construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress
Even when you were nestled in your mother's warm belly, coddled by her own blood and flesh, you could tell you were a burden. A miracle, the doctors said when you were born. Your mother's heart stopped beating for 4 minutes while in labor—vital to a fetus and its host. The miracle was the baby bathed in blood and mucus, not the lifeless mother, puckered and pearl.
You didn’t cry when you were born, too occupied trying to get your walnut-sized heart to betray you, set you free of the hell you’d just begun.
You were never a child who cried for attention. Instead, you swallowed your sounds, held your breath, and watched the world through the lens of someone who wasn’t meant to stay. The hole in the shape of a woman you never met was always there, a mark left in the silence—a picture on the wood-paneled wall. Belly swollen, smile wide. No stories to tell, no lullabies, no warmth from the one person who was supposed to make you feel like you belonged.
But what happens when you cross paths with someone just as damaged? Someone who bends the gravity of grief itself, shifting its weight, until-for the first time-you can finally breathe.
construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress
mood board
song of the chapter is A House In Nebraska by Ethel Cain
tws: anxiety, mention of past trauma.
chapter 6 → chapter 7 -> chapter 8
word count: 4k
There’s something inside your head. It’s pulsing and throbbing—living. Breathing. It’s a creature with claws that scratch into the valleys of your temples and the hollow of your skull. It's demanding and relentless. Trying to escape the confinement of your head, much like yourself. The drumming—pounding—is synced with your heartbeat. It pools behind your eyes, molten and desperate for attention. Its lava flows from your temples, turning every coherent thought into ash and stone as it spills from its core. You press your palms into your sockets, desperate to contain it, but the ache seeps deeper, becoming part of you, inseparable as marrow from bone. The room conspires against you—dim yet not dark enough, the morning sun a needle threading through thin curtains, painting streaks of pallid yellow across the walls.
Icy air is slipping through the cracks in the window like a ghost. Unseen and chilling. Its long cold fingers slither under your back and in your hair. When you yawn, it darts into your mouth and down your throat. It finds purchase in your lungs and tickles your ribs. You hiss—it’s enough to remind you you’re just as alive as the creature in your head. Breathing. Living. It’s not, however, kind enough to kill the creature in your head. Not kind enough to snake up your spine and freeze the creature slashing at the walls of your skull with pointy horns and bared teeth. The cotton sheets beneath your hands are soft yet suffocating, unyielding as you tug at them, their smooth fabric a shackle that keeps you bound in place.
Then you see him.
The realization pulls all the blood from your body, leaving you limp and pale: Simon. He’s slouched against the headboard, his breath a steady rhythm that fills the room. His head of messy blond hair tilts slightly to the right, his face caught somewhere between serenity and exhaustion. One arm, tattooed and strong, crosses over his chest, pinning the sheet beneath it like a fortress wall. His ivory t-shirt clings to his frame, each thread stretched taut over muscles that seem to defy the haze of this moment. Everything in your body is buzzing with a slight haze—and you don’t know why. Is it because you don’t know why he’s here? Or is be because he’s here, snoring lightly next to you of all people, and you don’t want him to leave? His sweater lies discarded on the floor, a crumpled casualty of the night, tangled with your boots in a tableau of disarray that tells a story you’re not ready to hear and unsure you want to remember.
Your throat tightens, and even the sound of your own breathing feels intrusive, vulgar against the stillness. The instinct to move, to slip away unnoticed, battles against the leaden weight of your body. The sheets still hold you fast, their grip as unyielding as the moment itself. You’re trapped—in the bed, in the room, in the intimacy of his presence and the heat that radiates through his skin.
“I can feel you starin’,” Simon grumbles, his voice rough-edged with sleep, a low rumble that cuts through the silence. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move.
“I’m not,” you lie, the words brittle as they leave your dry lips. It’s a child’s lie, fragile and obvious, and it makes your cheeks burn with the shame of being so easily caught, so easily backed into a corner.
“Mmmhk,” he murmurs, a sound thick with skepticism, a low hum that vibrates through the air. He shifts, rolling onto his side and pulling the sheet with him. You iron grip doesn’t let loose, and before you can stop it, you’re being dragged with it, unmoored and helpless as the fabric tightens and you slide forward, chest meeting his back. His warmth radiates through the cotton, a stark contrast to the gelid air that lingers in the room and nips at any trace of skin it can find. It’s overwhelming—the solidity of him, the way he occupies space without trying. It’s electric, his warmth bleeding through the thin barrier of fabric and into your own. It’s unbearable, not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s too much—too much to feel, too much to hold.
You scramble away, cheeks burning, the air thick with something unnamed and inescapable. But your escape is nothing short of graceless; You thump onto the floor—it’s wooden and old and bound to leave a bruise on your tailbone. The boards groan and cry as you hastily pick yourself up and grab your shoes.
“Where are you goin’ so fast?” He mumbles with a crinkle of the sheets. You glance back only to find him already looking—brown eyes scanning you as you struggle to slip on your shoes. Navy sheets tucked under his chin as he squints, weary and childish.
The word Home almost slips past your lips, but you swallow it back, choking on the sound, forcing out, “Downstairs.” You creep down the stairs, clutching the banister like it’s your lifeline, cursing each floorboard that groans under your weight.
Olive and Price are sitting at the counter. Olive looks exhausted—curls tangled, mascara smudged under her verdant eyes, a tired haze hanging over her like a cartoon. Price, on the other hand, looks bright-eyed and perky, sipping his coffee with a grin. When you round the corner, he raises his eyebrows playfully behind his mug.
“Glad you two decided to join the living,” Olive rasps, her voice rough from sleep.
Simon’s breath—warm and steady—brushes your neck before you even notice he’s there. He must’ve stumbled out of bed and chased after you.
You don’t say anything, just stand there swaying, feeling like you’re not quite grounded. You don’t realize you’re blocking the doorway until Simon gently guides you by the shoulders, moving you aside so he can squeeze past. That small touch makes the creature in your mind stir, like it’s clawing to rip through everything, to tear out the pieces that matter, leaving you hollow and empty, limp against Olive’s fridge.
“So…” Olive’s smirk is sharp, her eyes glinting with mischief as they flicker between you and Simon. Her voice is light, almost sing-song, but there’s weight in her teasing. “How was the bed?”
“Small.”
The word leaves your mouths in unison. Yours is soft, almost ashamed, while his is gruff and scratchy. Simon is by the coatrack, sliding his Carhartt jacket over his broad shoulders with the ease of someone used to heavy burdens.
Olive laughs, the sound full and throaty, like it’s been pulled from somewhere deep. “I’m sure it was.”
Simon doesn’t respond. His focus shifts to the bowl of keys on the side table, his large hand fishing through the clinking metal until he finds his. “I’m takin’ Blue home,” he mutters, voice low and final, as if he’s declared it rather than offered.
You blink, startled, your thoughts muddled. “What?”
Price raises a brow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Leavin’ so soon?”
Simon ignores both of you, stepping to the door and pulling it open just enough for the cold to invade the room. The wind howls its way inside, snatching at loose papers on the counter and the edges of Olive’s sweater.
“Shut the damn door!” she hisses, crossing her arms like the cold has offended her personally.
Simon glances back, his eyes catching yours for just a moment. “Truck’s startin’. Be out in a minute.” And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a thud that feels heavier than it should.
“One hell of a goodbye,” Price muses, shaking his head.
Olive doesn’t reply. Instead, she rises from her chair, her expression softening as she approaches you. Her arms wrap around you suddenly, catching you off guard. She smells like vanilla and something faintly floral, and for a moment, you’re reminded of something you’ve never had but longed for all the same. You try and breathe her in as deeply as you can as long as it isn’t obvious, yearning for something female. Motherly, even.
“I’m sorry for dragging you here,” she says, her voice muffled against your shoulder. “Thanks for coming, though. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Her warmth should comfort you, but it doesn’t. It only emphasizes the hollow ache in your chest, the void that nothing has ever been able to fill. No amount of tender, love, and care will be able to fill the black hole created by a women you’d never met, just shared her body, her DNA, and stole it from her.
She pulls back, her hands lingering on your shoulders as her eyes search yours. “And I’m sorry about Johnny. He’s not usually…” She trails off, glancing over at Price, who’s scratching his beard absently. “Invasive.”
“It’s fine,” you say quietly, but the words feel thin, insubstantial. In a weird way, you’re glad you don’t remember much of Johnny. Glad you don’t have to overanalyze the why he’d looked past you’re front, picked you apart in his head and turn over the pieces.
“It’s not,” she insists, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anyway, don’t keep Riley waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
You nod, mumbling a thank you and goodbye before stepping outside.
The cold hits you like a living thing, curling around you like a python, slithering into the warmth of your neck and curling up to steal the heat. Snow whirls in frantic patterns around you, and the air feels heavy, almost suffocating in its chill. The truck idles in the driveway, its black frame cutting against the white landscape.
The passenger door groans as it swings open, the interior illuminated by the faint glow of the dashboard. Tools are scattered across the floor like remnants of someone’s restless hands, and the seat is worn, its leather cracked and peeling.
Simon leans over, his expression impatient but not unkind. “Well? Get in. It’s freezing.”
The words are gruff, but there’s something beneath them—a hint of something almost tender, though it’s so buried you can’t be sure it’s there at all.
You climb in cautiously, the cold leather biting through your jeans. The door closes with a heavy thunk, and the truck groans as Simon shifts it into gear.
The heat from the vents floods the small cab, but you don’t let it touch you. Instead, you press your forehead against the icy window, letting the chill seep into your skin. The snow-covered fields blur past, ghostly and desolate, and your reflection stares back at you like a stranger.
Simon doesn’t speak. He fiddles with the radio instead, the static crackling between bursts of music and talk.
When the truck slows, you glance up and realize you’re not home. The glowing sign of a diner looms ahead, its light casting a pale halo against the snow.
Panic coils in your chest. You don’t have money—not even enough for coffee. You glance at Simon, your voice faltering as you say, “Simon, I— I can’t—”
“We’re eatin’,” he interrupts, his tone steady but unyielding.
He steps out of the truck, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Then, without a word, he turns and holds out his hand.
For a moment, you just stare at it, his palm broad and scarred, open and waiting. You don’t know why, but the sight of it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cold.
Reluctantly, you place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours, their warmth seeping into your skin, filling the cracks and crevices that have long been empty. There’s a gentleness to his touch, a care that feels foreign, and it frightens you more than it should.
When your boots hit the ground, you pull away quickly, shoving your hands into your coat pockets. His warmth lingers, though, like a ghost.
Inside, the diner is warm and bright, the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee wrapping around you. A waitress with red hair and freckles smiles as she leads you to a booth. You duck your head, feeling out of place, and pretend to study the menu.
“What’re you getting?” Simon asks, his messy blond hair sticking up in tufts as he peers at you from behind his own menu.
“Just water,” you mumble. “I’m not really hungry.”
Simon lowers his menu, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”
Before you can protest, the waitress returns.
“Eggs Benedict,” Simon says, his voice firm. “And she’ll have the short stack. Chocolate chips.”
“Simon, I can’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a glance that silences the rest of your words.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says simply, but there’s a weight to his tone that makes it clear the conversation is over.
You press your hands against your lap, your face hot despite the cold that still clings to your coat. His kindness feels like something dangerous, something that could undo you if you’re not careful.
You slump back against the booth, the stiff vinyl pressing into your shoulder blades. The baby pink sugar packet twists between your fingers, crinkling softly with each nervous motion. Its fragile paper threatens to tear under your grip, a tiny distraction from the silence that stretches between you and Simon. It’s thick, heavy, the kind of quiet that pulls you in and holds you there, making your breath feel like it’s echoing in your own ears.
Simon leans back in the booth, his shoulders stretching the seams of his jacket, the worn fabric frayed at the edges. His posture is loose, casual, but there’s something in the way his fingers tap idly on the table—a restlessness you can’t ignore. His crooked nose casts a faint shadow in the low light of the diner, and his brown eyes drift to the scratched surface of the table as though searching for something.
“You got a tree up yet?” he asks suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet.
The question catches you off guard. You glance up, your fingers freezing mid-twist. “It was just Thanksgiving,” you mutter, unsure why the question irritates you.
“Most people get one right after,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious.
“Well, I’m not ‘most people,’” you snap, sharper than you intend. “I’ve never had one.”
He raises a brow, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Never? Not even when you were a kid?”
“No,” you say quickly, looking down at the sugar packet in your hands. “Trees weren’t... important where I came from.”
Simon doesn’t respond right away. He leans back further, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “You should try it. Feels nice, havin’ somethin’ to look at. Somethin’ that feels like it’s just for you.”
“Do you have one?” you fire back, the question more defensive than curious.
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Don’t see the point. It’s just me. Don’t need a tree for that.”
The simplicity of his answer stings in a way you don’t expect, a dull ache settling in your chest. You try to think of something to say, something to bridge the gap between you, but the words don’t come.
Instead, you offer your own quiet truth. “I don’t either. Family, I mean. My mom’s gone, and... my dad...” You trail off, your voice barely a whisper.
Simon nods slowly, his expression unreadable but softer somehow. “Sorry to hear that.”
You’re about to respond, but the waitress interrupts, sweeping in with a clatter of plates. Pancakes, golden and steaming, land in front of you, syrup pooling at the edges. Powdered sugar dusts the top like freshly fallen snow.
Simon’s plate is next—eggs smothered in thick hollandaise sauce and limp toast on the side. It looks unappetizing, but he doesn’t hesitate, digging in with the kind of hunger that suggests he’s used to eating quickly, used to not knowing when the next meal will come.
You watch him, unable to look away. The way his jaw moves, the faint clench of his throat with each swallow—it’s all so deliberate, so unselfconscious.
“You gonna eat?” he asks, catching you staring. His voice is low, almost teasing. “S’gonna get cold.”
Embarrassed, you glance down at your plate and pick up your fork. The first bite melts on your tongue, the sweetness of the syrup mingling with the buttery warmth of the pancake. It’s almost too much, too indulgent after going without for so long.
You push the plate toward him. “It’s good. You should have some.”
Simon shakes his head, nudging it back to you. “Nah. You eat it.”
You hesitate but comply, cutting another piece. The hunger takes over, and before you know it, you’re shoveling bite after bite into your mouth, the sweetness grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.
“Slow down,” Simon says, his voice softer now, almost amused. His hand reaches out, resting briefly on your wrist to still your fork. “S’not goin’ anywhere.”
You pause, the heat rising in your cheeks. “Sorry,” you mumble, setting the fork down for a moment.
“No need to be sorry,” he says simply, leaning back in his seat. “Jus’ don’t need need to be doing the Heimlich at 9am.”
His words settle over you like the warmth of the diner’s radiator. For the first time in a long while, you feel something close to safe. You take smaller bites, stealing glances at Simon between mouthfuls.
He doesn’t say much, just drinks his coffee—light and sweet, you remember—and watches the snow outside. The quiet between you now is different, less suffocating. It’s not a void but a space where something unnamed lingers.
By the time your plate is empty, you feel both full and hollow, a strange mix of satisfaction and longing. Simon sets his mug down, his eyes meeting yours again.
“You’re quiet,” he says, not accusing, just observing.
You shrug, fiddling with the edge of the table. “Not much to say.”
He doesn’t press, just nods. “Fair enough.”
The silence returns, but this time, it feels okay. For now, the world outside is nothing but snow and streetlights, and inside this diner, it’s just you and him, two strangers trying to fill the spaces in their lives with something that feels like warmth.
Simon slaps a fifty on the table, a silent gesture that says more than any words could. It’s far more than the bill, enough to cover the tip several times over, but he doesn’t seem to care. Rising from his seat, his movements are deliberate but unhurried, and he grumbles under his breath, “Let’s go.”
You follow without hesitation, a shadow trailing behind him as he strides toward the door. Outside, the snow greets you with its icy embrace, the air sharp and raw against your skin. The ground crunches beneath your boots, and the snowflakes cling to your eyelashes, melting into tiny beads of water.
By the time you reach the truck, the chill has seeped into your bones, but Simon’s there, holding open the driver’s side door for you. His gaze is expectant, though there’s no impatience in it.
Climbing into the cab is awkward, the cold stiffening your limbs. You move on hands and knees, careful not to trail snow across the worn leather seats. The interior is cluttered—a heavy metal toolbox wedged against the center, its edges gleaming dully in the dim light.
“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Simon mutters as he settles into the driver’s seat. The truck sways under his weight, groaning slightly, as if it’s an extension of him—sturdy and weathered but carrying too much.
The engine roars to life, shattering the quiet with its grumble. You instinctively brace your head against the cold glass, prepared for the silence to stretch between you like it always does. But this morning, Simon’s voice cuts through it.
“You keeping that burn clean?” he asks, his tone casual but tinged with something heavier. Concern, maybe.
“Yes,” you reply quickly, though the truth isn’t as neat.
“Y’said it hurt. Last night.”
The words make you blink, your mind scrambling to place them. Last night? You search your memory, but it’s like trying to piece together shards of a broken mirror. “I… I did?”
“You did.” His eyes stay on the road, his hands firm on the wheel. “Started takin’ off your jumper, tellin’ me t’look.”
The words slam into you, and heat rushes to your face. You’re mortified, a knot of panic twisting in your chest. You don’t remember any of this. “I—uh—I didn’t—”
“No. No, I wouldn’t let you,” he says quickly, cutting you off. His voice is firm, but there’s no judgment in it, only reassurance.
You exhale, the breath leaving your lungs in a slow rush. Relief washes over you, and your shoulders loosen as you sink deeper into the seat. “Oh… okay,” you murmur, your voice small but steady.
The cab falls quiet again, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the engine. But then it happens—a tic. It bubbles up unbidden, a squeak followed by a soft hum, your body twitching slightly.
Simon glances at you, his brows furrowing as concern shadows his face. “What was that?”
You stiffen, the familiar shame creeping in like a second skin. “S-sorry,” you stammer, your words stumbling over themselves. “I… I have Tourette’s.”
His expression doesn’t shift, not in the way you’re used to. There’s no disbelief, no irritation, no mocking smirk. Just a simple nod as his gaze returns to the road. “Oh. Alrigh’,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the most unremarkable thing in the world.
The casualness of his response hits you harder than you expect. When you’d told Ronny, he’d sneered, told you to quit the “weird noises.” Your father hadn’t been any better, his scorn sharp as a knife. You’d tried to stop before, tried to silence the involuntary hums and twitches. You’d pinched yourself raw, zipped your lips shut until they ached, but it never worked.
Simon’s reaction is different. It’s nothing—just a passing comment, a shrug, and a return to the road. But that nothingness feels monumental, like the weight you’ve carried all this time is lighter somehow.
For the first time, the silence in the truck doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels like space—open, endless, and maybe even safe.
But that feeling doesn’t last.
As you bump down your gravel driveway, your heart sinks into your chest as your little shack comes into view. The second the cars in park, you’re scrambling out, but simon’s grabbing you by the wrist before you can slip out.
“Lemme walk you in,” he says, eyebrows knit.
“No!” You say, far too harshly, he can he tell, because he grip doesn’t loosen. “It’s fine. Really.” Youre pleading, but he can tell somethings off.
He slips out of the drvers side anway, leaning against the car has you rush up the steps. And that’s when he notices it.
Your front door is ajar.
He’s bolting up the stairs, but your already there, standing in the doorway, panic written all over your face. He peers in over your shoulder only to see everything is trashed. Small kitchen table flipped over, drawers pulled out, all of their contents scattered through your small space.
Tears flow down your cheeks before you’re able to stop them, smearing your hands hard across your face to stop them—stop this. To remind yourself it isn’t real. Simon’s hands are turning you around, and for some reason, you let him. Let him wrap you in his arms and pull you into his warm. Let him rub your back as you hiccup.
“What the fuck happened?”
Hey guys….took an almost year long hiatus….sorry about that…………..I love you guys! Didn’t want to make this chapter too sad for your guys sake
construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress
mood board | masterlist
song of the chapter is Pushing It Down and Praying by Lizzie McAlpine
tws: physical abuse, childhood trauma, panic/anxiety, blood/injuries, brief self-harm reference.
chapter 7 → chapter 8 → chapter 9 (coming soon)
word count: ~5k
“What the fuck happened?”
Simon’s voice cracks the silence like a whip. You don’t answer. You’re pulled against his chest before you even realize it—face smushed in the scratchy fabric of his Carhartt, tears staining through the canvas. It smells like him—muddy, smoky. A wave of his aftershave prickles your nose. He’s saying something again, but it’s muffled by the water in your ears. Soon you’re hiccupping for air as the water fills your lungs, and you’re reminded this isn’t your first time drowning.
When you were a wee little thing, the creek behind your shack was the only thing that didn’t hurt to touch. It wound through the dirt like a vein, weak and murky, carrying with it the smell of rain and rot. You’d sit on its edge, dipping your toes in, pretending the water could wash you clean—wash away the things your father’s voice left behind. The air was always thick with gunpowder and tobacco inside, but down there, under the trees and beneath the moss, it almost felt like peace.
One summer day, the water bit back. A snapping turtle clamped down on the arch of your foot as you waded between rocks. Sharp as a trap, teeth masticating into the soft place between skin and bone. You remember the shriek that tore out of you—shrill, grotesque—and how the sound agitated even the birds from the trees. Before you could stop yourself, you were gulping down piquant creek water in hopes of finding air. Your father didn’t run to you. He came slow, cursing, his Remmington 700 still in hand. By the time he jerked you out, you were garbling up salty creek water, the grass imbruing into a vicious vermillion around your foot. He ripped the turtle off, tossed it into the mud, slapped his hand on your back, and trekked back to the woods with a vexed huff.
After that, you never touched the creek’s soupy water again, just slumped on rocks nearby. But sometimes—when your chest pinches taut, when your pulse batters so loud you can’t hear—you feel it pooling inside of your lungs no matter how far you’ve gotten from that creek. The brine, the burn, the weight of something trying to drag you under. And you remember that no matter how far you run from that place—that home, that feeling—the water always finds its way back to you.
“Blue.” Simon’s voice snaps you from your daze. “Hey—look at me.”
Tilting your head, just barely, your eyes settle at his sternum and the blond flicks of hair that swirl over the hem of his shirt. His scent hits you at this moment, the smoke and vetiver —and it’s all over you. And you’re all over him, hands on his belly and hips against his. He’s bleeding into you through your jeans—his warmth, his smell. The feeling blooming behind your ribs should be warm and fuzzy—dreamlike—and in a way, it is warm. But only for a second before the fire begins, and only a few more until he seeps in far enough in to feel the burn himself.
His fuscouseyes flick to the farrago behind you, past the curling paint and chipping wood of your front porch. “Jesus Christ…” he mutters through chapped lips, flaky and pink. A heavy boot is about to past the threshold until you stop him, fingers burning holes in his jacket like you forgot how to let go.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t go in there.”
His eyes are slivers now, glaring. “What d’ya mean, don’t go in ther’? Someone broke into your fuckin’ house.”
You shake your head. Trembling fingers still holding him in place, but only because he lets you. “You can’t be here.”
He’s looking at you with wild eyes now, darting all over your face as a predator would do before it’s about to catch its prey. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“You need to leave.” The words feel like screws coming up, scraping your throat so raw you can almost taste the copper. “Please, Simon. Just—go home.”
You’re whining, childlike and annoying. Some part of you expects Simon to hit you for acting like this—like a baby. Your father surely would. You can feel the static prickling on your cheek for what should come, but it never does. Simon just stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Ya think I’m walkin’ out on you like this?” He should be angry, wild and thrashing. It’s confusing, really, why he’s not wild and thrashing, because that’s all you know. “Not a chance.”
You tug weakly at his sleeve. “I—I can’t explain r-right now, but if you stay—” Your voice breaks; the foundation is cracking. “It’ll just make it worse.”
His eyebrows are pinched, jaw tight. “Worse for who?”
You can’t say it. You can barely breathe, gulping up air like a fish out of water.
“Your door’s busted open, your whole place looks like a goddamn crime scene—why would I leave you ‘ere?”
Because he’ll come back. Because if he sees you, he’ll think I told. Because he’ll kill us both.
You swallow the thought until it hurts. “Please,” you whisper. “Just trust me and go.”
Simon exhales roughly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re not makin’ any fuckin’ sense.”
You twist awkwardly beneath his grip to face the monstrosity, almost like he won’t let you see the damage that’s been done. The room’s wrecked: drawers gutted, contents spilled like open mouths. Receipts, a broken plate, the cheap watch from your mother’s jewelry box split clean down the middle.
“Blue.” His voice dips, gravelly and thick as molasses—like it was honeyed on his tongue. He keeps saying your name like he can’t get it out of his mouth, stuck to the roof of his mouth and crammed in his molars. You peer up, only to be pinned on the spot. His eyes tying you down, weighed down by his golden lashes. He doesn’t reach for you this time—he doesn’t have to.
“I’m sorry,” you rasped, turning away from him only because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’re going to fall apart. The uncomfortable feeling rolls around in your stomach, and you almost want to hurl at its unfamiliarity. Foreign in the way he makes you want to spill everything, tear your insides out and hand them to him. But he won’t. So, you swallow it down like a handful of pills without water.
“Don’t be.” His eyes sweep the room, then settle back on you, and you sort of hope this would never end. Not with the way hes looking at you, or how his calloused hand lies between your shoulder blades. Maybe if he keeps it there long enough he could brand you with his warmth. Claiming. Protecting. “You’re not stayin’ here tonight.”
“I have to clean,” you mumble, a coverup so transparent even you can see through its haze . “I-I can’t just—leave it like this.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Grab wha’ you need, you’re comin’ with me.”
“No—”
“Yes.” His tone leaves no room for air. Demanding. “Olive and Price’d skin me alive if I left ya here.”
“They don’t have to know.”
He scoffs; something caught between a laugh and a prayer. “I already know, and that’s enough.”
You shake your head, tears streaking your face. “You don’t understand, Simon.”
His honeyed, tired eyes drag over your face—over your red-ringed eyes and clumping lashes, pinched brows and rose cheeks. “Then jus’ tell me what’s goin’ on, Blue.”
But you can’t. You can’t tell him your father was here, or that his smell still hangs in the air so thick you can almost taste it. Or that if he sees either one of you, there’ll be blood—his or yours. The truth sits heavy in your throat, balled up and tense. When you push it down, you almost choke, and pray that this is purely a hyper-realistic dream. Squeezing your eyes shut until flashes of static burst behind them, only to find Simon staring right back at you.
Something in his face relaxes, like the fight drains out of him all at once. He exhales through his nose, slow and tired. The kind of sound men make when they’re giving in to something they shouldn’t. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But you’re not sleepin’ here tonight.”
For some reason you bite, cornered like a scared dog. Tail between your legs and teeth bared. Nervous. Mean. “Why do you even care?”
He huffs a laugh under his breath—bitter, almost disbelieving. “Don’ start with tha’ bullshit. I just fuckin’ do, alrigh’? Ya not staying ‘ere, so get what you need.”
“I don’t need anything. Don’ need this, don’ need you.” You bite at him without meaning to—sharp, defensive, all teeth. For the smallest second, something in his face tightens: his brow, the corner of his mouth, the smallest pinch like a bruise forming. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s enough to make your stomach drop, enough to make your throat burn with guilt. That flicker—barely there—hits you harder than if he’d shouted. He’s been carefully picking his steps around you like you’re made of cracked porcelain, trying not to press where it hurts, and you’re still splintering under the weight of it. You can feel yourself fracturing, pieces shifting where he’s trying so carefully not to break you.
“Great,” he sighs, “Les’ go then.”
When he takes your arm, you don’t fight him. You let him guide you out the door, where the air outside nips at your cheeks, sharp as glass. And down the creaking stairs, where the snow crunches underfoot like something breaking. He doesn’t speak as he walks you to the truck. Just keeps a hand near you—not touching, but close enough that you feel the weight of it.
He opens the door, and it groans as he stands there with his hand in his jeans pocket and the other on the handle. Waiting. You shuffle in on your hands and knees, numb and trembling, snow flaking off your shoes and into the cab where they dissolve on the floor. The cab smells faintly of smoke and rain-soaked leather. When he starts the engine, the noise fills the space between you, a low hum that sounds too alive for how worn out you feel.
“Thank you,” you mumble, breath fogging up in the icy air.
He doesn’t answer right away, just taps his bruised knuckles against the steering wheel in restless rhythm. “You don’t gotta thank me,” he says finally before sliding the gear into drive.
The drive stretches out in silence, long and merciless. Flurries streaks across the windshield like static. You stare out at the snow, watching your reflection flicker in the glass—eyes hollowed out, mouth trembling. You don’t even realize you’re crying again until your turtleneck collar is damp. The tears come fast, unthinking, unstoppable. At first, you were a dripping faucet, but now you’re a burst pipe.
When the truck slows to a stop in a small alley way further in town, Simon kills the engine. The growl fades, leaving only the faint hum of the snowstorm outside. The world feels muted, too small to breathe in. Fifteen minutes of silence collapse into stillness—the kind that presses on your throat, feeling for a pulse and asking if you’re still alive underneath it all.
He exhales, the sound so rough around the edges. His jacket rustles as he turns toward you. His eyes find your trembling hands, the wet shine across your cheeks. You’re nothing but frayed edges—skin stitched together with borrowed thread. .
“Blue, I—”
But his voice—hoarse, almost breaking—is the undoing. The stitching gives out.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp, each word clawing its way out. “I’m s-sorry, I didn’t m-mean for you t-to have to deal with—this—with me.” The apology folds in on itself, useless. You press your palms into your eyes until color bursts behind them, until pain is all that’s left. You’re shaking, gasping at air like it’s water and you’re already drowning.
“Ya not botherin’ me, kid,” he says. The words are low, gruff, steady. Like he’s holding them together for both your sakes.
You glance at him—hesitant and raw. His face is worn. Rough and scarred in places you’ve never seen softness. But his eyes—his eyes aren’t. They are warm and welcoming, don’t pry too deep. They trace your face like he’s memorizing it, counting every sloppy stitch holding you together, every tremor. When your tic hits—eyes squeezing shut, jaw flicking—he doesn’t flinch, not even at the gross sound pulled from your throat. Doesn’t look away. Just watches, patient. Something strange and heavy blooms behind your ribs, hot and uncomfortable. Something that hurts more than it should.
Neither of you speak when he steps out and circles the truck. The cold rushes in as he opens your door, hinges moaning like they’ve already seen too much winter. His hand finds your elbow—not pushing, not pulling. Just there. Just enough to guide you out and keep you balanced as you sink into the snow.
You move through the alley in silence, mimicking his movements like a shadow, feet falling into the prints of his shoes as you trail behind him. The snow falls in soft sheets, catching the orange glow of the streetlights, making everything look falsely peaceful. Your shoes crunch through slush; his are heavier, slower. The air bites and burns. Up the concrete stairs, the railing slick beneath your palm, the day so still it feels staged.
He slides the key into the lock until it clicks, then steps aside to let you in.
Simon’s apartment feels like a memory you’re not supposed to touch. The brown leather couch slumps against the wall, tired and cracked. A muddy doormat bears the weight of two pairs of work boots, both caked with dried earth. They look like your father’s—the same kind of worn leather, the same ghosts of labor. Except your fathers mud never stopped at the mat. He dragged the dirt all the way through.
There’s a coat rack by the door with two jackets—both rugged, both used. One nicer leather one hangs untouched, except for the creased pack of Marlboros peeking from the pocket.
He kicks off his boots by the door. You do the same without thinking. He glances at you, brow raised. “What?” you ask, voice small and stupid.
“Don’ needa be takin’ off ya shoes if ya don’ wan’ to,” he mutters. “Ya clean. I’m not.”
Still, you leave them there. You pad quietly behind him in your socks, the ivory ones that look too soft for this place. The air inside feels different—lukewarm, stale, with the faint bite of cigarettes and vetiver. The smell is ghostly familiar. It lingers in your lungs the way icy air does—sharp, burning, and impossible to forget.
“Sorry ’bout the mess,” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his scarred face. “Don’t really got time to clean.” He steps back, letting you wander a little, though not too far. Beer cans sit on his living room cocktail table, surrounded by bills and pens. Knuckle wrap lays unraveled along the warped wood.
“Ya need somethin’ to drink?” he asks after a beat, nodding toward the fridge. “Water’s from the tap, but it’ll do ya.”
You nod, words stuck somewhere behind your teeth, sticky on your tongue. He doesn’t wait for more, just heads into the kitchen. You follow, slow, socks slipping against the cold floorboards. The kitchen smells faintly of smoke, sweat, and something metallic—iron maybe, or rust. It is a quiet disaster. Cabinets hang slightly crooked, counter’s chipped and streaked. Dishes piled high, half-dried, half-forgotten. A can of something you don’t recognize teeters on the edge of the sink. And yet—it’s domestic. Not perfect, but lived in. Safe, in a way that almost makes your chest ache with want.
“Glasses are in the cupboard,” he says over his shoulder. You reach up, trembling slightly, knocking a mug that wobbles before settling back into place. He grunts, not angry, just aware. “Careful.”
You fill it at the tap, the cold water running and dripping into your hands. You take a sip, letting it slide down your throat, letting it remind you you’re alive. Simon leans against the counter, watching you with heavy eyes, silent. There’s something unspoken in the way he studies you—like he’s waiting, calculating how much to push, how much to hold back.
After a long pause, he finally mutters, “Can shower if ya want it. Don’t gotta. Just thought—might help.”
You swallow, nodding faintly. Everything in his apartment is tainted by his smell—smoke and leather, faintly sharp and alive—and for a moment, you think maybe it’s safer here than anywhere else.
He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. “Towels on the hook. Soap’s…whatever’s left. Don’t think I got fancy stuff.”
You move toward the small, grimy bathroom, water already hissing in the pipes somewhere behind the wall, like it’s been waiting for you. The tiles are cracked, the grout darkened with time and neglect, but the heat of the apartment bleeds through. The shower gurgles, warning you, beckoning you, and your hand hesitates on the knob.
The shower hisses to life, sputtering and spitting. The white tile walls close in around you, and for a moment, it almost feels like a padded room—if not for the veins of dirt streaking the grout and the brownish almost-blood-looking rust licking up from the drain. The water only knows two temperatures: burning hot or icy cold. You choose the burn—you always do. It hurts, naturally, but the sting feels clean, almost holy in its cruelty; washing you of your sins. You scrub yourself raw in silence, his bar of unscented soap melting against the washcloth, his half-used bottle of two-in-one barely foaming. Your mind drifts toward the razor on the shelf, the metal glinting like it knows your name and the exact way you would hold the blade. Taunting you. You reach toward it for just a second—just to feel the pull of temptation—then let your hand fall away, watching the steam swallow it whole.
When it’s over, the bathroom is a haze of heat and ghosts. You step onto the cold, chipped tile, water dripping from your knees, pooling around your feet. His towel hangs on the hook—rough, stiff, faded burgundy stains freckling its edges. The color turns your stomach, but you pull it around you anyway. It smells like soap and something older, something metallic and saccharine.
You pop open his mirror, expecting toothpaste and Advil. But instead—it’s a gallery of wounds. Rolls of gauze stacked in neat towers. Bottles of rubbing alcohol. Tubes of antibiotic cream and ointments you cannot pronounce. A small at-home stitching kit, still threaded with a loop of dark string, like it has just been used. This isn’t a construction worker’s medicine cabinet. No—it’s something messier. Something bloodier.
You should be unsettled, tummy tight and twisted, and maybe you are. But the burn on your chest is throbbing like it’s begging for mercy, and curiosity blends to practicality. You seize the opportunity, cleaning the angry wound with trembling hands, layering gauze over it until it’s wrapped tight and white beneath your collarbone. By the time you’re done, your chest is swollen beneath the sweatshirt—an armor of gauze, stiff and fluffy, but yours all the same.
You dress in the clothes he left out on the toilet seat—a hoodie that swallows you whole and sweatpants that drag like tired ghosts along the floor. You could disappear inside them if you wanted. Maybe you already have.
When the mirror clears, it catches you off guard. Your reflection looks unfamiliar—eyes sunken, mouth slack, a puppet wearing your skin and forgetting the pull the strings. And then you see it. The bruise.
A purple-green handprint circling your throat, blooming rot beneath the skin. You lift your fingers, trace the marks with the lightest touch, afraid they might bite back. You don’t feel anything—no anger, no sorrow, not even shame. Just a slow dread rising in your stomach at the thought of Simon seeing it. At the thought of his questions. At the thought of how much you don’t want to answer them.
The moment the door clicks shut, his head snaps up. He’s on the phone, voice low has he hunched over the counter, but the second he sees you—damp hoodie, pink-rimmed eyes, the faint wince you try to swallow—his whole expression changes into something unfamiliar—at least from him. Something cold. Something lethal.
“Yeah—gotta go,” he mutters, ending the call without waiting for a reply.
He turns fully, eyes dragging over you. Then he sees your neck, The air leaves his lungs in a violent, gutted sound. He steps closer but not too close—like he’s fighting himself. “Wha’ the fuck happened to your neck?” You freeze. You don’t even breathe. The bruise throbs beneath your jugular and carotid, beneath his burning stare—your pulse inside it like a warning bell.
“Allergic reaction,” you croak. The words scrape out, thin and pathetic. “From my sweater. From the wool.”
He stares at you. Long. Slow. Deadly quiet. His jaw flexes once, twice, thrice—like he’s grinding down your words until they are believable enough to swallow.
“That ain’t no allergy,” he says, voice dropping to something rougher. “Looks like fingers.” His nostrils flare. “Looks like some asshole’s fingers.” Your stomach sinks, and you think for a moment you may just be sick. Your short stack sloshing out of your stomach and onto his grimy tile. You swallow down the acid before it can burn its way out.
He takes a breath, shoulders rising with tension he can’t hide. “Blue.” He says your name like it hurts to say. And then something shifts. A thought. An ugly one. “This happen at work?” he asks, head tilting and voice low. Too low. You flinch before you can stop yourself, and his jaw tightens. That’s all it takes. Just that tiny flicker. “Ya boss, mhm? Ronny.” It’s not even a question, not even an accusation. A deduction. Something dark solidifying behind his eyes. “Olive said he was rough wit’ you. Didn’t know she meant like tha’.””
Everything in your body goes numb. You don’t answer. That’s answer enough. He looks away, jaw working so hard you hear the grind of his teeth. His fists clench—then unclench—then clench again. He is seconds from violence, and you’re reminded of the little sanctuary behind his mirror. With gauze and santispetic, rinses him clean of his anger. His sins.
When he finally looks at you again, he’s steering you by your shoulders into the living room, into better light to dissect you. He tilts your chin carefully with his thumb and forefinger, breathing deep and angry. His voice cracks down the middle when he speaks. “My father used to do the same to my mum.” A swallow, scratching the stubble on his neck with angry fingers. “I know a handprint when I see it. Don’ know why you keep lyin’ to me.” The words hit you like punches hit straight to your chest. Heavy and accusing. Guilt rushes up your throat until you taste metal. You think about Ronny’s hands. Think about Simon finding out. Think about what Simon would become if he knew.
You imagine blood. Blame. You imagine you holding the match to a fuse he’d burn himself on, adding fuel to his fire. Your knees threaten to give. “It’s nothing,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can offer that won’t start something—start whatever he has going on behind that mirror.
He stares at you—really stares—until something in him softens enough not to break you. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he murmurs. “’Cause that asshole layin’ a hand on you again.” He turns away—just slightly, just enough to breathe.
“I got work in a bit,” he adds, voice returning to that low, steady rumble. “Won’t be back till late.”
“D-do you want me to go home?” you ask, voice paper-thin.
He snorts, eyes falling shut as he sinks into the couch. “Dunno where else you’d run off to in weather like this. Couch is yours. And if ya want the bed, take it. Don’ matter, sweethart.”
You stand there in his hoodie, dripping water into his carpet, feeling small and misplaced and dumb.
He doesn’t open his eyes. But he hears every sound you make. He feels every tremor in the silence.
You’re not so sure. Not of him. Of yourself—of what you’d do if he ever touched you gently again. Because every time he says your name like that, low and tired and almost gentle, something inside you aches in a way that feels dangerous—tempting. You stir on Simon’s couch for the next few hours before he leaves, folding into the leather like your pretending to be a pillow. A pillow he won’t notice. But he does. He asks you simple things. If you’re hungry, if you want anything before he leaves, if you want his phone number. “Just in case,” he grumbled, sticking a Post-It with his number scribbled on it in front of you.
When the front door clicks shut behind him, the silence settles thick and heavy, dust in an empty church. You turn the small neon-yellow Post-it over in your hand, thumb tracing the uneven strokes of his handwriting—the slanted digits of his number, the hurried better safe than sorry scrawled beneath it. You can still picture him hunched over the kitchen counter as he wrote it, Carhartt stretched tight across his shoulders, the posture of a man carved from storms and old scars.
He looked like someone you should never trust. Someone who belongs in shadows, in warnings whispered at the edge of town. A man you shouldn’t spend a night alone with—let alone curl up in his bed.
But the moment you burrow into his scarlet cotton sheets, something in your chest softens. It’s strange, the way safety sneaks up on you—quiet as a ghost, settling into your bones before you realize it’s there. His nightstand tells the story he never will: cigarette butts crowding a thick glass ashtray, a wrinkled newspaper folded like it’s been read a hundred times, and two empty tubes of Neosporin squeezed within an inch of their lives. All the little remnants of someone who patchworks himself together and keeps moving.
And you sit there, clutching the Post-it like it’s a relic, feeling safer in the bed of a man you can’t quite understand than you ever did in the house you came from. Beneath his popcorn ceiling, watching the fan that never turns, you wonder if this is what a real home is supposed to feel like—quiet, solid, a place where the walls don’t whisper secrets when you’re gone. For a foolish second, you let yourself pretend. Pretend that Simon is yours, that you belong here, that this room is something you’re allowed to want.
But the fantasy collapses as quickly as it forms, crumbling under the weight of its own impossibility. Heat rushes to your face and you roll onto your stomach, burying yourself in the scent of him before you can think better of it. It clings to everything—woven into the sheets, threaded into the seams of his pillow, soaked deep into the mattress. You breathe him in anyway, greedy and ashamed, because this—this borrowed bed, this lingering smell—is the closest you’ll ever be to something gentle. To him. And you tell yourself he’d never want someone as wrecked as you, so you close your eyes and force sleep to take you, curled in the ghost of a man who will never be yours.
I lowkey hate this but whatever I need to post it before it takes me another year
Personally I love when characters are graceless and socially awkward. Like yes bae it’s totally fine that you keep stuttering over your words and can’t look someone in the eyes or even just staring at people when you don’t know, or want, to respond. All big eyed and blinky. So when Simon meets an awkward little thing that seriously makes him walk on EGGSHELLS to get comfy around, you better bet on him doing anything he can to gain their trust
construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress
mood board
song of the chapter is Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers
tws: trauma, child abuse, blue getting tipsy
previous chapter → chapter 6 -> chapter 7
word count: 6.4k
You’re already late to Friendsgiving.
The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.
Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.
It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.
Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.
When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.
You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.
He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.
Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.
You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.
So, you start over.
By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.
Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.
You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.
Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.
“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.
The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.
The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.
“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.
“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”
“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”
Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.
“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.
The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.
You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.
Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.
Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."
You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.
"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.
A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.
Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."
"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.
Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.
"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.
"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.
You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.
"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.
You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.
"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.
“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”
“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.
“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”
Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.
"Name’s Johnny."
You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.
“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.
“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”
Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.
“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.
“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.
“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.
Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.
“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.
When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.
His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.
“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.
“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.
“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.
“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.
Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.
“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.
The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.
“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.
Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.
Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.
“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.
Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?” His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.
“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.
Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.
When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.
“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.
“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.
“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.
“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.
Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.
Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.
“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.
You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.
And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.
“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.
“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.
The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.
Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.
Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.
The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.
Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”
You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.
“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”
“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.
“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.
Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.
Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.
You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.
After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.
You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages weaving around your ribs, crisscrossing away from your one-size-too-big bra, and continuing its journey around your sternum. The burn throbs in defiance, swollen and achy, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.
You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more…immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some dribbling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp but scratchy against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.
A knock at the door startles you.
“Blue—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? Y’been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”
You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.
Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.
“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.
“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”
“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”
“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.
“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.
“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.
“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.
“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”
His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.
You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.
“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.
“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. You press your forehead to the cold tile wall, and sigh. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”
Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.
In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.
“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.
“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”
The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.
His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.
Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.
With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.
The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.
He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.
But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.
some fluff if you squint since I made u wait so long for this
Sneak peak of chapter 8 of a burning hill since I didn’t get it out this weekend and I need to feed you guys
tws for abuse, violence, home invasion
“What the fuck happened?”
Simon’s voice cracks the silence like a whip. You don’t answer. You’re pulled against his chest before you even realize it—face smushed in the scratchy fabric of his Carhartt, tears staining through the canvas. It smells like him—muddy, smoky. A wave of his aftershave prickles your nose. He’s saying something again, but it’s muffled by the water in your ears. Soon you’re hiccupping for air as the water fills your lungs, and you’re reminded this isn’t your first time drowning.
When you were a wee little thing, the creek behind your shack was the only thing that didn’t hurt to touch. It wound through the dirt like a vein, weak and murky, carrying with it the smell of rain and rot. You’d sit on its edge, dipping your toes in, pretending the water could wash you clean—wash away the things your father’s voice left behind. The air was always thick with gunpowder and tobacco inside, but down there, under the trees and beneath the moss, it almost felt like peace.
One summer day, the water bit back. A snapping turtle clamped down on the arch of your foot as you waded between rocks. Sharp as a trap, teeth masticating into the soft place between skin and bone. You remember the shriek that tore out of you—shrill, grotesque—and how the sound agitated even the birds from the trees. Before you could stop yourself, you were gulping down piquant creek water in hopes of finding air. Your father didn’t run to you. He came slow, cursing, his Remmington 700 still in hand. By the time he jerked you out, you were garbling up salty creek water, the grass imbruing into a vicious vermillion around your foot. He ripped the turtle off, tossed it into the mud, slapped his hand on your back, and trekked back to the woods with a vexed huff.
After that, you never touched the creek’s soupy water again, just slumped on rocks nearby. But sometimes—when your chest pinches taut, when your pulse batters so loud you can’t hear—you feel it pooling inside of your lungs no matter how far you’ve gotten from that creek. The brine, the burn, the weight of something trying to drag you under. And you remember that no matter how far you run from that place—that home, that feeling—the water always finds its way back to you.
“Blue.” Simon’s voice snaps you from your daze. “Hey—look at me.”
Tilting your head, just barely, your eyes settle at his sternum and the blond flicks of hair that swirl over the hem of his shirt. His scent hits you at this moment, the smoke and vetiver —and it’s all over you. And you’re all over him, hands on his belly and hips against his. He’s bleeding into you through your jeans—his warmth, his smell. The feeling blooming behind your ribs should be warm and fuzzy—dreamlike—and in a way, it is warm. But only for a second before the fire begins, and only a few more until he seeps in far enough in to feel the burn himself.
His fuscous eyes flick to the farrago behind you, past the curling paint and chipping wood of your front porch. “Jesus Christ…” he mutters through chapped lips, flaky and pink. A heavy boot is about to past the threshold until you stop him, fingers burning holes in his jacket like you forgot how to let go.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t go in there.”
His eyes are slivers now, glaring. “What d’ya mean, don’t go in ther’? Someone broke into your fuckin’ house.”
You shake your head. Trembling fingers still holding him in place, but only because he lets you. “You can’t be here.”
He’s looking at you with wild eyes now, darting all over your face as a predator would do before it’s about to catch its prey. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“You need to leave.” The words feel like screws coming up, scraping your throat so raw you can almost taste the copper. “Please, Simon. Just—go home.”
You’re whining, childlike and annoying. Some part of you expects Simon to hit you for acting like this—like a baby. Your father surely would. You can feel the static prickling on your cheek for what should come, but it never does. Simon just stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Ya think I’m walkin’ out on you like this?” He should be angry, wild and thrashing. It’s confusing, really, why he’s not wild and thrashing, because that’s all you know. “Not a chance.”
You tug weakly at his sleeve. “I—I can’t explain r-right now, but if you stay—” Your voice breaks; the foundation is cracking. “It’ll just make it worse.”
His eyebrows are pinched, jaw tight. “Worse for who?”
You can’t say it. You can barely breathe, gulping up air like a fish out of water.
“Your door’s busted open, your whole place looks like a goddamn crime scene—why would I leave you ‘ere?”
Because he’ll come back. Because if he sees you, he’ll think I told. Because he’ll kill us both.
construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x
waitress
mood board
song of the chapter is Velvet Ring by Big Thief
tws: physical/emotional abuse, sexual harassment, self harm/suicidal thoughts, trauma/ PTSD
previous chapter → chapter 5 -> next chapter
word count: 2.7k
The next two days are spent watching random TV shows, eating the even more random soups Simon cooks up, and taking sluggish walks up and down your street, bundled up in the beanie, mittens, and jacket Simon made you put on before you go. He insisted that getting outside would help, even though it was hardly 35 degrees. “You need to get outside,” he insisted, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and a navy wool beanie tugged low over his ears. “Fresh air’ll do you good.”
“It’s barely above freezing,” you’d protested, sinking deeper into the cocoon of your blanket on the futon.
“Good for the immune system,” Simon said, deadpan, as he tossed your gloves onto the armrest beside you. “Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Let’s go. You’re not stayin’ cooped up like this.” Next thing you know, he was herding you out the door like a sheep, your protests muffled by the scarf he wrapped snugly around your neck.
So, as he whips up some more soup and toast, you pace up and down the street twiddling your thumbs until you hear him beckoning you back inside. “Soup’s ready. Come in before you turn into an icicle.”
Back inside, the aroma of simmering soup and freshly toasted bread filled the air. You sat at your small, slightly wobbly table, a steaming bowl in front of you. Simon pulled out the chair across from you but never took a seat; instead, he leaned against the counter, arms folded, sipping tea from one of your mismatched mugs.
“Not hungry?” you asked, gesturing to the untouched pot on the stove.
“I’ll eat later,” he replied.
Simon doesn’t eat much while he’s here—you’ve noticed that. He focuses on making sure you’re eating instead, dishing out ladles of creamy broth or chunky stew, nudging the toast plate closer when it looks like you’re slowing down.
Conversation didn’t come easily. You didn’t feel up to it, and Simon never seemed to mind the quiet. He filled the space with odd little remarks—a fact about some bird he saw once, a sarcastic jab about your cluttered counter.
“Nice tapestry,” he said once, nodding at the woven fabric hanging crookedly on your wall. “Very… thrift store chic.”
“It was $2.50,” you replied dryly, between spoonfuls.
“Bargain.”
When he wasn’t orchestrating your meals or sending you out into the cold for what he called “revitalizing,” Simon kept busy. He cleaned your bandages with careful precision, his hands steady and warm as they worked. The first time, he winced as he crouched down beside you, and you caught the slightest hiss of pain under his breath.
“Are you okay?” you asked, craning your neck to look at him.
“Fine,” he replied quickly, but you noticed the way his knuckles looked bruised and raw, like he’d been punching something—or someone.
You gestured at his hand. “What happened there?”
“Work,” he said simply, pulling the gauze tight over your wound.
“What kind of work leaves you with knuckles like that?”
“The kind that pays.” He glanced up, catching your narrowed eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”
But you did. And it wasn’t just his knuckles. You caught the way he’d press his hand to his ribs when he thought you weren’t looking or the tightness in his jaw whenever he had to bend over. You didn’t push, though. It wasn’t your place, and besides, Simon was an immovable object when it came to talking about himself.
“You could’ve been a nurse,” you’d said, watching him out of the corner of your eye.
“Yeah, right. Imagine me in scrubs.”
You huffed a laugh, but the motion tugged at the burn, and Simon shook his head, muttering something about you being a nightmare patient.
This filled the gaps in what you can remember of that 4-day haze. The four S’s: Soup. Strolls. Sanitize. Simon.
“Nice of you to show up,” Ronny sneered from behind the counter, a smile on his lips that makes your stomach curl into itself. You’d just walked in, jacket still slung over your shoulders that were already pinched tight.
“I was sick,” you go to explain yourself, but you’re cut off buy his scoff.
“Don’t give a fuck if you were dyin’, you answer my damn calls. Got it, peach?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, not waiting for you to answer, before turning back to his office and slamming his door, a gust of wind blowing back in your face.
The day crawls by, thick and sluggish, like wading through molasses. Alamort weights down your limbs, dragging you closer to the dead with every passing hour. When a silverware pair slips from your hands and clatters against the floor, Ronny is on you in an instant. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking you upright, making you squeak. His voice adust as he hissed against the shell of your ear. You keep your eyes anywhere but on him—on the grimy tiles, the peeling paint, the water stains seeping through the drop-ceiling. This only makes him angrier.
His thumb and forefinger clamp down on your cheeks, pressing deep enough to leave dimples against your lithe skin, shaking your head like a rag doll’s. The motion rattles more than just your skull; it sends tremors down your spine, sparking shame and fury in equal measure. You wonder, not for the first time, how no one notices.
But maybe they do. Maybe they’ve just decided it’s easier to pretend they don’t.
Tony must have some idea. The kitchen isn’t far from the office Ronny so often drags you into, and his voice has a way of carrying even when he tries to keep it contained. But Tony doesn’t say anything. None of them do. Not Olive, not the other girls whose names you can’t remember. Those girls, so fleeting they’re like whispers caught on the wind, here one moment and gone the next. Scooped up and whisked away to better things—or maybe just different ones.
You wish you had it that easy.
Your leash is tighter than theirs, short and choking, pulling taut every time Ronny drags you back toward him. You feel it constantly, the invisible leather, rubbing raw against your throat.
Even while you're crouched on a flipped-over milk crate in the stockroom, Olive rambling about some rude costumer, you can still feel Ronny's fingers dimpling your cheeks.
Worthless ditz.
Worthless, due to being spat in your face at least weekly during any minor mistake, has lost its meaning. It’s punch. So overused and washed out it’s almost laughable when Ronny attempts to reprimand you with it.
“You look like shit,” Olive says, interrupting your thoughts. Her mouth is full of bread and cheese, sliding the plate over to you while she speaks.
“Thanks,” you muttered, picking at the crust of the sandwich instead of eating it. Your stomach churned too much for food to feel like anything but a burden.
“I mean it,” she pressed, chewing on her half. “You’ve been off for, what? Four days? You’re not better yet?”
“I’m fine,” you reply, forcing a shrug.
Olive gives you a skeptical look, tearing off another bite from the grilled cheese you’re both sharing. “I told you Simon’s a good guy, didn’t I? Even if he doesn’t seem like it. So, how did it go anyway?”
You glance at the crust in your hand, pulling it apart bit by bit. “He didn’t need to come,” you say, the words quiet but resolute. “I would’ve handled it.”
“Sure you would’ve,” Olive says, smirking as she leans back slightly. “Simon said you were snappy as hell. Didn’t even want him there.”
“I wasn’t—” You stop yourself with a sharp sigh, shaking your head. “I just… I wanted to rest on my own. That’s it.”
“Right. And rest yourself into oblivion,” Olive says with a dramatic eye roll, taking another bite. “And let me guess, you didn’t say thank you, did you?”
You hesitate, shuffling through false memories. “I thanked him.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” she teases, grinning around her bite. “Well, you’re welcome for the cream, just so we’re clear.”
A reluctant smile pulls at your lips. “Thank you.”
“Good. And you’re welcome for this too.” She gestures with the half-eaten sandwich before tearing off another piece and passing it to you. “Next time, just tell me, alright? I had to send Simon since I couldn’t call off, but I could’ve been there, y’know?”
You chew on her words more than the sandwich, your stomach tying itself in a knot. “I know. I just didn’t…didn’t want to worry you.”
Olive gives you a look that’s both soft and stern, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “Blue, you being you means I’m always gonna worry. That’s how this works.”
Her words settle warmly in your chest, even as you avoid her gaze and focus on the sandwich. You tear another piece but hesitate to eat it. Olive notices immediately, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “You’re still not eating,” she says pointedly, nudging your arm with her elbow.
“I’ll eat,” you grumble, forcing a bite. The sandwich is dry as it crumbles against your tongue, but you manage.
Olive watches you with a raised brow, making sure you finish before leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Good. I wasn’t about to let you waste half of my lunch.” She didn’t press you further, instead leaning her head back against a shelf. Her brown curls caught the light, forming a kind of messy halo. “Hey, by the way. You doing anything Saturday night?”
You blinked at her, confused. “Why?”
“It’s Friendsgiving at my place. Just a small thing—me, Price, a couple of his work buddies. You should come. I already told Simon to swing by for a bit, so you won’t be totally out of place.”
You winced inwardly at the mention of a social gathering, though you couldn’t explain why.
“I don’t know…” you started.
“Don’t be like that,” she interrupted. “You’re coming. No excuses. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “I don’t have any other friends, so you have to come. For me, at least. I’ve got Gaz and Soap showing up, too. Thought I’d finally introduce you properly.”
You groaned, rubbing your face with your hands. “Jesus, Olive. I’m bad enough at talking to you. You really think I can handle three more of you?”
She laughed, honeyed and dulcet, like the warmth of sun on your back. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. I’ll even make you a plate to take home if you survive.”
You smiled faintly despite yourself. The thought of her elysian little flat—lush dining room chairs, bergamot candles, hanging plants—felt like a foreign concept. But a small part of you was curious—curious enough to consider it.
“Guys,” Tony’s voice cut through the quiet of the storage room, his head appearing in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box. “You might wanna clear outta here. Ronny’s on one—don’t need him catching you two splitting a grilled cheese, y’know?”
Before either of you could reply, he was gone, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.
You sighed, grabbing the plate from the floor. “Did you invite him to Friendsgiving?”
“Yeah,” Olive replied, brushing crumbs from her lap. “But he said he’s got his kids this year. First time in a while. Wants to spend it with them.”
“Oh,” you said, surprised. “I didn’t know he had kids.”
“Yeah, four and seven. Two girls,” Olive said, her voice softening at the mention of them.
“He’s so old,” you teased, a smirk tugging at your lips.
Olive stopped mid-step as you both exited the room, giving you a look that was half incredulous, half amused. “Blue, he’s five years older than me.”
You shrugged innocently, barely holding back a grin. “I’m just kidding!”
The day drags, but you survive—barely. The bell over the door jingles one last time as the final customer leaves, and you begin wiping down tables while Olive sweeps the floor. The clink of glasses and the hum of the lights were your only companions as you scrubbed counters. Olive hummed some forgotten tune while sweeping the floor, the rhythm of her movements steady and grounding.
Ronny’s voice shattered the quiet. “Hey. You.”
Your spine stiffened, the rag freezing in your hand. His eyes locked onto yours like a predator— saccharine visions of tearing through the meat of your skin with pointy teeth and a bloody maw.
“Come here. Now.”
You cast a glance at Olive, who arched a brow but said nothing. Setting the rag down, you followed him into the cramped cage of his office, walking right into his territory.
The door shut behind you, and the air turned heavy, suffocating. You’re waiting for him to pounce. To strike.
“Take off for a week, and then sit around slackin’? Messin’ shit up?” He was backing you against his desk, only stopping once you were pressed against the chipping wood.
“I—I wasn’t sla—” you started, but he cut you off.
“The fuck you were, lazy skank.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Shut up.” His breath was hot against your head, towering over you with something resembling repugnance in his Tartarean eyes.
His hands were on your throat before you could process it, his grip tightening as he slammed you against his desk. His right hand braced against your nape as his left squeezed the column of your throat making you wheeze. Hot tears were already streaming down your cheek before you could recognize the feeling in your chest as panic. It quickly spread like wildfire. You were grabbing at his wrists frantically, crescent shaped holes littering his arms as you tried to pry him off.
“You think you can disrespect me?” he hissed, his face inches from yours. You let out a meek sound—a cry, maybe?—with all the air you had. It was no use. Black started to creep into the corners of your vision, and you were almost glad: Glad that maybe he’d put an end to your misery, glad that you’d get to stop seeing his wicked sneer as you clamped down harder. Which one you’d father prefer was a mystery to you.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he released you.
You stumbled onto your knees, choking on shallow breaths, your fingers clawing at your throat, desperate for anything thinner than air to rush in and soothe the ache. Weeping into the carpet, tears staining it a darker shade of tan.
“Get the fuck up,” he barked, his voice a cruel whip. You tried—you really did—but the oxygen hadn’t yet traveled back to your brain, and you floundered right into his desk with another choked sob. “Out! Get out!” He grabbed you by the shoulder and shoved you at the door. With your legs trembling beneath you, you escaped as quickly as you could with what strength you had.
Olive looked up when you reentered the dining area. Your efforts to swallow the sobs and catch your breath did nothing to hide the mess you were. She paused, broom in hand, her expression morphing into something soft and concerned.
The sight of that worry on her face made the pit in your stomach grow, swallowing up your bones and tissue.
“Blue—honey—oh no…oh no.” She quickly dropped the broom and pulled you into her arms. “What happened?”
The words jammed in your throat, thick and lumpy. You swallowed hard, trying to force them down without choking. “N-nothing. He was j-just...really me-mean.”
Her lips pressed lips against the top of your head, pulling you closer to her chest. “That man’s a nightmare,” she muttered. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nodded quickly, your voice cracking when you spoke. “I’m f-fine. Let’s just finish up.” You wiped your face with a trembling hand, and even as you did, the dampness was already seeping through your fingers.
Olive didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press further. She resumed sweeping, her movements slow and careful, as if testing the water before continuing. You turned back to the counter, your hands shaking as you scrubbed at spots that weren't even there, trying to make sense of the silence that stretched between you and the world.
Later, at home, the mirror told the truth. Through the cracks and the dust, the bruises on your neck flourished like flowers in May, purple and blue spreading against pale skin. You traced them with trembling fingers before you could notice the tears running down your cheeks and dripping onto your hands.
Your phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the silence. A text from Olive.
friendsgiving. don’t forget. saturday. pls be there
You hesitated, the words blurring before your eyes. Finally, you typed back:
i will.
The reply felt fragile, a candle’s flickering flame, but it was something.
In the quiet that followed, you leaned against the counter, staring at the message. Somewhere, beneath the weight of bruises and silence, a small hope burned. The violent desire for something new. But even a worm will turn.
