Home is where the chanclas are
(The full love story)
⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ────𝜗𝜚────⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
(Simon Riley x Hispanic! Reader)
Warning ⚠️ : there will be lots of Spanish in here that isn’t translated (might come back and translate it later!) 😞 sorry babies, it took me so long to write this tho so hope you enjoy 💋
Simon hadn’t wanted to be there.
Not at this quinceañera, not in this crowded backyard strung with papel picado, not in this sweaty button-up that his buddy Alvarez had made him wear. He’d rather be on the base, in a gym, or hell—even on patrol. But Alvarez’s girlfriend insisted he bring a “plus one,” and since Simon was the only guy around not completely allergic to loud music and family functions, he got dragged along.
“You’ll be fine,” Alvarez had said. “Just nod, smile, and eat whatever they give you. Everything’s delicious.”
Simon wasn’t so sure. The party was in full swing—laughter, dancing, the smoky smell of carne asada filling the air, and Spanish flying in all directions. Kids were running around barefoot. Abuelitas were blessing people and handing out tamales. And the music—Jesus, the music was loud.
He stood near the punch table like a glorified coat rack, arms crossed, trying not to scowl.
That’s when he saw her.
Bright red dress, heels too high for comfort, hair falling in waves to the middle of her back, and a laugh that cracked through the noise like a spark. You were dancing with your cousin, hips swaying, arms up, a glass of pink agua fresca in your hand and glitter shimmering across your collarbones like you belonged in the center of attention. And maybe you did.
You caught him staring.
He looked away.
You walked straight toward him.
“Oye,” you said, voice full of playfulness. “Why you lookin’ so miserable? You allergic to fun or something, white boy?”
Simon blinked, caught off guard by the directness—and the accent, the attitude, the glow of your skin in the backyard lights.
“I’m not… miserable,” he said.
“Coulda fooled me.” You took a sip of your drink and looked him up and down. “Who invited the bodyguard?”
He almost laughed.
You held out your hand. “Come on. I don’t let sad statues stand by the juice table. You’re dancing with me.”
“I can’t dance”
“But you will.”
And somehow—you made him. You dragged him onto that dance floor with no rhythm, no clue, no chance of escape. He was stiff, awkward, completely overwhelmed. You were warmth and perfume and sass, spinning and swaying and talking a mile a minute. And somewhere in that blur of movement, laughter, and corridos, Simon Riley forgot how to be a shadow.
You let him breathe but never let him go.
⸻
The end of the night came too quickly. You were sitting together on the porch, heels kicked off, eating elotes from the snack cart your cousin had rolled in as a surprise.
“I think I tore something trying to keep up with you,” Simon said, groaning softly as he leaned back against the steps.
You snorted. “¿Qué? Didn’t you tell me earlier you were, like, a military soldier or something? No manches, you can crawl through dirt with a hundred pounds on your back, but you can’t handle a little dancing?”
He gave you a flat look, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I wasn’t trained for this kind of cardio,” he muttered.
“You did great,” you said, bumping your shoulder against his. “You only stepped on me three times.”
He looked down, sheepish. “I’m not exactly built for salsa.”
You leaned in, grinning. “You’re built for something. Just not spinning.”
He looked at you then, really looked—your glitter had faded, your lipstick was smudged, your earrings had come off. But you were still radiant. Still bold. Still everything he didn’t know he’d been missing.
“You should give me your number,” you said, casual but firm, handing him your phone.
He typed it in without hesitation.
“Because I know you’re gonna pretend you don’t want to call me, but you will.”
And he did.
⸻
Date one: late-night tacos under a flickering light, you judging his choice in hot sauce.
Date two: you made him dance again—badly—this time in your living room in socked feet, laughing when he nearly fell trying to copy your cumbia steps.
Date three: you brought him to a family cookout, where the meat was sizzling, the music was blasting, and your tíos—all three of them built like ex-wrestlers with gold chains and mirrored sunglasses—descended on Simon like a tactical unit.
They sat him down at the domino table with matching smirks, passing around beers and grilling him in rapid-fire Spanglish.
“So you’re military, huh? Qué curioso, we don’t scare so easy either.”
“Mijo, how many weapons you know how to use? Because I know at least four ways to disarm a man with a chancla.”
“Would you ever kill a man for making our sobrina cry? ’Cause we might.”
Simon, a trained killer, had never been more alert in his life.
Even bootcamp hadn’t rattled him like that.
Your parents were there too, of course—your mom dishing out second helpings while chatting with your tías, your dad working the grill and dancing with one of your cousins—but the crowd was thick and the music loud. They saw him, hugged him, gave warm but distracted greetings in between serving plates and telling kids not to run near the fire.
It was warm. It was chaotic. It was too much to be personal.
So when he came over a week later to your childhood home on a quiet Sunday afternoon, just for dinner, it was different. Quieter. Sharper.
You warned him. “My dad’s a clown. My mom will feed you like you’re starving. And everyone talks very fast. Don’t panic.”
Simon had never been more panicked.
Your mom answered the door in slippers and a full apron. “¡Mira, qué guapo!” she declared, cupping Simon’s face in both hands before dragging him inside by the arm like he weighed nothing.
Your dad? He cracked a beer, clapped Simon on the back like it was a tactical blow, and said, “You break her heart, I break your knees. With love.”
But over the meal—enchiladas, arroz, frijoles, and homemade salsa that made him sweat and cough and keep eating anyway—he relaxed. He laughed. Your family didn’t let him sit in silence like some stoic monument. They teased. They overfed. They asked questions and cracked jokes until the stiffness fell away.
They didn’t let him be a statue.
They made him real.
And then came date four.
You were in that oversized hoodie he loved, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, barefaced and radiant.
He kissed you—slowly, reverently—his rough hands holding your face like he wasn’t sure you were real.
“I want this,” he murmured. “Whatever this is. I want it.”
You smiled, kissed him again, and said, “Then you better learn how to dance, mi amor.”
⸻
Your parents weren’t thrilled at first when you told them you were moving out—but they softened when Simon showed up on a Saturday morning with a truck, coffee for everyone, and rolled-up sleeves ready to work.
He packed every single box himself. Labeled everything in neat capital letters. Didn’t let you lift a thing heavier than a purse.
Your dad tried not to hover, but he stood in the hallway watching. Your mom kept walking in and out of your bedroom, touching things she’d folded for you years ago—blankets, little photo frames, the corner of your old dresser.
It’s not that they didn’t trust you.
They knew you were grown, strong, smart. They saw how happy you were. How steady he made you. But it was hard. It was hard watching their little girl leave and knowing she wouldn’t be coming home to them anymore. That the light in your old room would stay off. That the seat at the dinner table would be just a little more empty.
But Simon—quiet, tall, sharp-eyed Simon—was gentle. Respectful. Patient.
He thanked your mother for the lunch she insisted on making mid-pack.
He listened when your father gave him unsolicited advice about rent, plumbing, and fixing leaky windows. Nodded. Took mental notes. Didn’t flinch.
And when he opened the truck door for you later, he helped you in like you were something breakable and precious.
At the apartment, he gave you the bigger closet.
He built you a custom rack for your shoes out of reclaimed wood because “your heels deserve better than a cardboard box.”
He let you hang your neon pink “Bad Bunny, Good Heart” sign in the living room—right above the TV. Didn’t even blink.
When you stress-cleaned the entire place twice a week, blasting cumbia at full volume and moving furniture that didn’t need to be moved, he just grabbed the broom and started sweeping.
No questions. No complaints. Just a kiss on the forehead, a “You missed a spot,” and a smile.
You became a team. A home. A weird, glittery, soft kind of forever.
⸻
He proposed after almost two years, during a quiet evening at home. Just the two of you.
No crowds. No photographers. Just takeout containers on the counter, a few candles flickering on the coffee table, and the soft hum of your favorite playlist in the background.
You were in sweats. He was barefoot. Your hair was in a messy bun.
And still—he looked at you like you were made of gold.
He reached for your hands, callused palms warm and steady, thumbs brushing across your knuckles.
“You’ve been mine since that dance,” he said, voice low, eyes soft like velvet. “But I want to make it real. Marry me, my love.”
You blinked once. Twice. Then burst into tears, nodding as you choked out a “yes” and launched yourself into his arms.
You kissed him for ten whole minutes, barely stopping to breathe, let alone look at the ring.
When you did look, you gasped like it was the first diamond ever made. “¡Ay Dios mío! It’s so pretty!”
And then you scrambled for your phone, hands still shaking, dialing your mom before he could even get off the floor.
“Mami—¡ME VOY A CASAR!”
Your mom screamed so loud he flinched. Then came more screaming. Then the crying. Then the chaos of trying to conference call every tía you had.
Simon sat there watching, utterly overwhelmed and utterly in love.
⸻
You married in the spring.
The sky was the soft kind of blue that felt like a blessing. The church was big—white stone, wooden pews, sunlight spilling in through tall stained-glass windows. Every seat was filled with someone you loved: family, friends, cousins on cousins on cousins, all dressed in color and joy and gold jewelry.
Your dad cried more than your mom, wiping his eyes with the same folded handkerchief your abuela had given him when you were born. Your mom clutched her rosary and whispered prayers and compliments in equal measure, dabbing at your cheeks with a tissue between gasps of, “Mira qué hermosa te ves, mija.”
And near the front, seated on Simon’s side of the aisle—looking just slightly out of place in their suits but trying very hard to behave—was his other family.
Price in a crisp navy three-piece, standing a little taller than usual. Soap, already misty-eyed before the ceremony even started, practically bouncing in his seat from excitement. Gaz, freshly shaved, clutching a small gift box and nudging Soap every five seconds with whispered comments like, “Mate, you think Ghost is nervous? He looks like he’s about to faint.”
They were his brothers. His lifeline.
Simon had never expected them to come. He’d told them they didn’t have to—had muttered something like, “No big deal, just a wedding.” But all three of them had shown up anyway. Early. With matching pocket squares and their names painstakingly written out in your mom’s loopy handwriting on the guest list.
Soap cried again when he saw you walking down the aisle. Even Gaz got a little glassy-eyed.
And Simon—who had once walked through hell with these men at his side—stood there in a light gray suit, sweating bullets under the collar, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world.
And then—when it came time for vows—he cleared his throat, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a little folded piece of paper.
“Desde el día que te vi… supe que eras el caos que necesitaba.”
The entire room gasped.
Your tíos straightened in their seats. Your abuela whispered “¡Ay, qué lindo!” Your cousin grabbed her chest. Even Price cracked a grin.
His accent was clumsy. Thick. Adorably white-boy. He butchered the rhythm, said “izquierdos” like it had three syllables too many, but he didn’t stop.
“Te prometo bailar contigo… aunque tenga dos pies izquierdos,” he said, voice shaking. “Te prometo amarte, escucharte… y protegerte. Siempre.”
You sobbed.
No delicate tears, either—ugly crying, mascara-streaked cheeks, hands to your face like you could somehow hold all the love inside your chest. You kissed him before the priest could even finish, threw your arms around his neck and laughed into his shoulder as the room exploded in cheers and clapping and whistles.
He whispered, “You okay?” against your hair.
You nodded. “Estoy loca por ti.”
The reception was held in a big hall your family rented just down the road. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling. There were papel picado banners in every color fluttering from beam to beam. A whole wall was dedicated to desserts and pastelitos. Your primo Luis was DJing. Your tía Rosa was already barefoot by the first slow song.
Simon hadn’t let go of your hand since you’d said I do.
You walked into the room to applause and whistles, Simon still looking like he couldn’t believe this was his life. You in your dress. His team in suits. Your family everywhere.
It was loud.
The music, the laughter, the sound of kids running around with too much sugar and not enough supervision. The food was endless—carnitas, arroz con gandules, tamales, fresh tortillas that your tía Alma insisted on making on-site even though she was technically supposed to be a guest.
And Simon?
Simon was glowing.
At first, he stuck close to you. At his usual edge-of-the-room comfort zone. But your tíos—yes, the same ones who had interrogated him months ago like he was being recruited into the CIA—didn’t let him stay there long.
One of them clapped a massive hand on his back. “Come on, yerno. You’re family now.”
Another one handed him a beer. “We made bets that you wouldn’t survive us. But mírate. Still standing.”
The third one pointed toward the dance floor. “Now dance with your suegra before she gets mad.”
Simon turned to you, wide-eyed.
You grinned. “She’s right there waiting, babe.”
And there she was: your mom, already swaying to the rhythm of the cumbia, snapping her fingers with that look that said, don’t make me ask twice.
He didn’t hesitate.
He walked to her, took her hand like it was sacred, and let her guide him through a slow, gentle dance. She beamed up at him, one hand on his arm, the other gesturing like she was giving him detailed instructions only she understood.
“Keep the shoulders loose,” she said. “Sí, like that. Mira qué guapo. My daughter married a soldier who dances. I’m so proud.”
When the song ended, she kissed both of his cheeks and whispered something in his ear that made him go still for a second, then nod with a soft, grateful smile.
You watched them, heart swelling.
But that was just the start.
The next song came on—fast, loud, full of horns—and your cousins pounced.
“Oye,” one of your primas whispered loudly to the others. “I want the one that laughs a lot. ¿Cómo se llama? El que llora fácil. Está bien cute.”
Another one pointed. “No, no, no. El serio. El que se ve todo elegante. I want that one.”
“I call dibs on the moreno with the earrings,” someone yelled over the music. “Mío. Lo vi primero.”
Soap, Price, and Gaz looked like deer in headlights.
“Jesus Christ,” Soap muttered. “Are they fighting over us?”
Gaz took a nervous sip of his drink. “You didn’t tell me her family was this intense.”
Price chuckled, adjusting his tie. “You lot better get out there before they start drawing blood.”
So they did.
Soap got dragged into a group dance with three primas shouting instructions at him like he was in a Zumba class. Gaz ended up cumbia dancing with tía Marta, who kept twirling him like he was the bride. And Price—stoic, unshakable Price—nodded solemnly, took your abuela’s hand, and led her into a slow dance that had the whole family swooning.
Simon couldn’t stop smiling.
He was a little pink in the ears. Still stiff in the shoulders. But he looked at you like he was seeing heaven. Not because of the venue. Not the decorations. Not even the fact that you were now his wife.
It was because—for the first time in his life—he belonged.
Not to a mission. Not to a ghost of a past. But to you. To this noise, this color, this chaos, this home.
He pulled you in as a love song started. Held you tight, swaying to the music while your dress whispered over his shoes.
“Married,” you whispered, still not quite believing it.
“Mine,” he murmured back, resting his forehead against yours. “Forever.”
And when you kissed him this time, there was no ceremony. No audience. Just the quiet promise that whatever storm life brought next—you’d face it together.
As husband and wife.
As a family.
⸻
The honeymoon was bliss. Sunburnt kisses. Slow mornings tangled in hotel sheets. You barely left the room—too busy rediscovering each other with no schedules, no missions, no noise. Just soft laughter, whispered promises, and Simon’s hands never far from yours.
And when you finally came home—back to your little apartment with the creaky floorboards and the window that never quite closed—it felt like stepping into a new chapter.
Your first night back as husband and wife, you didn’t even bother with pajamas.
The suitcase sat half-unpacked near the door. A few candles still burned low on the windowsill. The soft rustle of the curtains was the only sound as you lay across Simon’s chest, asleep, your leg draped over his, one hand resting just above his heart. Completely bare. Completely his.
He couldn’t sleep.
He stared at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around you, thumb tracing idle circles into your back. His heart felt too full. Too loud. Like it was trying to tell him something he hadn’t been ready to hear before.
He thought about the future.
About the way your last name sounded when you said it with his.
About the way you had started talking about “someday” like it was real. Like it was close. A bigger place. Maybe a dog. Maybe… kids.
Simon exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss into your hair.
He couldn’t imagine going back out there. To war zones. To shadows. To any place that didn’t end with your voice saying, “Hey, babe, I’m home.”
He’d been a soldier most of his life. A weapon before he ever got to be a man.
But now?
Now he had something to protect that wasn’t a flag or a mission.
It was you.
It was this.
Maybe it was time to step back. Take an office job. Talk to Price. Let the younger lads run into fire while he stayed here, safe, solid, something softer.
Not weak. Never that.
But grounded.
Tethered.
Waiting for you.
He looked down at you, your lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep.
And for the first time in his entire life, Simon Riley wasn’t afraid of the future.
He was ready for it.
All of it.
——-
The house was small, warm, full of sunlight and mismatched furniture. A place stitched together by shared coffee mugs, throw blankets, and the smell of your cooking in every room. Your glittery “Home is where the chanclas are” sign went up in the kitchen the same day you moved in.
Simon, ever organized in his quiet, tidy way, had his own mug shelf and a dedicated hook for his tactical gear—right next to your keychain that had a fluffy pom-pom and a tiny bottle of Valentina hot sauce.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was yours.
One morning, still groggy and in your robe, you stepped out of the bathroom with a plastic stick clutched in your hand, your eyes wide and shining, your lip trembling just slightly.
Simon was in the kitchen pouring coffee. He turned at the sound of your footsteps and immediately froze when he saw your face.
“What’s wrong? You okay?”
You opened your hand.
He blinked at the test.
Then at you.
Then back down at the two clear pink lines like he wasn’t sure if he was awake.
“Is that…?”
You nodded. Your throat was too tight to speak at first. Your eyes filled faster than you expected, tears spilling over your cheeks without warning.
He crossed the room in two strides, coffee forgotten on the counter, and took your face in his hands.
“Are you serious?” he breathed. “We’re having a baby?”
Your voice cracked. “We’re having a baby.”
He kissed you, soft and slow and sweet, like he wanted to kiss the tears away. His eyes were glassy too.
“We’re having a Riley-sized baby,” he whispered into your temple, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Riley-sized baby”—something you two had joked about many, many times after the first serious talks about having kids. Mostly because Simon was huge. And you? Absolutely not.
You pulled back just enough to stare up at him, horrified. “Ay cabrón,” you muttered, eyes wide. “¿Tú sabes lo grande que estás?”
Simon blinked. “…I think so?”
“Oh my god. Voy a tener que empujar un bebé del tamaño de un pinche tanque.” You stared into the middle distance, processing. “Dios mío. Estoy jodida.”
He choked on a laugh and pulled you tight into his chest, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair while you dramatically buried your face in his shirt.
“Cálmate, baby,” he murmured, still laughing softly. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I need snacks,” you sniffled.
“I’ll get you snacks.”
“Pickles. And Takis. And that mango with the spicy powder.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
You wiped your face, still sniffly but already recovering. “And maybe a crib. Eventually.”
He looked down at your tummy—soft and familiar beneath your robe, the same one he’d kissed a hundred times before—and laid his hand there gently. “I’ll build it. Big enough for a little chaos gremlin like her mamá.”
You snorted, leaned into him, and let yourself smile through the nerves. “Ojalá que tenga mi nariz y no la tuya.”
“Oh, thanks, love.”
“You’re welcome.”
You were scared. He was terrified.
But standing there in your beautiful kitchen, sunlight warming the tile, your arms wrapped around each other and a baby on the way—there was nothing you couldn’t face.
Together.
And you couldn’t wait to tell your family.
⸻
And that little stick in your hand became a heartbeat on a monitor. Became tiny kicks beneath your ribs. Became midnight cravings, swollen ankles, and Simon sitting on the floor rubbing your back while you cursed the universe in Spanglish.
He read baby books. Took notes. Practiced holding a teddy bear like it was your newborn. Built the crib by hand—then rebuilt it because the first one wobbled the tiniest bit “our baby is not sleeping in a death trap, cariño.”
You decorated the nursery together. Soft colors. A little mobile that played lullabies. He painted the walls while you sat in the doorway, crying over a diaper commercial because “that baby had such chubby cheeks, Simon!”
One night, curled up together on the couch, your belly snug against his side, he asked quietly, “You think she’ll look like you?”
You smiled, running your fingers over the stretch marks blooming on your skin. “If she’s lucky.”
He kissed your shoulder. “We still haven’t picked a name.”
You tilted your head, thoughtful. “I’ve got a list.”
“Course you do.”
“Four pages.”
Simon blinked. “Bloody hell.”
You giggled. “Well, you better start narrowing them down, papá.”
And somehow, between back rubs and baby kicks and whispered prayers in the middle of the night, one name kept rising to the top. Soft. Strong. Full of light.
You were still tossing names around the day of the anatomy scan. You held Simon’s hand tightly as the ultrasound tech moved the wand across your belly, the screen glowing with fuzzy, miraculous shapes.
“Baby is right there,” the tech said gently, smiling. “Looks like you’re having a healthy baby girl.”
The world seemed to stop.
All the weeks leading up to this you both had speculated you would have a baby girl, already referring to the baby as ‘her’/‘she’
Simon stared at the monitor. Then at you. Then back at the monitor.
His hand slipped from yours so he could cover his face, his shoulders shaking—he was crying before a single word left his mouth.
You reached for him, brushing his hand aside so you could cradle his cheek. “Simon,” you whispered, eyes already stinging. “Hey. Look at me. Mi amor.”
He did, eyes red, lashes wet.
“A girl,” he choked. “We’re—we’re having a little girl.”
You kissed him, fingers in his hair, grounding him through the flood of emotion. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Our little girl.”
He held you the rest of the appointment.
And he never let go—not once. Not ever.
He held your hair when you threw up, held your hand at every checkup, held you close every time the fear crept in.
When the reality that you would be bringing your baby into the world became too scary.
He was there.
And when the time came, he was still right there. Strong. Calm. Pale as a ghost, sure—but solid. He whispered to you through every contraction, wiped sweat from your forehead, kissed your temple as you screamed and pushed and cried.
And then she was here.
Graciella Riley.
With her little scrunched-up face, her soft cries, her full head of light brown hair.
Simon cried the second he held her.
You held her next—shaking, sobbing, overwhelmed. And he was there, wrapping himself around the both of you, whispering, “You did it, my love. She’s here. You did it.”
And that led to today.
Coming home.
Gracie in the back seat, facing backward in the safest spot—middle of the car, mirror on the headrest so you could keep looking at her the whole way.
Your stitches pulling with every step.
Simon helping you out slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass. One big hand holding yours, the other cradling the carrier like it held the whole world.
