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I Die Where You Begin | Part One

You shiver a little getting on your old, worn down bicycle. Your itchy Aldi uniform rubbing against your skin under your coat as you roll your shoulders back trying to release some of the tension from another bad night's sleep.

The sky is still dark but there’s a slither of light as the sun begins to rise and the people on this side of the world begin to wake.

You don’t think you’ll ever not feel depressed living in this small seaside town where everyone knows everyone and it stinks of seaweed and fish from the trawlers.

Woebegone in appearance and utterly miserable in feeling. Unsatisfied in every aspect of life. In fact you don’t really remember feeling happy, not even once. The darkness crushing any light that dares to show itself. A thing made for love forced to be loveless.

It's icy on the ground just like the world around you, and you think even if you slip on the ice and crash it really wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything for anybody. You’d be one of those people who died in an accident that they announce on the news and then the next day everyone is more interested in the segment of how to cook the perfect omelet.

You won’t ever tell anybody how you started to peddle a little faster at the thought.

It gets you to work quicker, gets you to fob in on time and pushes your mood down to the bottoms of the sea when you already thought it was as far down as it could get.

Sometimes you think that the theory that you’re all just zeros and ones might be true because someone must be controlling you to make you go to work, not just on time but, stay there all day and actually do the work when all you feel like doing is lying in bed and withering away.

Your manager is shouting at everyone to get moving, to go quicker as you begin to unload all of the desserts from the big industrial freezer that need defrosting. Then it’s the big trolley filled with treats that needs baking. You plug in your headphones to drown out the shouting bastard and begin to place the goods on the trays and load them into the oven racks.

An hour later everything is baked and you’re finally getting out the last of the cookies before you start on the bread. Dragging the crates that are twice the size of you sparks some sense of pride that maybe you had once a long time ago but it fizzles out just as quickly as it came. The first crate of six and only an hour to do it in, it’s gonna be a long day.

—

Fucking Aldi, cheap Lidl knock off, but cheap is what Simon is going for and the nearest Lidl is thirty minutes away and there’s no way he’s going to Sainsbury’s.

The last time he went in there was to end Johnny’s bitching about how the specific type of protein bars he wanted you can only get in there. Full of prissy rich folk who stared at him like he didn’t belong. He definitely thought that too.

But this was the best he was going to get. The safehouse was round the corner but completely void of food even though John had told him differently.

Simon lazily looked over the high protein ready meals, there was nothing that looked particularly good. All of them watery and speckled with condensation, none of them look appetising but he grabs a Thai green curry and a chocolate protein shake hoping he can stomach the meal once it’s hot.

He trips over himself changing direction from the self checkout area to the bread shelves when he thinks of having toast for breakfast before he’s picked up by the heli.

As he turns the corner, you’re there. A pallet taller than you full of bread crates, you’re on your tippy toes reaching for the top one, face going red as you almost drop it. You move quickly taking the old ones off and placing the new ones on to put the old crates on top of the new ones.

A tedious motion but part of your job so you do it without complaint.

Simon has to jerk himself back into action when he realises he’s been standing there just staring at you, basking in the silence that seems to swallow you. His life is so loud and you’re so quiet, he’s entranced with it, with how in your own head you are. He can see you’re thinking, pretty eyes moving quickly to keep up with your thoughts.

You’re not the most gorgeous women he’s ever seen in his life but fuck you’re pretty. The kind of pretty that makes him wish his children take their features from their mother instead of him.

He’s so awkward when he slips past you to grab a loaf of half and half, not so subtly taking a deep breath of your scent in, closing his eyes for a moment. And in that second he doesn’t see that it’s wrong, doesn’t see that even if it’s not wrong, it’s weird.

And it certainly looks weird to your colleague who comes over and says you’ll be on the self checkout for the next half an hour while she takes her break. You just nod and put the bread pallet away before making your way to the self checkout. Fob keys in hand and a bright yellow gilet on that makes you look washed out.

There’s something in him that festers when he thinks about you later that night as he stares up at the ceiling. How unhappy you looked. The slump of your body showing how exhausted you really were even when you painted that fake smile on your face for whiny customers. Like how a clown paints his face for his performance so he’s always smiling even when he’s crying.

No sparkle in your eyes, nothing twinkling there, no life gleaming behind those pretty coloured eyes of yours. You just looked so miserable. He couldn’t stand it. It caused a pain in his chest to grow in a way he doesn’t understand. A pain that ferments and rots his insides so much so that he returns to the supermarket once more.

You’re there in the morning too, though he can barely see you tucked away in the bakery writing on a small sheet while you go over what’s left to defrost.

He knows he can’t stay there forever, it’s not even busy enough for him to attempt to blend in, not at 8am in the morning. There’s a few old couples buying the fresh produce, one or two school kids grabbing their lunch for the day but that’s about it. There’s no space for an almost six, four giant to blend into.

He slinks around a bit, grabbing a few bits and then pretends to look over the apples even though he’s looking past them, directly at the bakery.

He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he’s interested or why he even cares. Maybe he’s here to check whether yesterday was just a fluke and you were having a bad day. Maybe then he can leave and never look back but no, you’re just as melancholy as you were the day before.

He decides some recon is needed and follows you home at the end of your shift. He watches you from across the street, the way you slouch when you finally sit down on your sofa head in your hands. You fall asleep there, no dinner eaten and though Simon can’t see from where he is, there are tear streaks dried on your cheeks when you finally sleep.

—

Price is prepared to give Simon a bollocking for missing the heli when he answers his shitty silver flip phone but Simon is quicker saying not to bother coming back for a few weeks as he’s taking some well earned time off.

John is baffled, usually having to force the lieutenant to book his holiday, but he’s quick to agree with no real missions coming up and not wanting to say no when he’s finally asking rather than being forced.

As soon as the call ends Simon is already starting another one, his eyes not moving from the laptop screen that shows a cabin around five hours away by car, for sale.

—

Your flat reeks of your perfume like you’d sprayed the vanilla scented liquid to ward off bad smells. However despite the strength of it, Simon relaxes into the space like it’s his own.

Picking the lock was easy, too easy for his liking. The space is small and has mold growing in several corners. His nose wrinkles at the murky water smell coming from your kitchen sink, clearly blocked and unseen to by both yourself and your landlord.

It doesn't even compute to Simon that he’s just committed a crime, he is simply interested in you and wants to know more in his mind.

Your fridge is empty except for an old bowl of pasta leftovers. Your cupboards are just as bare. Your bathroom is well cleaned but there’s only two small bottles of shampoo and conditioner he noticies. No niceties. Your bed only has one pillow and your closet only has a few outfits. You’re living on the bare minimum and Simon for some odd reason can’t stand it.

He’s suddenly seething for you. Seething for the way the world has clearly been unkind to you. For the way you can’t even seem to afford food or the luxury of a sweetly scented body wash. It makes him feel sick to know you’re not being taken care of, to know you’re not spoiling yourself let alone being spoiled by someone else. The way he would spoil you, he feels himself getting hard just thinking about it.

You don’t even notice the lock has been picked when you get home, you’re so exhausted it doesn’t even reach your mind properly that you didn’t need to use your keys to enter your flat, something else that has Simon so angry he feels as though he’s short circuiting.

When you lay down on your couch after fifteen minutes of crying with your head in your hands, like a routine now, he knows he can’t stand this much longer and it’s only been a day.

He places a small camera on top of your fridge before he leaves and heads back to the safe house. Plugging in the camera connection to his laptop he has a perfect view of your living room and where you’re sleeping on the couch. He’s already making more calls, waking people up to get him what he needs. To make sure the cabin is stocked with everything he will need, everything you will need.

—

Exactly two weeks pass before Simon makes the decision that he cannot stand this anymore.

Exactly two weeks of watching you go to work, of watching you barely eat, of watching you read the minimum amount of books you have on your days off, of watching you sleep on the uncomfortable sofa in your flat. You only manage to drag your exhausted body to your bed on a few occasions.

He finds it excruciating to witness. Witness your struggle, your pain. It aches something within him deep and unsettling. Maybe he wants to take care of you the way he couldn’t take care of his mother? Maybe he wants to make your life better in a way he couldn’t offer her? Maybe he just wants to make a miserable person happy? He doesn’t know. He’s all kinds of fucked up.

Yet he still wants to provide stability and happiness for you.

It’s all too easy for him to slip a sleeping pill in your glass of water before you come back from the bathroom. One that will do you no harm but ensure that you will sleep through the journey to the cabin and then some. Simon packs your stuff quickly, silently thankful for the lack of stuff for a split second as he tapes up the last box. Other than furniture your flat is now empty, he loads your possessions into his car and then carries his possession, laying you down onto the back seat with such care.

The drive is serene. A sort of finality to it when he acknowledges that he has you and he’s on his way to his final destination. It brings him a type of peace he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. Though he knows there are still a lot of steps left to complete.

He’ll need to be patient with you over the coming months. He figures you won’t fight for too long, not when you realise how much happier he can make you. How much he can improve your life, though your reaction remains to be seen.

—

Simon sees no point in keeping his mask on seeing as it will only serve to make you more scared when you waken and you won’t be leaving any time soon so you knowing his face is no issue. There is no need to hide from you. It’s refreshing.

You’re incoherent and still out of it, mumbles slipping from your lips in your dazed state. Simon sets you on the large red sofa in front of the fire place, a small smile creeping onto his face at finally having you here. Safe and out of reach from the cruel world.

Unpacking is an easy task that he completes quickly before moving on to make some soup for you when you wake, you must be famished from how little you always eat; one of many things Simon intends to fix. All is peaceful and quiet until you begin to groan, your head aching in the worst possible way.

You’re dizzy as you sit up, grasping your head hissing in pain. Your vision is blurry at best, hallucinations at worst if the man knelt in front of you is anything to go by. He’s talking, thin lips moving yet nothing but a ringing meets your ears.

Large hands grasp yours. They’re gentle when pulling you from the sofa, the incessant ringing fades to a low buzz and his voice is the first thing to pierce your reverie. “This way dove….water for…..drugs still in your system.” His sentence is hard to decipher, his words seem slurred like he is the one who is dizzy not you.

He leads you to a small round table and helps you get seated on one of the chairs. “That’s it, breathe for me dove. In and out.” He coaxes you softly through the breathing exercise to get you more calm before grabbing that water he mentioned.

His scent is heavy in the air, thick in your nose. It’s a manly scent that’s tainted by fresh pine and infused with a spice that makes you feel warm and somewhat giddy as if your head isn’t already muddled. Your blurry vision starts to clear just as the man enters your view once more, this time holding a bottle of water. It looks misty from the condensation and its wet to touch when he puts it in your hand.

You feel like you’ve torn off the cap when you only twist it off and hastily begin to chug from the bottle. “Slow down sweetheart.” The man chuckles, a sweet, fond tone that has a chill running down your spine. Gulping down deep breathes you place the empty plastic bottle on the wooden table and examine the man in front of you.

He is very handsome you note. His features compliment one another excellently, even with the scar on his upper lip and the small less noticeable one on his forehead that ends just before his left eyebrow. The stubble gives him a rugged look, and his brown eyes are exquisite. They’re warm and kind, though they have a darkness in them that makes you hesitant.

It dawns on you as you are reaching out to touch his face that you do not know this man. He is a stranger. You are alone with a stranger who said something about drugs in your system just moments ago.

There’s a moment of silence and then like a whirlwind you are pushing away from him abruptly moving to put the table between the two of you as if he couldn’t, if he so wished, reach across to get to you quite easily.

Like a gentleman he lets you put the distance between him and yourself, because if that calms you, even though he could grab you with ease, he is happy to oblige. You rack your brain, your file cabinets filled to the brim of your memories for any morsel of him. For a speck, a crumb. But your memories are sparse and there is no sight of him anywhere.

“Who are you?” You demand, as calm as you can manage but he notices the way your hands shake and your throat quivers when you swallow.

“I am Simon.” He replies smooth and easy.

“Simon.” You repeat, brows furrowed with confusion.

“Yes. Simon.” He confirms with a small nod. The timber of his voice rumbles through you, deep and feeling.

“Why am I here Simon?” You ask, fists clenched tightly. You feel the tendrils of panic tightening their grasp on you, sliding and winding their way around your body. Your breath has already quickened and you don’t realise it but to Simon you look on the verge of a panic attack.

“Maybe it’s best I-“ he takes a step forward and its like a gun has gone off. You’re fleeing toward the nearest possible exit with urgency. Your hand grips the doorknob and he doesn’t stop you instead he merely tucks his hands in his trouser pockets, “You’re free to leave. You’ll return soon enough.”

With a scoff, not even a moment to consider what he could have meant, you're ripping the door open and beginning to run as quickly as you ever have before you think. Into the forest, into the smell of pine and wet dirt.

It’s surreal. Something you can’t comprehend when you finally stop running, panting so hard you start to heave. You taste blood with every breath. The sharp cold wind unwelcoming in your lungs, no matter how much you want it. Slumping down with your back against the massive trunk, the tree so big when you tilted your head back you could barely see any sky.

That wasn’t what made your heart drop. The colours of the sky was what made your heart drop. A deep blue, that was quickly getting darker. Red swirls in the sky like a painting, showing tomorrow would be shepherd’s delight. But that certainly didn’t help your current situation.

You surveyed your surroundings, the dark clouds rolling in hinting at rain, the darkening sky, the damp dirty ground and the birds screeching from the tall trees. And you realise how stupid you had been to run from the well lit, warm cabin. Though the strange man who kidnapped you being there did put a kink in that little thought.

With a sigh, you stood thinking the best thing to do was start climbing the tree you sat by. It might be dangerous but you’re more than sure that being on the floor with any animals would be much worse. Surveying the massive tree, you began your journey.

You were shaking as you climbed, once misstep, one wrong grab and you’re dead. You weren’t that far off the floor just yet, maybe six feet, but that was still enough for some broken bones. You managed to make it though, pulling yourself on to the large tree branch.

Your attention to detail certainly took a punch during all the panic, but once your mind had quietened you took stock. You had been kidnapped by a stranger, you had run into the woods, you were still in your itchy work uniform while sitting on a tree. Pulling off your jacket, you tied your leg to the branch, and let your eyes rest.

-

The sound of birds chirping and the soft rustle of the wind had your eyes fluttering open. You felt well rested despite the awful ache in your body. You’d hoped yesterday had all been a bad nightmare, that you would wake up in your dingy flat on your shitty couch with the same exhaustion that had been desperately clinging to you for the past few years.

But no, you were on top of a tree branch.

You untied your leg and started to make your way down. Your mind focused on a game plan of where to go and what to do next, you were distracted enough to lose your footing. Your foot slipped, ankle rolling and scraping on the rough tree barks as you fell.

It must have been only a few feet but it felt like you fell from the very top of the tree with how winded you were. The breath knocked out of you as you choked and tried to gulp air back into your lungs. Your wrist throbbed, ankle stinging all while your head spun with dizziness. Gripping onto the dirt below to ground yourself, to calm your slurring stomach.

You tried to get up, to push yourself to move but your eyes rolled back and there was nothing more you could do.

-

Simon was worried, maybe it was a stupid idea to let you leave. But you had nowhere to go, and with the promise of warmth and food at the cabin, he was sure you’d return. His confidence started to waver as the sky started to darken for the second time since he’d last seen you. That’s when the black cloud grumbled angrily.

-

You heard it before you felt it. Droplets of cold water falling onto your face, then your clothes started to feel tighter and cling to you uncomfortably. A shiver racking through your body, goosebumps rising on your skin

Your eyes squeeze tight before fluttering open, the rain coming down in harsh pelts now. You groan as you try to move, pain radiating throughout your body in a way you’d never felt before. Strong and unforgiving. Looking up at the sky you ask with a broken, small voice, “why?”

You don’t expect anything back, but a rumble of thunder answers making you jump. A lightning bolt strikes far in the distance, coincidentally in the direction of where you’d come from. The veins of silver splitting the grey sky.

Your body feels like ice though you feel your muscles burn as you push yourself onto all fours. A gag rolls through your body, the sickening feeling swirling in your stomach. Your body wants to retch and heave but you force yourself to swallow the onslaught of saliva gathering in your mouth.

Once you'd pulled yourself to your feet, you did the one thing, logically, you never thought you’d do.

You began limping back toward the cabin. Body aching and limbs throbbing as the rain began to get heavier. Soaked to the bone and shivering all while the sky turns to black.

It’s like the stairs of heaven when you see the house again. And he’s like god waiting to give you your retribution.

He stands there, watching with those dark eyes. Somewhere deep in your heart you hope he’s going to end your torment and come to you. Going to pick you up and carry you the rest of the way but he doesn’t move. Like a statue he stays standing and waiting for you to falter and fall.

It’s not until you trip, coming face to face with the wet earth below you, more grazes on your knees and palms, that he steps off the porch and comes to you. He is silent, not even a grunt when he lifts you into his arms. You’re a different story, whimpering and hissing in pain.

Something that continues even after he places you down on a red three seater sofa, he leans back and considers you for a few seconds before nodding to himself. He moves out of view and with the high back of the sofa obstructing your view of the rest of the room you don’t know where to.

You’re shivering, fingers and toes feeling numb, your whole body is in shock. You have a terrible earache, your head is pulsing painfully.

Everything about it is horrible. You never want to be this cold again in your life, you swear you are going to die of frostbite. What’s even worse is that he has just left you here to deal with this alone. Hands and knees stinging, your foot is in agony but he’s left you to deal with this alone. Took you from your home into the middle of nowhe- he did warn you.

You refuse to acknowledge that fact. Instead you try to push yourself up off the sofa, you only manage to move your limbs a little when he comes back into view carrying rolled up blankets, that he places on a large arm chair that is tucked away in the corner of the room. To the left of the fireplace and conveniently facing the sofa where you lay shaking, breaths coming out shallow.

He disappears again but only for a second before coming back, this time carrying a first aid kit, clothes and towels too. He takes an extra second to hang them on the fireplace screen to warm up then turns to you with a hard to read expression.

“I need to get you out of these clothes before hypothermia sets in.”

Smart.

Very wise.

And completely unacceptable to you.

He however ignores your shaking head, and the way your fingers twitch in what he believes is an attempt to move your numb hands. He’s meticulous about it as he peels the soaked clothes from your blotchy, ice cold skin. Your sweater, t-shirt and bra are all soaked and freezing. He tosses them aside, grabbing the soft towel and placing it over your bright red skin before gently squeezing trying his best to get rid of the sticky dampness.

He moves the towel away, hooking a bulky arm around your waist to sit you up and pull on a warm long sleeved cotton t-shirt that was pretty obviously made for someone of his size. It’s then that you notice how burly he is. How enormous he is. The way the t-shirt falls until mid thigh like a dress, he has to hike it back up to peel away your underwear.

He repeats the same actions with the towel before pulling on some of his boxers. You hear a click and see the green first aid kit being popped open. The brute grabs some antiseptic wipes and plasters, ripping the wipes open he begins to swipe over your grazed knees. You wince with the sting of alcohol but it leaves as quick as it arrives. He places big plasters on each of your knees then pulls on a pair of checkered mens pj bottoms once again massive.

He ties the strings on them, not too tight but enough to keep them up if you were to stand. Picking up the smaller towel from the fireplace he carefully lifts your head and wraps the towel around your hair, the warmth feels so good. The clothes still had the heat from the fire clinging to them. It was heaven when he placed some blankets over you, tucking them in at the sides.

They were piled around you, a mountain of comfort. He took a step back and looked proud of his work before coming closer to attend to your grazed palms. He does the same with your hands as he had for your knees but your foot was a different story. He hums to himself looking over the swollen ankle and foot, “It’s not broken.” He says positively.

If the words are aimed at you, you don’t reply. He dabs some ointment on the cut on the side of your foot after disinfecting it with another wipe. Then a gauze is placed there as well as a white bandage wrapped around your foot and ankle. He props the leg up with a few pillows and comments how it will help the swelling before pulling a sock on your uninjured foot.

That’s all you remember before your eyes close from exhaustion.

—

Something smells delicious. Your mouth waters and your stomach growls and you cannot stop your eyes from opening to seek out the source. You pause. Freezing up. That wasn’t all a dream, you think to yourself.

You’re actually here in this—Cabin? House? Abducted by a massive, behemoth of a man. And what is that smell? Your stomach growls again, it’s a broth and vegetables you know that much from the scents in the air. It is all you can think about until the man who kidnapped you waltzes back into view once more.

A mug that looks tiny in his large hand, thick fingers curved around the handle. He stops in front of where you’re paralysed, frozen in what you think is fear or maybe it’s simply instinct to freeze up. After all, he hasn't actually hurt you yet.

“You must eat.” He states, mug in hand.

“I’m not eating anything you’ve made.” You huff childishly. Simon sighs looking down with a shake of his head.

“Sorry dove, for your own good.” He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, coming over with the mug. You squirm a little but stupidly let your guard down when he places the mug on the side table next to you, something he was counting on.

He grabs your hands and places them under his knees, next his big paw is coming up to your face pinching your nose. The rest of his hand is covering your eyes, you can only see a tiny bit. Between his fingers you see him frowning, the first real expression you’ve seen from him you think.

You defiantly hold your breath, again something he was counting on. When you can’t anymore, he lets you take a big breath before pouring the warm liquid into your mouth and covering your mouth with the hand that was pinching your nose. You cough and splutter but swallow what you can so you’re able to breathe again. You look up at him in shock, a burning beginning in your eyes.

“Please-“ his brown eyes snap shut, head turned from you with a grimace like he can’t stand the sight of you. “Please don’t cry—just, eat. You need to eat please.” He begs you, once again leaving you shocked.

But when his brilliant eyes flutter open your tears have slipped down your temples and you look compliant enough that he removes himself from you coming to kneel at the side of the couch. You reach out with shaky hands, taking the mug from him and bringing it to your lips, sipping.

He looks pleased at this, a big paw coming to pat your thigh in thanks. A quick gesture that is over in seconds, something you’re grateful for.

The evening progresses and soon enough he is bringing you a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top just the way you like it, something you notice that has your eyes narrowing. He sits in the chair again, his eyes on you, his own mug in his big hands.

“Why am I here Simon?” You quip through your hoarse voice, it stings but you feel a twinge of satisfaction with your attitude toward him. He doesn’t seem to like the question, his left eye twitches slightly, forehead wrinkling in a frown. He shakes his head about to deny you what you so desperately seek; answers.

“I deserve to know.” You snap, though your voice quivers, vulnerability showering openly.

He nods immediately, he agrees. Yes you do deserve to know, you deserve so much more than this twisted fucked up fairytale but this is all he can offer you right now and it’s so much better than the rest of the world. He knows better than anyone, experienced it first hand how cruel a place the world can be. Doesn’t want you subjected to that even more than you already had been.

“You were unhappy.” He says simply, straight forward but you didn’t like his answer.

“And you think I’m happy now?” You argue, always on the defensive, always ready for a fight he thinks. He’ll change that, you’ll be open and you’ll let him do the fighting for you. Just give him a chance, he begs with his eyes.

“Happier here than out there.” He replies gently. You wish his eyes would leave you, the ones that are begging you for what you don’t know. The brilliant browns that are studying you so intently.

“You’re an idiot if you think so.” You scoff, but take a sip of the hot chocolate in your hands. Something that tugs at the curve of Simon’s mouth.

By the time your mug is empty, your eyelids are heavy, they close against your will. Cheeks warm and a cute flush sitting there for Simon to take in as he takes the mug from one of your injured hands.

“You’re safe with me.” Simon whispers, his chocolatey breath hitting the side of your face. You don’t move, don’t react, and Simon doesn’t need to ask that you heard him, it is obvious that you did with the way your breath hitches quietly in your throat.

After he moves away you don’t hear anything for a while, testing things, you peek one eye open and check the surrounding area. Simon is sat in that chair again, eyes closed and head leant back against it. His chest is moving up and down slowly, asleep already? You don’t think it’s possible until he snores.

The idea of getting up and trying to leave again flashes in your mind again but you can barely move as it is. Your hands, knees and foot are bandaged up. Plus the dying fire and mountain of soft blankets are keeping you in a hazy state that you can barely do anything except close your eyes and dream you’re back in your own bed.

-

The days bled together after that.

You were too exhausted to count them, not that time mattered anymore. The weather outside shifted constantly—grey skies broken by rain, followed by frost that painted the windowpanes white. Sometimes the fire crackled like it was laughing at your stillness. Other times, you swore it whispered.

Simon never left for long.

You’d wake up to the smell of soup or the sound of pages turning. Sometimes he would be sat in that same armchair, the one angled just enough so he could watch you while pretending not to. He didn’t speak much unless it was to ask if you were hungry, needed painkillers, needed to use the bathroom or wanted help sitting up. He never touched you without warning anymore. Everything about him was careful now.

One of the days, you refused your food again. He didn’t force it—not this time—but sat beside you on the floor and read instead. The book had a navy cover and pages that smelled like an old library. He read slowly, voice gravelled but gentle. And damn it, you hated how comforting it became. Like a bedtime story meant to lull you into peace. Into obedience. You ate your food.

But the days after that got… quieter.

You were sofa-bound, your wrist and ankle still healing, but your body was warmer now. The thick socks, the oversized jumpers he insisted you wear, and the never-ending pile of blankets helped. The bruises faded from angry purples to dull yellows. The cuts scabbed over. Your appetite started growing, not that you really ever had much of one.

He noticed.

“You’re eating more,” he muttered one evening while refilling your mug of tea.

You didn’t respond. You were too busy watching the way his scar stretched when he smiled without realising.

Sometimes you can’t tear your eyes away when he reads aloud. Sometimes—on the worst days when your throat aches from crying quietly into the pillows—he sits beside the sofa with his head against it. Not touching you. Just there. And you’d imagine the different ways he could have gotten the scar.

There was no TV. No phone. No signal. Just firelight and the quiet rasp of his voice as he read Austen one night and King the next. Something about the contrast made it worse. Better. You didn’t know anymore.

You hadn’t made another attempt to run. Not because you didn’t want to. But because your body still hadn’t forgiven you for the first try. And….maybe you didn’t want to go home.

It was subtle at first.

The change.

Like how your shoulders didn’t flinch anymore when you heard Simon’s boots echo on the wooden floors. How you no longer woke with panic burning in your chest at every sound the wind made against the windows.

Your thoughts still tangled every day—what the hell am I doing here, how do I get out, why does he look so handsome when he smiles—but they were quieter now. Softer. Easier to ignore.

Maybe because nothing had changed.

You were still here. Still on the red sofa. Still wrapped in oversized clothes that smelled like cedarwood and the faintest trace of smoke. Still fed, cared for, watched over. Still… not dead.

That was the part that unsettled you the most. The fact that, despite everything—despite the way he took you, drugged you, stole you from your shitty little life—you weren’t scared of him anymore.

Not in the way you think you were supposed to be.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t touch you inappropriately. Didn’t leer or gloat or play mind games. He didn’t even hover. Not unless he had something to give. Soup. A blanket. A book. Tea.

Simon was still an enigma, but not the monster your brain kept trying to paint him as. And you hated how often you found yourself watching him too—eyes lingering on the stretch of muscle under his shirt as he chopped vegetables, or the way his voice softened when he read aloud, forgetting to keep that harsh edge.

Something shifted in him too.

He didn’t hide the way he stared at you when he thought you were asleep. He lingered longer each day. Played music softly in the background—old records that scratched and popped with warmth. He let his hand rest a little longer on your knee when adjusting your bandages. Sat closer on the floor. Close enough for you to smell the sharpness of his cologne. For you to feel the heat radiating off him.

Sometimes your fingers twitched with the urge to touch him back. You never did.

But you wanted to.

It was like the darkness inside you had been replaced with fog. You couldn’t see clearly anymore. Couldn’t remember what it felt like to live in that cold, grey flat. To cycle to work in the pouring rain, dreading every second of your existence. Here, the silence didn’t crush you. It held you. Wrapped you in a kind of awful, uncomfortable safety you were starting to crave.

And that terrified you more than any locked door ever could.

Because it wasn’t about being trapped anymore.

It was about choosing to stay, not fighting to leave.

Even when every logical part of your mind screamed at you that this wasn’t normal. That you should be clawing at the windows, screaming for help. That this was Stockholm Syndrome or brainwashing or worse. But the other part of you—the tired, quiet, numb part—was just so fucking relieved to finally stop having to try. To finally be still.

Simon noticed.

He didn’t say it. But you saw it in the way his jaw clenched when you let your hand brush his while taking your tea. In the way he paused when you asked him to read more after he finished another book. In the softness in his voice when he called you dove.

He was trying not to push. You knew that. He was waiting. And somewhere deep in the hollow place where your fear used to be, a dangerous little seed began to sprout.

You didn’t want to admit it.

But you were starting to wait for him too

—

Steam still curled from your skin as you padded into the living room, towel-damp hair dripping down the back of your shirt. For the first time in weeks, you’d dressed yourself—slow and shaky, yes, but without Simon’s steadying hands. It felt like some tiny piece of dignity had been returned to you.

Simon’s eyes flicked up from the fire he was tending, tracking you with that quiet, unreadable intensity. “Managed alright?” he asked, voice deep, rumbling.

You nodded, dropping the bundle of damp clothes you’d changed out of into the wash basket. “Yeah.” A pause. Your throat felt dry as you added, “But… could you…” You hesitated, chewing your lip. The request felt oddly intimate, embarrassing. “Brush my hair for me?”

Something softened in his eyes, so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t watching him so closely. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood, took the brush from the mantelpiece where you’d left it, and gestured for you to sit.

You settled cross-legged on the rug in front of him, heart thrumming oddly fast. When he lowered himself behind you, the heat of him hit you first—broad chest close to your back, long legs stretching out until his thighs bracketed your hips. His size swallowed you whole.

The brush scraped gently at your scalp, slow strokes that tugged through tangles with care you didn’t expect from a man like him. He worked methodically, patient, almost reverent. Every drag of the bristles sent a shiver skittering down your spine.

“Head up, dove,” he murmured once, and you obeyed without thinking.

It wasn’t just the brush. His fingers followed too, combing through the strands, lingering just a beat too long against your neck, the pads of his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin there. Each touch seared, left warmth in its wake.

You swallowed hard, staring at the flames in the hearth. The rhythm of the brushing slowed, almost like he was dragging it out. Your body was hypersensitive to the smallest movements—the shift of his thick thighs snug against your hips, the way his breath brushed the crown of your head.

“Good girl,” he muttered under his breath when he worked through a stubborn knot, so low you almost thought you imagined it.

You went still. Your pulse roared in your ears, but you didn’t move away.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the brush pulling through your hair, his fingers grazing your neck, and the warmth of his body pressed firm against you. Too close. Too much. Not enough.

Then his hand stilled, palm flat against your nape, he didn’t pull away right away. Just let it rest there—claiming, grounding, dangerous.

“You’re healing well,” Simon said at last, voice rough. But you knew, from the way his thumb ghosted once over your skin, that he wasn’t talking about your injuries.

The brush moved again, in slow, steady strokes, the soft scrape and pull soothing in its repetition. Simon was quiet behind you, save for the low huff of his breathing. The fire cracked, warm light painting shadows across the cabin walls.

You didn’t mean to do it. Not really. But your body betrayed you—somewhere between the heat of him at your back, the steady drag of his fingers through your hair, the gentle weight of his palm at your nape—you exhaled, and let yourself sink back against him.

It was small, unconscious. Your shoulder blades brushed his chest, your head tilted the barest fraction toward him. Enough to feel the solid strength of him there, enough to take some of his warmth for yourself.

Simon froze. The brush stilled mid-stroke. You might have pulled away, flustered, but in that pause you heard it—the way his breath stuttered, caught in his throat like he hadn’t expected it.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, the brush started again, his hand trembled once against your neck. His breath fanned hot against the crown of your head, unsteady now, like he was fighting something in himself.

You stayed there, leaning back into him, feigning ignorance, though your heart thundered. The solid cage of his thighs around your hips, his chest a steady wall against your back—it should have made you feel trapped. But instead, your pulse raced for another reason entirely.

Simon cleared his throat, rough and low. “Careful.” he muttered, like he was warning himself more than you.

You didn’t move away.

-

“Eat.” Simon grunts as he points to the food on the table he had just placed down. The food that smelt so good it made your mouth water. The food that you’d been hoping was for you the whole time he prepared it.

Walking outside, Simon noticeably leaves the door open, your eyes flick from the bowl of hot food on the table that calls to your growling stomach and the door that opens a crack. Then a once over of the red couch only a week ago you’d been bedridden on.

You’d already learnt that lesson.

You take a seat at the table and pick up the round soup spoon before digging into the delicious food. You eat most of the soup and all of the sandwich, and you think that’s good enough but the brute doesn’t share your opinion. Tapping on the window loudly and pointing to the last few mouthfuls of the soup with a stern look that said ‘eat or I’ll make you’.

A shiver runs down your spine remembering the way he’d held your nose and poured the warm liquid down your throat when you’d refused to eat weeks ago. Instantly you’re picking up the bowl and slurping the rest of the soup down, something that get you a muffled, good girl, through the glass panes.

You finally take in your surroundings.

The cabin had always felt too big to explore when you were stuck on that sofa, bandaged and weak. Now though, with the food warm in your stomach and the ache in your body dulled to something bearable, your eyes roamed properly for the first time.

The cupboards, stacked neat with canned goods and jars, stood free for you to open. Rows of beans, pasta, rice, soups. Practical things. Enough to last months. Whoever stocked them thought ahead. Simon, you realized with a strange twist in your gut.

But the drawers… every single one had a lock. Subtle, small padlocks, brushed metal gleaming faintly in the firelight. You tugged once on a handle, just to test, but it didn’t budge. Locked tight.

Something in you itched at the sight.

Your eyes flicked to the door. It had been left open, just a crack, letting in the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke. Through it you could hear him: the heavy thud of axe splitting into wood, the pause, then the crack as logs split clean apart. Over and over. A steady, brutal rhythm.

You hesitated. Curiosity was dangerous. You knew that by now. But so was silence. So was pretending you didn’t notice things.

You brushed your fingers across the lock again. Cold under your touch. Heavy. You bent down to take a closer look.

The chopping outside stopped.

You froze.

Silence pressed in thickly for a beat before his voice carried through the door, low and unmistakable.

“Leave it, dove.”

You jumped, breath catching. He hadn’t raised his tone, but it cut sharper than the axe ever could.

You glanced toward the doorway. Through the gap you caught a glimpse of him standing over the chopping block, axe resting heavy in his hand. His shoulders were broad and tense, sweat glinting faintly along his temple. He hadn’t even turned to look inside. He didn’t need to.

Slowly, you straightened up.

The lock gleamed back at you. Silent. Taunting.

His heavy footsteps echoed against the wooden floorboards as he entered the cabin. You turned instinctively, heart skipping, but he didn’t look at you. He walked right past, shoulders broad and imposing, heading for the sink. The squeak of the soap pump broke the silence, then the sound of water rushing as he lathered his hands, scrubbing with deliberate, thorough strokes.

“The bookshelf by the fireplace is fully stocked,” he muttered at last, voice low and even. Not an answer to your snooping, not a scolding — just… a redirect.

Your eyes darted from the broad plane of his back to the shelf he’d mentioned. Dark oak, perfectly polished, filled to the brim. You padded closer, drawn in despite yourself. And he was right. Not just stocked — curated. Titles you knew by heart, spines you’d touched a hundred times before.

Your fingers hovered, then ran along the line of books until one leapt out at you. Black cover, soft to the touch, with pink feathers etched across it. Little Dove by Layla Frost.

Your breath hitched. Seven times you’d read it, seven times you’d turned its pages, traced its lines. Slowly, you pulled it free.

The weight of it in your hands was like a punch of recognition — of intrusion. What were the odds? Pretty slim you think.

You glanced back over your shoulder, pulse hammering.

Simon was watching you now. His face was a mask, flat and unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes glimmered with something sharp.

Amusement.

Your throat went dry. He knew exactly what was inside the book you held. The realization settled heavy in your gut, twisting unease into something far more dangerous.

Your fingers tightened on the spine, heat creeping up your neck. You knew every page, every filthy word of this book. You could already feel the weight of his stare pressing between your shoulder blades.

When you finally turned, Simon was leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, expression flat. Only his eyes betrayed him — dark, glimmering, sharp with amusement.

“Fitting, isn’t it, little dove?” His voice was smooth, unhurried, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

Your stomach dropped. “You—” You faltered, clutching the book like a shield. “You’ve read it.”

“Cover to cover.” His lips curved — not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. “Didn’t expect you to be into things like that.”

Your face burned. Every instinct told you to slam the book back on the shelf and run, but your feet stayed rooted.

Simon’s gaze lingered on the book in your hands, then dragged up slowly to your face. “But then again…” he murmured, tilting his head, “you’re full of surprises.”

The silence after his words was suffocating. You couldn’t tell if he was taunting you, testing you, or… something else.

Your grip on the spine was too tight, knuckles paling, but you couldn’t let it go. Not when he was looking at you like that.

Simon pushed off the counter, slow, deliberate. Each step toward you felt heavy, measured, until he was close enough that the scent of soap and pine clung to the air between you. His eyes flicked down to the book, then back up to your flushed face.

“Read this more than once, didn’t you?” he rumbled, voice low, like gravel underfoot.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. He didn’t need an answer; he already knew.

Simon’s hand lifted, thick fingers brushing the edge of the pages, grazing against your own where you held the book. He bent his head slightly, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at your temple.

“There’s a chapter,” he said, almost conversational, though his voice dipped darker, “where he’s got her on her knees. Can’t remember what page. You’d know, though.”

Your breath stuttered, body betraying you.

Simon lingered there, his lips so close you thought for a dizzy second he might actually read the words aloud against your ear — but instead, he drew back just enough to catch your wide-eyed expression.

The grin that ghosted across his mouth was the smuggest shit eating grin you’d ever come across.

The book suddenly felt too heavy in your hands, and yet you couldn’t drop it. Couldn’t look away from him, not when his eyes told you he was cataloguing every single twitch of your reaction, filing it away for later.

Simon’s hand shot out before you could stop him, plucking the book clean from your grip. His size made it effortless, like stealing candy from a baby. He flipped the worn pages with a kind of precision that told you he already knew what he was looking for.

You froze. Heat crawled up your neck as his eyes tracked the words, and then his lips curved. Slow. Dangerous. He read it out loud, voice dropping so deep it coiled through your stomach.

“As long as I’m spending the day with you and the night ends with you riding my face, I don’t give a damn what we do.”

Simon’s words echoed in your head when he dropped the book onto the table with a heavy thud. The sound made you flinch, though you didn’t move — not with him closing the distance, not with that look in his eyes.

Before you could form a denial, his hand landed on your hip and turned you back into the shelves. The dark oak pressed cold against your spine as his frame boxed you in, the heat of him swallowing you whole.

“You’ve been feeding that pretty little head of yours filth.” His breath hit your cheek, warm, deliberate. The corner of his mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Seven times over, hm?”

His thigh slid between yours, firm, unyielding, pressing up until you gasped. His thumb brushed along your jaw, forcing your eyes up to his.

“You don’t need to read it anymore,” Simon rumbled, voice so low it shivered down your spine. His lips ghosted the shell of your ear, every word deliberate, teasing, suffocating.

“You can live it.”

The hand on your hip tightened, dragging you forward into him. His mouth skimming your hairline as his thigh pressed harder, “Tell me you’re not picturing me bringing that line to life right now.”

Your breath stuttered — and the bastard, smirked. You couldn’t say anything, your mind buzzing. You felt too warm, as if the room had no air, it was killing you.

Then Simon backs away.

Your heart hammering against your ribs, the heat of his thigh still ghosting between your legs even as he steps back. The loss of his body felt like a slap and a relief all at once, and you hated the way your breath stuttered in the silence he left behind.

Simon didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

He bent down, picked the book back up from the table, and with an almost mocking calm slid it back into its place on the shelf. A flick of his wrist, a brush of his knuckle against the spine, and it was like the moment hadn’t happened at all.

You, on the other hand, were still trembling where you stood.

He moved past you without a glance, rolling up the sleeves of his henley as he crossed to the kitchen. The pump of soap at the sink, the heavy splash of water, the squeak of plates being stacked. Mundane sounds, completely at odds with the molten chaos twisting in your gut.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, swallowing hard, glaring at his broad back as though that might ground you. But it didn’t. It only made your thighs press together tighter, your pulse rabbit-fast at your throat.

He was humming. Humming. Some tuneless, low rumble as he wiped down the counters, as if he hadn’t just pressed you against the bookshelf and torn your composure apart with a single line.

By the time the scent of garlic and onions hit the air, you wanted to scream.

Every clink of the knife against the cutting board was a taunt. Every scrape of his spoon against the pot was a reminder that he knew. He’d seen your reaction, the way your body betrayed you, and now he was letting you stew in it.

“Dinner won’t be long,” Simon finally muttered, like it was nothing, like you weren’t standing there ready to combust.

You sank onto the red sofa, knees pressed together, nails digging into your palms. You tried to focus on the steady crackle of the fire, the warmth of the blankets, anything other than the image of Simon’s head disappearing between your legs— You can live it.

Simon smirked to himself as he ladled out dinner, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth hidden when he set the plates down. He didn’t look at you when he handed you yours, didn’t acknowledge the way your fingers trembled when they brushed his. Just sat across from you with the steady patience of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one else to worry about but you.

The silence stretched. Forks scraping, the fire popping. Every bite he took was maddeningly slow, deliberate, as if he wasn’t aware that you were barely managing to get food down with the lump stuck in your throat.

When the meal was over, Simon didn’t speak. He collected the plates, washed them clean, dried them and put them away with that same unbothered calm. You were still on the sofa when he came back over, knees tucked under your chin, gaze flicking to him and away just as fast.

And that was when he reached for the bookshelf.

Not for that book. Not for the black-and-pink cover that had almost set the room on fire. No, his fingers trailed past it and plucked something far more innocent. A worn copy of Austen.

Persuasion.

He turned it over in his hand once, glancing at the cover like he was making a serious literary decision — and then sat himself down in the chair across from you, settling heavily, ankle over knee. He flipped the book open, licked his thumb, and began to read aloud.

Not a word about what had happened earlier. No sly comments. Just that deep rumble of his voice curling around Austen’s prose, patient, steady, infuriatingly calm.

But you weren’t listening to the words. Not really. You were watching the way his lips moved, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way the firelight cut across the scar on his mouth.

And he knew it. He could feel the weight of your stare, knew how frayed your nerves were but Simon doesn’t falter once.

Not when your knee bounces restlessly.

Not when you shift on the sofa like your skin’s too tight.

Not even when your breath stutters every time his voice dips low over a line.

He just keeps reading. Page after page, slow and steady, like this was the most ordinary evening in the world. Like he hadn’t brushed your hair earlier, hadn’t lingered with his fingers at your neck, hadn’t left your nerves raw and buzzing ever since.

When he finally closes the book, it’s with maddening finality. A neat press of the cover, a soft clap that seems louder than thunder in the quiet room.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he says simply, tone flat, unbothered. He stands, tucks the book under one arm, and moves toward the kitchen. No glance at you. No acknowledgment of the way you’re watching him like he’s stolen something from you, buzzing with something you don’t have the words for. Something that makes your thighs press tight together and your chest feel hot.

Simon smirks to himself as he rinses out his mug, broad back to you. He won’t give you more. Not yet. He wants you restless. Wants you thinking about every brush of his fingers, every rumble of his voice. Wants you to come to him.

When he finally turns back, he doesn’t mention your flushed cheeks or the way you’re practically curled in on yourself from the tension. He just nods toward the bedroom.

“Bed. You need to rest.”

“Bed?” you repeat, your brows knitting, voice small but edged with suspicion.

Simon’s lips tug into the faintest smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He dries his hands on a tea towel before hanging it neatly back on the hook, movements unhurried, deliberate.

“Well, you’re not couch-ridden anymore, are you?” he rumbles, tone casual as if the matter was obvious. “So you’ll sleep in the bed.”

You blink at him. The word bed sticks in your throat like a foreign object. You’d grown used to the red sofa—the blankets, the fire crackling nearby, the sofa had become your reluctant sanctuary.

Simon just stands there, smiling faintly, watching every flicker of doubt across your face. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t explain himself. Just lets the silence stretch until your pulse thrums uncomfortably in your ears.

“Unless you’d rather stay out here,” he finally adds, voice smooth as silk but with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “It’s your choice, dove.”

Your choice. That’s the snare he sets—making you believe you have one.

Your legs feel rooted to the floor, but Simon doesn’t bark, doesn’t drag, doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. He just walks—slow, heavy steps down the hall—like he knows you’ll follow eventually.

And you do.

The wood creaks under your tentative weight as you trail after him. You keep your eyes on his broad back, on the way his shirt stretches over muscle, the solid line of him something steady to anchor yourself with.

At the doorway he pauses, holding himself just inside, as if giving you a chance to retreat. “It’s colder in here,” he says low. “Fire doesn’t reach the bedroom.”

When you don’t reply, he steps aside then, a deliberate shift of his big frame to leave the path clear for you.

Your pulse skips. The bedroom looks ordinary—bed neatly made, a few folded blankets at the foot, the window cracked to let the pine-scented air in. But the simplicity doesn’t ease you. It feels like a threshold.

Simon tilts his head when your feet hesitate on the edge of the rug. “Just sleep,” he assures, voice gentle in a way that makes your throat tighten. “Nothin’ more. You’ve earned some comfort.”

He waits. Patient. Calm.

And somehow that’s worse than if he’d ordered you outright.

Still, when you finally take that small step toward the bed, his smile returns—barely there, but real.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, soft, like a secret meant only for you.

You hover awkwardly by the edge of the bed, clutching the hem of your borrowed shirt in both hands.

Simon steps past you with the quiet ease of someone who already belongs here. He pulls back the covers, the linens smooth and clean, then straightens to look at you. No rush. No pressure. Just watching.

“Go on,” he says, voice low, like he’s coaxing a skittish bird onto his palm. “It’s yours.”

Your throat works as you swallow, but your body obeys before your mind catches up. You slip beneath the sheets, the warmth of them stealing into your bones almost immediately. Softer than the sofa by far, the pillow cupping your head so well you have to close your eyes for a heartbeat.

When you open them again, Simon’s still standing there. He doesn’t move until he tucks the blankets in around your shoulders, big hands surprisingly gentle as they smooth the edges down.

“There,” he rumbles. A faint curl of warmth at the corner of his mouth. “Better than that bloody couch, isn’t it?”

You huff through your nose, a poor excuse for defiance, but the corner of your lips betray you when they twitch upward.

His smile deepens—subtle, private—and then he straightens, dragging a chair from the corner of the room. He plants it against the wall near the bed, drops heavily into it, and rests his forearms across his knees.

“You’ll sleep,” he says, not asking, not commanding, but certain. “I’ll be right here.”

Your chest tightens. “You’re not leaving?”

Simon shakes his head once, slow. His eyes find yours and holds them. “Not a chance.”

The weight of his presence presses around you like armor. Suffocating. Safe. Both.

And when you finally close your eyes, the last thing you hear is his steady voice, softer than you thought it could be.

“Goodnight, dove.”

-

The first thing you feel is heat. A steady, heavy warmth wrapped around you like an anchor against the drifting tide of sleep. The second thing is the rise and fall of a chest that isn’t yours, firm muscle beneath your cheek.

Your lashes flutter open. You’re not in your flat. Not on your sofa. Not even on that red couch you’d grown used to.

You’re in the bed. His bed. And at some point in the night, Simon had slipped beneath the sheets too.

His arm is hooked around your waist, the sheer size of it spanning your lower back with ease. You can feel his calloused fingertips resting against your hip bone, not squeezing, not pushing—just there. A claim without words.

Your breath hitches, and you realize he’s awake.

“Morning, dove,” Simon rumbles, voice scratchy with sleep, low enough that it thrums through his chest and into your bones.

You freeze, suddenly hyperaware of everything: your cheek against him, your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, the way your thigh brushes his.

“I—” you start, but your voice comes out thin, embarrassed. You try to wriggle back, to put space between you, but his arm tightens by a fraction. Not trapping. Just… keeping.

“Easy,” he murmurs, chin dipping until the rough edge of his jaw grazes your hairline. “You were shivering in your sleep.” A poor excuse, you think.

Your chest pounds. You don’t know whether to shove him away or sink into him more. The worst part? Your body makes the choice for you, relaxing against him like it had been waiting for permission.

“Good girl,” he mutters, almost to himself, tightening his hold for just a moment before loosening it again. “That’s it. Just breathe.”

You try to ignore the way your pulse races, the warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the blankets.

And when his thumb brushes the small of your back, lazy and unthinking, you wonder if you’ll ever get the strength to move away at all.

-

A smirk curls beneath Simon’s stubble as he reaches over and plucks the fork straight from your hand, and scoops up a neat bite pancakes. He doesn’t say a word, just holds it out in front of you, steady as stone.

Your brows knit. “I can feed myself.”

“I know.” His voice is low, unbothered. “But I want to.”

You should refuse—you know you should—but his gaze pins you down, unwavering and patient. The silence stretches until it frays your nerves, and then, with a shaky exhale, you part your lips.

Simon slides the fork in gently, watching every twitch of your mouth, every flicker of your throat as you swallow. He pulls the fork away slow, deliberate, then sets it back on the plate without looking.

Instead, his thumb rises. Big, calloused, careful as it brushes along the corner of your lips, catching a stray crumb that wasn’t even there. His touch lingers—too long to be casual.

Your breath stutters. His does too, just barely.

“Good girl,” Simon murmurs, so soft you almost don’t catch it, before sitting back like nothing happened, reaching for another piece of toast to place on his plate as though the air between you wasn’t crackling.

“Stop calling me that.” You snap, but your voice cracks just slightly at the edges.

Simon doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He just says, calm and even, “But you like it.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, stabbing a pancake like it’s his fault your spine tingled when he said it. “No, I don’t.”

“Mm.” He hums, low and dismissive, like he’s heard a child insist they hate chocolate while licking it from their fingers. His fork scrapes his plate. He doesn’t press further, and somehow that makes it worse.

“Don’t ‘mm’ me,” you snap again, but the words sound weak, defensive.

Finally, he looks at you. Just a glance, but it’s enough. The corner of his mouth twitches, a knowing curve, like he’s already won. His eyes pin you where you sit, heat curling under your skin until you feel too exposed, too raw.

Simon calmly wipes his mouth with a napkin, voice steady but heavy with meaning. “You don’t have to admit it, dove. I already know.

Your fork clatters against the plate as you slam it down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap, leaning forward like anger could cover the heat rising up your neck.

Simon doesn’t even blink. Just watches you, unruffled, like he’s studying the way a flame bends in the wind.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?” you press, your voice louder than you mean it to be. “You think just because I’m here, just because you— you feed me and—” your words stumble, catching on all the things you don’t want to say out loud, “—you control everything, that it means I like it?”

He lets the silence hang until you’re breathing hard, your pulse hammering so loud you swear he can hear it. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leans forward.

“Not everything, dove.” His voice is deep, steady, terrifyingly patient. “Just you. And you do like it.”

Your stomach lurches, the words hitting harder than you expect. You want to scream at him, throw something, do anything to push him away—yet your body betrays you with the way your breath hitches, the way your skin prickles alive.

“Whatever.” You scoff, storming outside before he can get a word in. The screen door bangs behind you as you step onto the porch. Rain lashes against the trees, the smell of wet earth thick in the air. You stand there, arms hugged tight around yourself, staring at the curtain of grey until your fingers go numb. Twenty minutes pass before the cold sinks too deep into your bones and your teeth chatter.

Simon was going to play games with you? To tease you? Annoy you? Well then two can play that game.

You stomp back inside, wet hair clinging to your face. He hasn’t moved an inch—still sat in that kitchen table chair, book in hand, like you hadn’t just walked out in a temper.

“I want a bath and you’re gonna run it for me,” you announce, chin tilted stubbornly. “And you’ll make me hot chocolate too.” Folding your arms, you plant yourself in the doorway like a child daring him to deny you.

Simon lowers the book he’s reading, brows raising in faint surprise. He studies you for a beat, long enough for your pulse to stutter. Then slowly, infuriatingly, one corner of his mouth quirks.

“Do you now?” His voice is calm, but there’s something underneath it, like he’s testing you.

“Yes.” You double down, refusing to break eye contact. “A bath. With bubbles. And hot chocolate with extra cream.”

The smirk deepens, though his gaze softens in a way that makes your stomach flip. He closes the book with deliberate care, setting it on the table before pushing himself to his feet. His height looms, shadowing you where you stand.

“For someone who swears they don’t like being taken care of, you’re getting awfully demanding.” He rumbled, amusement thick in his voice but pride shines in his eyes.

Without waiting for another word, Simon disappears into the bathroom. You hear the rush of water, the sound of cupboards opening, his heavy footsteps moving with that calm certainty that both soothes and infuriates you.

You linger in the middle of the living room, arms still folded, staring at the dark hallway like it might swallow you whole.

Then Simon’s voice rumbles low and commanding, “Clothes off, dove. Leave ’em by the door.”

Your breath stutters. He doesn’t even raise his tone—it’s calm, certain, like he expects you to just obey. And the worst part: you obey.

When you finally shuffle to the bathroom doorway, you see him crouched by the tub. One massive hand swirls in the water to test the heat, steam curling around the broad planes of his shoulders. A thick towel is already folded on the counter, a second draped over the radiator to warm.

He turns toward you. “Hot. Not scalding. Perfect for those sore muscles of yours.” He rises, impossibly tall in the small space, wiping his hands on his sweats. Then he gestures toward the bath with a tilt of his chin. “In.”

You bristle at the command, but your body betrays you—stepping forward, lowering yourself into the steaming water. It swallows you up, heat seeping into your stiff, aching muscles. Against your will, a sigh slips past your lips.

Simon’s eyes flicker, just slightly, like he’s satisfied. He leans down, lips almost pressed to your ear. “Good girl.” The words are a gravelled hum, soft but heavy with meaning. He doesn’t linger—he just turns, rolling his sleeves higher, leaving you stewing in warmth and nerves.

Minutes later, when you’re half-dazed from the comfort, the door creaks open again. Simon reappears, carrying a heavy ceramic mug that steams rich and sweet. The scent of chocolate drifts toward you before you even see the swirl of cream melting on top.

He sets it down on the stool beside the tub, close enough for you to reach. Simon doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies you in the tub—wet lashes, flushed skin from the heat, the stubborn tilt of your chin.

“What?” you mutter, defensive.

“Nothing.” His voice is low, amused. But inside, his chest feels tight with something he doesn’t dare put into words. You’d asked. Demanded, even. A little bratty but he’d still given. The tiniest step, but enough to make him feel like he could tear the whole bloody world apart for you if it meant keeping that spark alive.

-

The water had long since turned lukewarm, steam no longer curling from the surface, but you were sunk deep into the claw-foot tub anyway. Muscles slack, eyelids heavy. The sound of Simon moving around the bathroom was steady and grounding — the scrape of a chair dragged closer, the rustle of pages as he sat and read while you soaked.

When you stirred, shifting against the porcelain, his eyes flicked up. He closed the book, setting it aside, and leaned forward.

“You need your hair brushed after this,” he said lowly, practical as ever. But the way his gaze lingered down your throat to where the water lapped against your collarbone made your stomach flip.

“Then do it for me,” you say with a raised eyebrow almost daring him to say no. Honestly you’re not sure if you were teasing him or not at this point. Why was he just doing everything you demanded? Why was there no fight in him?

His mouth curved, the ghost of a smirk. “Anything for you, dove.” What. The. Fuck.

A big hand slipped into the water, fingertips brushing along your shin under the surface. You jolted at the contact, heat rising in your face. Simon didn’t move fast but he didn’t stop, either. His palm smoothed up your calf, slow, deliberate, until his thumb traced the soft bend of your knee.

“Relax.” His voice had gone husky, vibrating through the quiet bathroom. “Let me take care of you.”

You should’ve told him to stop. Should’ve pushed his arm away when it slid higher, over the bare skin of your thigh, water rippling with his movements. But your body betrayed you — your hips shifted, your breath caught.

When his fingers found the heat of you, you gasped, half sitting up.

“Simon—”

“Shh.” He leaned closer, breath hot against your ear, hand steady under the water. “I’ve watched you suffer long enough. Let me give you this.”

The pad of his middle finger circled lazily, not quite enough pressure, the tease deliberate. You whimpered, your nails biting into the edge of the tub. His other hand came up to stroke your damp hair back, soothing, a contradiction to the growing intensity between your legs.

“That’s it,” he rasped when your hips lifted into his touch, your need betraying you. “Good girl. Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

Your back arched against the porcelain as Simon’s fingers finally pressed harder, circling exactly where you needed. A broken moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it, echoing embarrassingly loud in the small bathroom.

“There we go,” he rumbled, low and approving, the words brushing over your ear. “Let me hear you, dove. Don’t you dare hide it from me.”

The water sloshed as your hips lifted, chasing his touch, shameless. Simon’s grin was dark, satisfied, as his fingers dipped lower, sliding between your folds and pressing inside. You choked out his name, head tipping back against the rim of the tub, the heat of the water nothing compared to the molten rush spreading through your belly.

“Fuck—” you gasped when he curled his fingers just right, brushing against a spot that made your vision spark.

Simon’s other hand came to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A heavy reminder of his presence, of his control. His thumb stroked slowly over your pulse point as his fingers inside you worked faster.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice rough, “so tight for me… Christ, you’re gonna make a mess in this bath, aren’t you?”

Your breath came in broken pants, your nails clawing at the slick porcelain, every nerve ending singing. His hand at your throat tilted your head back, forcing your eyes up to him. “Look at me, dove. Wanna see you fall apart.”

The coil inside you snapped. Pleasure crashed over you, sharp and hot, stealing the air from your lungs as you cried out his name. Your thighs trembled around his arm, your whole body jerking with the force of it. Simon didn’t stop — he worked you through it, slow and steady, until you were nothing but limp and whimpering against the tub.

When he finally pulled his hand from the water, he brushed his soaked fingers along your cheek, gentle, grounding you. “Beautiful,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against your damp hair. “Knew you’d be perfect for me.”

You sagged in the water, boneless, too spent to argue. His big arms wrapped around you, lifting you up from the water like you weighed nothing.

“Bath’s over,” he said softly, carrying you toward the bedroom. “Bedtime for my dove.” You pressed your face into his neck, too exhausted to protest, too dazed to do anything but breathe him in — woody and sweat and spice.

He set you down gently on the counter, wrapping a thick towel around your shoulders before reaching for the other to pat at your legs. His movements were meticulous, slow, like you were something fragile that might shatter if handled wrong. “Don’t want you catching a chill.” He murmured.

You hummed weakly, eyelids heavy. Each press of the towel left behind more heat, more comfort, until you felt yourself sinking into the sensation.

Simon crouched in front of you, drying your feet with large, careful hands. He pressed a soft kiss to your ankle before standing, scooping you up again without warning.

“Simon—” your voice cracked, but you couldn’t bring yourself to argue when his chest was so solid, so warm against you.

“Shh,” he soothed, carrying you through the hall. “Just need to do your hair dove. Then bed.”

He sat you down on the red sofa and disappeared for only a second before returning with a clean towel and your brush. He took his place behind you, thick thighs bracketing your hips, his warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt as he began to blot your damp hair.

The towel rasped softly over your scalp, and when he was satisfied, he traded it for the brush. Long, patient strokes from crown to tip, his calloused fingers sometimes lingering a little too long at the nape of your neck, just grazing sensitive skin.

You leaned back into him lulled by the rhythm,“Better?” he asked, voice softer than the crackle of the fire.

You hummed, too drowsy to form words, letting your eyes slip half-closed.

When he was finished brushing your hair, Simon set the brush aside and helped you into one of his shirts, the fabric hanging loose and soft against your skin. Without a word, he scooped you up once more, your body instinctively molding against his chest.

The firelight flickered across the room as he carried you down the short hall, his heavy steps measured, careful. He lowered you onto the bed as though you weighed nothing.

You blinked up at him, dazed and warm from his care, but before you could protest being left alone, he shifted onto the mattress beside you. His bulk dipped the bed, his presence consuming the space, steady and grounding.

Without thinking, you shuffled closer, your face finding his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You breathed him in — pine, smoke, something uniquely him — and your whole body loosened.

Simon froze for a beat, his chest rising sharply beneath your cheek, but then one of his arms came around you, slow, deliberate, pulling you in against him. He tucked your head beneath his chin, pressing the faintest kiss into your damp hair.

“Goodnight, dove,” he murmured, voice rough with something you couldn’t name.

Your lashes fluttered shut. Safe. Warm. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t dream.

To be continued

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