Part 7 of lieutenant!simon stays with sergeant!reader because his flat has mold and seeing you off-duty knocks him sideways
It happened that Thursday.
It should’ve faded by now. The nightmare, the panic, the way your lips brushed the side of his head. But Simon carried it through the week like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing at. He’d gone quieter, sharper around the edges and he thought he’d hidden it well enough. So, when he heard the front door earlier, he assumed you’d left for your run.
Slippers by the door, jacket missing from the hook, the same routine you’d followed for the last few weeks. But he hadn’t realized you’d doubled back for your headphones.
His voice reached you before you rounded the corner into the kitchen. “—no, it’s fine,” Simon was saying stiffly, that clipped edge he used with strangers. “Just send the bloody invoice. I’ll pick up the keys tomorrow."
You froze in the hallway, breath catching. The keys? Your hand tightened around your water bottle, cold plastic creaking under your grip.
“Yes, I know it’s been ready,” he snapped, pacing a tight line. “Bloody hell, no, I’m not givin’ up the place—I’ll move back in. Didn’t have fuckin’ time before now.” Your stomach dropped.
Ready? Before now?
You stepped into the doorway, quiet but not quiet enough. His head snapped up and the change was instantaneous. His voice softened, shoulders straightened slightly, like he could tuck whatever truth he’d just admitted back under the surface. He ended the call with a short, “I’ll ring you later,” and slipped his phone into his pocket.
You stared at him. “Mold’s been cleared for a week?”
He blinked, jaw flexing. “Was gonna’ tell you.”
“When?” you shot back, not loud, not even sharp, just flat. Controlled. The kind of tone you used in the field when something didn’t add up.
His nostrils flared. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
“You’ve been living here for six weeks,” you snapped, the first crack in your composure. “Cooking in my kitchen, sleepin’ in the bed I don’t use, acting like—”
You cut yourself off. Acting like what? Like he belonged? Like he wanted to be here
He crossed his arms, defensive. “I wasn’t takin’ advantage.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You’re implyin’ it.”
“No, Simon,” you said, stepping closer. “I’m asking why you lied.”
His jaw ticked again. He looked away, the tell he never realized he had. “I didn’t lie.”
“Saying nothing is the same damn thing.”
He scoffed under his breath. “Ain’t always.”
“Oh, so we’re doing technicalities now?”
He bristled. “Yer pissed at me. Fine. Be pissed.”
You threw your hands up. “I’m not— I don’t even know what I am.” Your voice wavered, barely a crack. “You kiss me and then act like that didn’t happen. You sleep down the hall but hover like you’re guarding the perimeter. You make me tea every morning like its muscle memory but can’t look me in the eye long enough to tell me your flat’s been fine for days?” Your voice is high and clipped.
He stepped forward. So did you. “Tell me what I’m supposed to think,” you whispered.
He stared at you like you’d just pulled the pin from a grenade. Then something in him snapped.
“I DON’T FUCKIN’ KNOW, DO I?!” he shouted. The sound ricocheted off the walls. You startled, not because you were afraid of him, but because you’d never heard that volume from him inside four safe, domestic walls.
Hands fisted at his sides, shoulders drawn tight, breathing hard, the mask sliding back over him like a shutter slamming down. “Don’t know what I’m supposed to think,” he growled, pacing once, sharp, ripping a hand through his hair. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to stay away when you— when this place—” He stopped himself, tension vibrating through him. “And you’re askin’ why I didn’t say anything?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He laughed. Harsh. Bitter. “Because I knew this’d happen.”
You blinked. “What? Me asking why you lied?”
“No,” he snapped. “Me fuckin’ it up.”
You opened your mouth but he cut you off, louder now, voice cracking, “You think I don’t know what it looks like? Lingerin’ around here. Cookin’ in your kitchen. Sleepin’ down the hall wantin’ to—” He bit down on the sentence so hard his jaw trembled. “—wantin’ too much.”
Silence. The moment was heavy and fragile. You hadn’t moved and neither had he. He finally lifted his eyes to yours, and this was the worst part — he looked furious, but every bit of it was directed inward.
The self-hatred, the fear, the guilt. All of it aimed squarely at himself. Not you, never you. He stepped back like he’d come too close to something dangerous. Like you were the thing that could make him lose control.
“You shouldn’t jus’ be angry,” he muttered, voice ripping low. “You should kick me out.”
You stared at him, chest tight, heart pounding, realizing he actually believed that. You stared at the rigid line of his shoulders. At the fists he kept clenching and unclenching. At the way he couldn’t look at you without flinching, like wanting you was a weakness that disgusted him.
He thought you should kick him out. He genuinely thought that.
“Simon,” you said, voice low but steady, “if I wanted you gone, you’d be gone.”
His breathing stuttered. Just once. “And I’m not angry because you’re here,” you added. “I’m angry because you’re acting like it doesn’t mean anything.”
That got him. His head snapped toward you. “It doesn’t—”
“Oh, fuck off,” you cut in, stepping forward. “We’re way past pretending.”
His eyes went wide, then narrowed, not at you, but at himself, because he had no argument. None. He took a step closer. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.”
“You don’t.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Silence. Thick. Brutal. His jaw worked, breath heaving, eyes burning with everything he refused to say. He looked furious. Wrecked. Cornered. At himself. At you. At the six weeks of pretending you both hadn’t already crossed a line the minute you folded and stacked his laundry for him.
You felt heat rising in your chest, the kind of frustration that made your hands shake. “Say it, Simon. You fucken can’t even—”
He moved.
One second there was air between you, the next his hand was in your hair, the other gripping your waist, pulling you into him with a force that wasn’t gentle by any definition of the word.
He kissed you like he hated it. Like he hated that he wanted it. Hated that he’d let it get this far. Hated himself for every reason he stayed and every reason he should’ve left.
Your gasp hit his mouth, swallowed instantly, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as you dragged him closer, matching his anger with your own. You kissed him back like you were furious with him. With yourself. With all the ways you’d both been so stupid.
His lips were hot, harsh, desperate. Yours answered with equal fervor.
He muttered something against your mouth — half-growled, half-broken. “Bad fuckin’ idea, this,” he breathed, but it came out like a confession, not a warning.
“Too late,” you shot back, dragging his lips down to you again.
He groaned, low and ragged, like he’d been holding it back for weeks and his hands slid to your hips, gripping hard enough that you felt your breath catch. “We’re fuckin’ idiots,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, brushing your lips over his. “Absolute idiots.”
He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, then suddenly bent, one arm hooking behind your thighs, the other bracing your back. Before you could react, you were in the air.
“Simon—”
“Not talkin’ anymore,” he growled, standing to his full height with you cradled against him. “We’re too bloody stupid for talkin’.”
He kissed you once more, quick and sharp, as he carried you down the hall like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
