A/N - this is a tad longer than the first part🫡
pt 1 , pt 2, pt 3 (coming soon)
You break into a sprint before your mind can catch up. But as your footfalls become louder the closer you are, his pace picks up as well.
It makes an ugly feeling twist deep in your chest. Like thorned vines encasing your heart and squeezing until it breaks whats left. It makes you devastated but utterly enraged.
How could he? After six years of no contact, of thinking he was dead, how could he run from you now?
It seems his military training came in handy after all as he sprints out of view three blocks down. You’re panting and at the brink of tears when you collapse against the wall of a building and cry your heart out.
You’re sure it was him. And yet, he ran.
As you sulk and walk back to your car, your bag feels heavier than it’s ever felt before. You look in and realize you never even properly visited his grave today. Or at least what you thought was his grave.
With great bitterness, you stalk over to his empty grave and toss the snacks at the headstone with no care.
The flowers are trampled as you leave and head back into your car. The drive home seems longer, too quiet. Though with the occasional sniffle and silent sob, you park in the downstairs lot and make your way up.
As your key turns in the door, you think for a moment. Contemplating whether or not to go next door and tell your’s and his ma of what you saw today.
Doubt creeps into your mind and forces you to head inside your own apartment, abandoning the idea for now. Because what if it wasn’t him? What if you get their hopes up and end up causing them more grief?
With a heavy heart, you retire to the kitchen counter and grab a bottle of hard liquor in an attempt to calm your scrambled nerves.
Shot after shot and you’re filled with a pleasant buzz. The open windows does nothing for your flushed skin. So instead, you fumble for your bag and head up to the roof. The same old spot remains untouched over the years. The awning over a work shed sits up top with two spaces underneath it. The view faces the city and scenery.
You settle in your spot. The one with old chalk flowers at the edges while simon’s designated seat remains untouched. With a sigh, you dig out your headphones and turn up the volume to some sad music.
Misery loves company, doesn’t it?
Simon hadn’t left Manchester just yet. Since encountering you, he’d ran half a mile back to his car parked in some dingy alley.
The mask does nothing to hide the turmoil beneath the surface.
He’d come back to visit Manchester to tie up some loose ends. He hadn’t planned to open up old wounds. But he’d be lying if he hadn’t wished to see you.
Your voice was a god given solace to his longing. For years he’d been battling against his innermost wants versus practicality. His knees nearly buckled when he heard you again. Still as sharp but soft where it needed to be.
It was part of the reason he couldn’t come back. The reason he needed to be dead. He couldn’t watch his enemies take the people he loved the most. Every time doubt rose in his mind, he reminded himself of a cliche saying, “Loving means letting go.”
But the second you were within reach, he panicked.
Years of honing his nerves and sharpening his skills was brought down by the sound of your voice.
He curses and slams a hand against the steering wheel before deciding. Within no time, he’s back at the graveyard except your car is no longer there. He can’t tell if he’s grateful or devastated at this point.
By now the sun has started to set and the street lights have turned on. The first thing that catches his eye is the trampled bouquet. He’d never been one for flowers. Never saw the point in buying something that would die in a week or so.
But he’d always pick flowers for you when you walked in the forest. Made small bouquets of wild flowers bound together by twine or leaves. The look on your face was enough to ignore his dislike for flowers.
He side steps the flowers and stands in front of his own grave once again. The thrown snacks catches his eye next, making him crouch down and pick some up.
A strawberry drink he’d liked as a child up until his teens. He never outright said it but when the choice was between grape and strawberry, the latter was always chosen.
His lips turn upwards under the mask before he can stop himself as he turns the drink in his hands. Though the next snack brings a small huff of laughter as he picks it up.
It came in a pack of two. A small baggie of vanilla flavored taffy and a chocolate one. You’d always preferred chocolate but would secretly take one or two of his vanilla anyway.
Truth be told, you never liked chocolate. But you knew he liked vanilla better, so you braved your palate and took chocolate every time.
By the forth snack, an odd feeling swirled in his gut. With a stiff motion, he scooped up the snacks and brought them back to his car. The sun has completely set by now, and the streets are dimly illuminated by the warm lights.
He sits in his car for a long moment before reaching for the vanilla taffy. It’d been years since he’s allowed himself any sweets. Years since he’d retrained himself to eat for sustenance and survival only.
He brings his mask up over his nose so he can pop the sweet into his mouth. The second the taffy hits his tongue, a wave of nostalgia and guilt washes over him.
By the second piece, he’s already made up his mind.
The drive back to his old home is absolutely dreadful. He can’t even begin to describe the anxiety worming its way to the surface.
How his mother would look at him, how your mother would, how you would..
He parks next to your car and finally steps out. The walk up two flights of stairs is spent going over his spiel in his head.
He’s proud Tommy has moved away for college. He’s glad he has one less person to explain his fake death to. But it doesn’t lessen his anxiety at all.
He stops in front of his old home, the apartment next to yours. Before he can convince himself not to, three sharp raps sound out into the apartment.
For once in his life he’s afraid to face his mother.
He hears muffled voices inside followed by a voice that is most definitely not his mums.
“I’ll go get it, you sit tight.”
For a second he’s about to bolt, worried he’d somehow gotten the wrong apartment or his mum had moved away. But then the door opens and your mum comes to the door instead.
A bit more grey, but undeniably her.
“Oh, how can I help you dear?”
It almost confuses him that she doesn’t recognize him, but the feeling of the mask reminds him of his anonymity. But what does confuse him is why your mum is living in his old apartment.
It seems he’d been too caught up in his thoughts, only jolted out of it when your mum gently pries,
“Dear? Are you alright? Is there something you need?”
That shakes him out of his train of thought and brings him back to reality. He clears his throat before gruffly asking,
“Sorry ma’am, I’m looking for my mum. This is 1304 Summers street righ’?”
It seems your mum has your same keen hearing because her tone changes and she nearly gasps in surprise.
His shoulders stiffen at her quick assessment before he reluctantly nods.
“….It’s nice to see you again Ms. y/l/n.”
Before your mum can respond, his mums voice pops out from the living room,
“Alex? Who’s at the door?” (Alex is your mum, i tried to find a neutral name)
Your mum barely manages a response before stepping aside and ushering Simon in with tears in her eyes.
Simon and your mum walk over to the living room where his mum is sat with a cuppa.
Apparently a mother does know best because as soon as his large frame comes into view, despite the mask, she’s up and out of her seat in a swift motion that betrays her age.
With a shaking hand, she takes his hands as if checking he’s real,
“S-Simon is that you? How are you here I was told you were dead!”
He watches her fuss over him like a newly born for a couple moments before he closes the gap and takes her into his arms.
He feels like a wee boy once again, finding comfort in his ma despite his now looming figure. It seems the military’s bulked him up good.
His words come out choked with emotion as he steadies himself against her.
Simon’s had two platefuls of food by now and more tea than his stomach can handle.
With a cryptic explaination, he’d said why he needed to disappear, but no information that could be traced back to him nor your mum’s.
He hesitates before sternly reiterating to both your mums that Simon Riley no longer exists in the eyes of the law. That if anyone asks, he really is dead.
Both take it with somewhat acceptance and only slight confusion.
And once the conversation is over, he asks what confused him the most.
“Why’re you two livin together?”
Your mums break into a fit of laughter before explaining with smiles on their faces.
They’d both been getting old and needed to retire sooner or later. It’d been easier to split rent in one apartment as well as help each other out. What they were reluctant to share was that his mum needed emotional support more than ever after his funeral. So your mum basically became her live-in best friend in the following months.
Then came the quiet question. The one filled with hesitance and anxiety,
Your mums shared a look before his took the cutlery into the kitchen to wash up, leaving your mum and him alone to talk.
“She’s living next door still. I’m surprised you haven’t bumped into her yet, today’s her off day.”
He stays silent. Because what could he say? That he did bump into her but ran away like a coward? That he’d been too afraid to own up to his actions?
But the thought of you being so close, just a wall away, pulls at him like a sirens song.
“She never forgot you. Never once hated you for leaving. Don’t let your fears hold you back dear.”
It seems your mum knew how much he’d both dreaded and longed for you. And it quickly became apparent when he realized his hands had been digging into his knees.
He murmurs a quiet response before standing from the couch, ready to head out to the next door over.
He bids both your mums a goodbye and a hug before walking to your door. A couple knocks and waiting passes before he tries again. Then again, then again.
His first thought is panic. What if one of his enemies found you? What if you were lying on the floor, bleeding out because of him. That’s quickly pushed aside when he grabs the spare key from under the mat and walks inside.
He urgently calls your name, now wielding his off duty weapon as he scans the dim room,
It becomes clear you’re not inside. No sign of forced entry. No broken glass or locks. The alcohol on the counter makes him frown as he scans the apartment he once knew—now changed to your liking and personality.
Your shoes absent at the doorway makes him curse when he realizes you’re not even home.
His mind runs through possible places you could be before settling on three.
The forest where your old fort lies—no. It’s too old and most likely overgrown by nature at this point.
The old playhouse at the park where you two would play until dark—also no. He’d passed by and it’s been closed for repairs for the last month.
It must be the universes way of taunting you.
With a cigarette to your lips and two butts already squashed beside you, the third is halfway done by the time you’ve stopped crying.
He’d picked up smoking by the time he was sixteen. Not often, no. But when the days got bad. When school was kicking his ass or when the nightmares got too loud.
You’d always chastised him. In your innocent mind you’d even put together a scrap book of “why people shouldnt smoke”.
It was cute at best. Filled with ads of “smoking kills” cut out from newspapers. Random made up facts that sounded way too exaggerated but you’d thought it would work. At the end of the book, you’d added a crappy drawing of you two at an old age as you explained how you wanted him to live forever with you.
Now? The nicotine was a comforting burn in your lungs as you reminisce on old memories.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol or maybe you’d cried yourself into delirium. But for a split second, you swear you heard something next to you. Though you couldnt be bothered to pluck out a headphone or even lower your music.
Another drag and the toxic smoke fills your lungs. Your eyes focus on the faraway buildings down below as you exhale the carcinogen into the air.
Your brows furrow when another muffled sound comes from next to you. And you almost ignore it again, but the urge overwhelms you and you turn.
Before you can stop yourself, you scream and send an instinctive punch towards the masked face sitting next to you—in Simon’s spot.
You scramble to your feet, barely, before yanking off your headphones and shout,
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! JESUS CHRIST WHAT’RE YOU A PSYCHOPATH?! WHO THE FUCK SNEAKS UP ON A PERSON LIKE THAT??”
Simon groans as he holds a hand to his nose and lifts up his mask over it to let the blood drip out. His head spins a bit as he pushes himself up to his feet and pinch his nostrils.
“Christ love, I knew you could fight but fuckin ‘ell.”
Even through your alcohol induced haze, reality crashes down in a split second as you drop your cigarette and rush over. You’re anger towards him for his bullshit momentarily subsides as you realize you just punched your best friend.
“Simon?! Oh my fucking god—“
“Oh my god. OH MY GOD I PUNCHED YOU!”
You scramble for your phone, unsure of what to do in your panic. Your panic induced state is interrupted by a loud, clear laugh. One you haven’t heard in ages.
“Y/n, calm down love. M’alright. It’s jus a bit o’ blood s’all. You got a rag downstairs?”
You stare at him for a long time before you snap out of it and nod urgently. You gather your belongings off the roof before ushering him inside and down to the elevator.
It seems adrenaline has overpowered the alcohol by now because you’re fidgeting and silent the entire way to your floor.
As soon as you guys enter your flat, you rush to grab a rag and slip off your shoes. As usual, you shout as you fumble through your cabinet,
He lets out an amused chuckle before unlacing his boots and settling down on the couch with a groan.
You come back with an ice pack and a rag set in front of him before you stand back anxiously shifting on your heels.
He quickly wipes off the dried blood and fishes out his phone to check his nose before sighing. Before you can even ask if he’s alright, he braces himself and snaps his nose back into place like a goddamn lego piece as a sickening sound echoes through your flat.
You let out a horrified gasp and rush over to pull his hands away,
“Simon! Are you fucking insane?! Oh my god what is wrong with you?!”
He lets you fuss over him as he stares at you. The pain is more like a throbbing, not much of actual pain. He can’t even begin to count the amount of times his nose has been broken at this point.
His eyes are glossy as he focuses on your face. The slight flush on your cheeks brought on by alcohol and shock. The soft cheeks that’d filled out since the last time he saw you. The hair that’d grown out and styled into a different one. One that fits you.
Your urgent rambling is cut off by a quiet, reverent murmur,
Your breath comes to a halt as your hands pause on his cheek. Your eyes water and your voice wavers as you stare at him.
He doesn’t regret saying it, no. But he regrets not telling you sooner. Not coming back sooner. Not keeping in contact with you.
You pull back completely and sniffle as you shakily say,
He stands in one swift motion as he walks over to where you’re pacing. With a practiced motion, he gently tugs at your wrist and brings you to a stop.
Anger and resentment comes back ten times more, making you yank your wrist free as your voice rises.
“No, you don’t! Y-you left me! You ran from me! I grieved you Simon! It’s been ten years since you left! Six since you stopped talking to me! And four since I thought you were dead and gone! Don’t tell me you miss me after making me grieve a fucking ghost!”
His posture stiffens and guilt wars inside of him as he takes a step closer.
“I know love, but please let me explain yeah—“
You stop pacing to and point an accusing finger at him as tears blur your vision.
You hate that you cry when you get mad. You hate that your voice chokes up without warning. You hate that it makes you feel weak.
“N-NO! NO SIMON. I-I waited for you! I waited for you to-to keep your promise and come back for me b-but you didn’t! Y-you— You—“
Pained sobs tear through your throat before you can stop yourself. Turning away and shakily walking towards god knows where as you wail into your hands.
Before you can refuse, a warm hand encases your back and nudges you into a warm embrace. As you sob into his shirt, a hand slips into your hair and gently strokes as you break in his arms.
“M’sorry love, I’m so bloody sorry. I never should’ve broken tha’ promise. I’m sorry love.”
Your hands find home in his shirt as you fist the fabric into your clammy fingers. Your whole body trembles as you cry and blubber incoherently against him.
He patiently waits. Waits until he can put you back together again with mending hands.
“Won’t leave you again sweetheart.”
You’re unsure when you ended up on the couch. But when the headache and puffy eyes hit you, you realize you must have passed out soon after.
The first thing that registers is the absence. Panic and dread fills you as you slowly turn to glance around your apartment, nearly at the verge of tears once again.
Your eyes scan the living room until your gaze lands at the door.
That’s when shit hits the fan.
You can’t believe he left again. The vines twisted around your heart squeeze and constrict until you’re hyperventilating and sobbing against the couch. The inevitable feeling of devastation kicks in and you fight for at least one good breath. One deep breath to try and fight off the panic attack bubbling its way to the surface.
But as your head spins and your body tingles like you’re floating, you know you’re gone.
Angry, heartbroken questions fill your mind as you buckle over against your couch where his scent still lingers.
How could he leave so soon? How could he leave without telling you? How could he say he won’t leave but immediately spin around to do it again? Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to you?
You’re spiraling too far to be brought back now. You can only delve deeper into your mind as you wait it out.
Simon had spent the night holding you until you cried yourself into slumber. He’d contemplated carrying you to your bedroom, just a few steps away. But it didn’t feel right.
He’d lost that privilege of going as he pleases when he left. He knew that.
So instead, he scooped you up against him, carried you to the couch before gingerly lying you down. He grabbed a blanket from the edge of the couch and draped it over you before sitting down by your head, keeping watch like a sentry.
Sleep had eluded him that night.
He spent the entirety going over his mistakes. His broken promises. But what hurt him the most was the look on your face. He knew he messed up. The sheer devastation and tears was enough to make him weak in the knees.
By the time the sun rose, you were still fast asleep. With quiet steps honed by years of training, he laced up his boots and stepped outside.
That was mistake number one.
Simon wanted to do something nice. Something that he hoped would help him win you back again. So he made his way to the old bakery you two used to frequent as children.
He paid at the counter and left with two brown bags. In one was two sandwiches. A croissant with savory cheese, sausage, and a runny egg. Next a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon on top.
The other contained two sealed cups. One with earl grey milk tea, and one with plain black tea.
He took his time walking back. Simply pondering his choices and constructing a plan to build back the bond that was lost. He’d assumed you’d still be fast asleep, tucked under your childhood blanket on the couch.
That was mistake number two.
He fished out the spare key attached to his keychain as he walked up the stairs. He’d claimed it as his despite the circumstances—not that he put much thought into it anyway.
But as he rounded the corner to your door, your cries froze him in his tracks. His mind went through thousands of scenarios in the matter of seconds.
What if someone broke in? Did someone hurt you? Did someone from his line of work end up hunting you down? You should be safe, right?
And that, was mistake number three.
The key was shoved and turned before he could think as he rushed inside. Instead of a bloody mess or an interrogation, he was greeted by you collapsed against the couch, struggling to breath between sobs.
The food was momentarily forgotten on the table as he rushed over to your side and firmly grasped your shoulders, trying to bring you back to present day.
He recognized this from once before.
Your parents had gotten a divorce by the time you were two. Custody was set and you and your mum moved miles away.
One night, when you were seven and playing with Simon in your flat, harsh knocks erupted from the door. Your mother went as you and Simon played, but soon the shouting grew louder and it was clear the man at the door had gone mad.
You couldn’t react before your mum shouted for you and Simon to run, but by then it was too late.
The man, who you later learned was your father, ran for you and yanked you to your feet, planning to take you away despite never paying child support or even wanting custody.
You’d started the same pattern. Hyperventilating, sobbing, trying to escape but your body went numb. Everything was a blur as you screamed for your mum but she was knocked out on the ground.
You never remembered what happened next except sitting in an ambulance with Simon and his mum as your mum got checked out.
He was thirteen at the time. Already growing at a fast rate. But he knew he was no match for your drunk, belligerent father.
Except he’d faced down fathers before. His anxiety wasn’t towards your father, but of the fear of losing you.
He held onto you as he shouted for your father to let go before he called the police. The shouting alerted his mum next door, making the police threat come true.
His arms burned as he fought against your father’s grip. Simon’s hold on you was gentle compared to your father yanking and twisting your arm while screaming at you to come with him.
It wasn’t until the police came and tackled your father that he collapsed against the floor with you in his arms.
Ambulances were called as your mother was tended to and paramedics checked out your arm.
You’d seemed to block out that memory from then on. Your innocent mind was too fragile for that horrid stain to remain on your brain.
But Simon never forgot. He never forgot how he calmed you after. How he squeezed you tight against him with soft murmurs despite his own anxiety.
Even as paramedics gently urged him to let go, you clung to him like your life depended on it.
Now years later, déjà vu hits him all over again as he brings you into his arms and shushes you quietly like a mother lulling a baby to sleep.
“S’alrigh’ love, I’m ‘ere. Breathe with me yeah?”
With your head tucked under his chin, an arm spanned across your back, your lungs gain some reprieve as you take in a sharp, shaky breath.
It isn’t until the tingling fades and your sobs turn into soft hiccups that you realize he’s holding you. Your crying stops as you slump against him.
When your breathing finally evens out, you meekly mumble against his chest.
His arms tighten around you for a moment before he exhales softly.
“Only for a bit. Wanted to get you some breakfast. I should’ve let you know sweetheart.”
Your lips press into a frown as a biting remark escapes you before you can even think to stop it,
“Yeah? How? With the number you stopped responding to six years ago?”
His voices is filled with regret as he holds you closer, nearly pulling you into his lap.
“I’m sorry love. I know it doesn’t help. But…if you’re up to it, will you ‘ear me out?”
“…Brought you breakfast if you want it?”
You perk up slightly at the sound of that. Your head lifts from his chest as you finally meet his eyes. With narrowed eyes, you study his obscured expression for a moment.
“….you trying to bribe me Riley?”
A small snort escapes him as he pats your back and leans forward to hold up the two bags.
The two of you spend breakfast on the couch. The silence isn’t too bad, but it’s not comforting either.
As he goes to throw away the wrappers and garbage, you sit on the couch, brewing in your own thoughts.
Only a small nudge at your leg breaks you from your trance. He leans forward on his knees as he takes a sip of his tea. He braces himself before turning to face you more.
“Will you let me explain now, love?”
You sigh and shift to sit criss cross on the couch, facing him completely as you motion for him to go on.
He pulls down his mask over his chin again as if shielding himself—an action you don’t miss.
Simon’s never been afraid of you. But now? He’s fuckin terrified.
“I…I never planned to leave you behind. I promise you that. But once the reality set in, that my work, my job, could put people in danger? I needed to leave this all behind. I couldn’t watch the people I love torn away from me because of me.”
Your expression softens a bit, but not before the anger flares again and reminds you of his actions.
“And you couldn’t tell me?! You couldn’t have send a text like, ‘oh by the way, my enemies might kill you so I can’t talk to you?!’ That would’ve been a whole lot better than just ghosting me and then faking your death!”
His brows knit together in a pained expression you can barely see as he scoots closer,
“That’s the problem y/n. I couldn’t. I’d lost teammates before and I couldn’t do that to you and risk someone knowing how much you mean to me! I can’t put you through that again!”
You freeze, head tilting like a puppy staring at an unfamiliar face.
“…again? Simon what do you mean ‘again?’”
Now is his turn to freeze. His body locks up as his eyes instinctively dart around to each exit and entry point. When he doesn’t respond, you pry and instinctively reach to pinch his arm like you used to do when he did something stupid,
“Simon fuckin Riley tell me now before I hit you with a frying pan!”
A startled scoff escapes him as he stares down at his arm, then to you. A warmth blooms in his chest at the all too familiar action but it’s snubbed away when he finally relents.
“…The day I ‘died’ was for a reason. High stakes op, no room for mistakes. Our target had been digging into my life. Nearly found you and my mum. They knew if they got me, they’d get you. I couldn’t let them do that. Not in a million years y/n.”
“So I died. In the eyes of the law, Simon Riley no longer exists.”
He lets out a solemn chuckle as he rubs a hand over his face,
“Can’t kill a dead man love. Jus how it is.”
You stare at him for a long moment, reeling at the fact that you’d been on some secret target list. In all honesty? It makes sense. It somewhat maddens you that your mind is accepting his explanation with ease, but it doesn’t erase the hurt.
“….So why did you come back?”
A soft huff comes from under the mask as his head hangs in his hands.
“Been askin myself that question all day sweetheart. Needed to tie up some loose ends but I’d be lyin if I didn’t want to see you.”
Your lips flatten into a frown as you attempt to make sense of your own feelings. Your head dips down to my lap, confusion and anger still warring deep inside.
Simon looks over to see you hunched over, too caught up in your own thoughts and clearly spiraling again. He reaches out with a gloved hand to tip your chin back up to look at him,
“Oi. ‘nough of tha’ love. Whats goin on in that pretty lil head of yours ey?”
You sigh, heavy and turmoiled as you stare at him.
“I have so many questions. And I-I dunno how to feel.”
His thumb brushes against your chin, almost instinctive even though he’s never done so before.
“Don’t have to know righ’ now.”
“…Whot questions do you ‘ave sweetheart?”
You bite at your inner cheek, unsure of where to start. Eventually you blurt out,
“What’s with the mask? I mean I sorta get the gloves—no fingerprints n’all but what about the mask?”
He freezes, hand dropping from your chin as he straightens up.
“…I don’t look the same love. Not ‘ow yer used to. Haven’t shown my face since boot camp.”
You frown, tilting your head curiously as he dangles bait right in front of you.
“Not the same how? Cmon, it’s not like I’m gonna run for the hills. I’ve seen you before, can’t be that different.”
Your hand reaches for his mask but his hand snatches your wrist before you can reach him. His eyes bore into yours as his voice drops to a lower octave that sends chills down your spine.
“Don’t. I love you y/n but don’t test your luck. This ain’t somethin to play around with sweethear’.”
Your posture slackens as you gently pry.
“Simon, seeing you again won’t change anything. I promise.”
His grip loosens on your wrist as your ‘please’ sends white hot sparks in his chest. He’d always been weak to your requests. Never once had he denied you except for when you wanted to bring home a raccoon you’d somehow tamed from the local park as a pet.
But now? Revealing himself to you after ten years? Christ, he’s faced down insurgents with less anxiety.
With a deep breath, he steels himself and slowly tugs up the mask until it’s over his head, revealing his tufts of dirty blonde hair.
Your eyes widen at the sight. He really wasn’t lying.
Scars adorn his skin now. A jagged one across his lips and what looks like a failed attempt of a glasgow smile at the other side. One from his cheekbone down to his chin. Small ones littered across his entire face. A keloid formed across one of his eyebrows down to the corner of his eye in a crooked line as if the person was interrupted mid stab.
The once youthful, bright face was now dull and lean. He looked meaner. Never towards you, no. But his posture, his stature, his voice. Everything screamed “do not approach” like a rabid dog behind a fence. But yet? His eyes remained the same. Older, more creases, but his hazel eyes still held that same expression when it came to you.
Filled with warmth and love.
It seems your staring had rubbed him the wrong way because he starts fidgeting and avoiding your gaze. You quickly snap out of it and murmur,
“Never thought I’d see you again Si.”
His breath hitches at the nickname. It’s been 10 years since he’s heard his name let alone a nickname spoken so softly, as if it was something precious—as if he was something worth being gentle over.
You shake your head with a small smile as you slowly reach for his face. Moving at a snails pace in case he wants to pull back.
Once your hand reaches him, you sigh and solemnly mumble to yourself as your fingers trace over each and every scar.
“Christ. What have they done to you Si.”
Heat creeps up his neck and ears against his will as he practically melts against your hand.
It’s comedic really. A 6’3, 200 lbs special forces solider leaning against a 5 foot nothin woman like a cat seeking pets.
A small huff escapes past your lips as you incredulously say,
“Should be askin you that. You look like you’re gonna burst. I almost forgot how red you get.”
His eyes widen slightly as he turns away and grumbles like a petulant child,
You snort and flick his ear before leaning against the couch.
“Right, and I’m the queen of England.”
He narrows his eyes at your sarcasm but he doesn’t argue as he swipes at his ear as if chastising his own body.
The two of you sit in silence for a moment before you ask the dreaded question,
“So how long are you staying?”
A/N - OKOKOK SO I GUESS THIS IS GONNA BE A SHORT SERIES😭😭😭
plsss lmk how this one was and lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist!!!
taglist: @motzglorp , @smalltitsbigforehead
