-marriage!simon who memorizes everything about you with terrifying precision. your coffee order. how you answer personal questions. the stories you tell often enough to become useful details later. he files it all away automatically, treating information about you like something important to safeguard.
fake-marriage!simon who slips into the role so naturally it catches you off guard. his hand steady against your lower back in public. his body shifting instinctively closer in crowded rooms. the calm way he says “my spouse” like he’s been calling you that for years already.
fake-marriage!simon who never overdoes the affection. that would make it look fake. instead, he’s subtle in ways that feel far more convincing. quiet touches. small adjustments. constant awareness of where you are in relation to him.
fake-marriage!simon who keeps acting like your husband even when nobody’s watching. opening doors for you without thinking. guiding you through spaces with a hand hovering near your waist. positioning himself between you and strangers automatically. instinct more than performance.
fake-marriage!simon who genuinely doesn’t understand why you think there should be a difference between “pretending” and private moments. to him, consistency matters. “i’m not playin’ a character,” he says one night when you point it out. “just doin’ it properly.” and somehow that answer feels more intimate than if he’d admitted it was real.
fake-marriage!simon who gets under your skin because he treats this arrangement with the same seriousness he treats everything he refuses to lose. controlled. focused. unwavering. there’s nothing careless about the way he handles you.
fake-marriage!simon who starts lingering just a little too long in the quieter moments. thumb shifting softly against your back when nobody else would notice. voice lowering around you in ways reserved only for you. standing closer than necessary because somewhere along the line, distance stopped feeling natural to him.
fake-marriage!simon who hears people comment on how real the marriage looks and doesn’t correct them immediately. just keeps his hand resting against you while he says, quieter than expected, “that’s because it is.” not emotionally, maybe. not officially. but real enough that the line between pretending and wanting has started disappearing for him.
fake-marriage!simon who eventually admits, in the calmest voice imaginable, “everything i care about becomes a mission.” and the terrifying part is realizing he means protection when he says it. responsibility. permanence.
fake-marriage!simon who never intended to get attached. this was supposed to be practical. temporary. controlled. but somewhere between memorizing your routines and instinctively reaching for you in crowds, he stopped treating this like an assignment and started treating it like something he couldn’t afford to fail.
thinking about forcing simon to sleep on the couch after an argument.
he doesn't argue when you point toward the couch. that's what throws you off. just mutters a quiet "right" and stalks away. an hour later, guilt gets the better of you and you go looking for him, only to find a six-foot-something soldier curled awkwardly onto a couch clearly built for normal-sized people. his feet are hanging off the end, his neck is bent at an angle that can't be comfortable, and he's got that wounded look in his eyes when he notices you standing there. he won't ask to come back to bed—that would require admitting he misses you—but the way he shifts to make room for a body that physically cannot fit is pathetic enough. by the time you tell him to get up and stop sulking, he's already halfway to the bedroom.
he wordlessly slides you the last chocolate from the box, even though it’s clearly his favorite.
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he pretends he doesn’t care for sweets. calls them unnecessary, too sugary, a distraction. if anyone asks, he’ll shrug it off like he only ever eats them because they’re there. never because he wants them.
but you’ve noticed.
the way his gaze lingers half a second too long on the dessert menu.
how the chocolate rations disappear from his kit faster than anything else.
how he always claims the dark chocolate is “practical” because it lasts longer.
it’s a quiet secret, the kind he never bothers to explain — and you never push.
so when there’s a box of chocolates between you, it feels ordinary at first. shared space, shared snacks, the comfortable silence he prefers over small talk. you pick one, then another, chatting about nothing in particular while he listens in that low, attentive way of his.
you see it in the slight tilt of his head, the almost-reach of his hand before he stops himself. a tiny pause. a decision.
eventually only one is left.
the good one.
the one he’s been picking around the entire time.
then, without a word, he slides the box toward you.
no comment. no dramatic gesture. just a small nudge across the table like it means nothing at all. like he isn’t giving up the piece he wanted most.
if you look at him, really look, you’ll catch the tell — the way he leans back, pretending disinterest, eyes flicking to make sure you take it. a quiet confirmation.
because simon isn’t the type to say he cares in obvious ways.
he won’t dress it up in soft words or grand confessions.
