simon's presence can't be ignored, you know that very well.
you heard some people say it's because of his physique–no one can ignore something or someone that massive. but you thought you can, sometimes you do. you always believed it's because it's just... him.
so when you're both out for drinks and seated at the bar tonight, the guy who randomly comes up on you is a little bit unnerved, safe to say.
stumbles in his words. shifts in his feet while nursing a bottle of beer that he hasn't taken a swig off in minutes. you notice that his throat bobs too frequently, and the guy's eyes are restless.
you hear simon grunts lowly behind you. his chair tweaks as he spins, then you feel the enormous heat coming off from his chest.
oh, this poor guy who can't get the lame flirt lines out of his blabbering mouth.
"this your boyfriend?" he clears his throat, tipping his chin onto simon's direction.
you draw back a smile and look at simon with fake surprise. simon cannot give a single fuck as he flatly stares at the guy, "oh, him? no."
he scoffs, "your guard dog, then?"
you sip from your glass and shake your head, "nope," your lips pop, "guard dogs are better because they're trained to listen. this one, though?"
you chuckle and bring your glass up, looking at him straight in the eye with a warning, "this one doesn't."
that seemed to shake off the guy as he pays you and simon one weirded look before walking off.
"did you just compare me to a dog?"
your laughter reaches his ears as you spin around to face him, knees touching, "you're a cute dog, riley," you pinch his chin gently, "now, who's a good boy?"
simon's eyes wrinkle and his chest rumbles as he pulls his head away from your hold, but you don't miss how his hand lands on your thigh, just above your knee.
the warning you have given to the guy appears not received when he ambushes you on your way out of the pub and drunkenly tries his chance again, this time, with his hands.
you don't need to react, because simon has already done that for you when the guy screams in pain even before you have the time to spin around.
"fuck, fuck, fuck, my wrist—"
simon stands, in all his gigantic glory, in the middle of the pub, holding a guy's forearm. you sigh and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, "simon, let's go."
the guy writhes again and this time, it sounds even more painful when you hear a subtle crack.
"fuck, woman! can you tell this guy to let go?! let go, man! motherfucking shit my arm's broken!"
you shrug, no remorse for the small guy being handled by your huge guard dog who doesn't want to let go of his toy and stares at it with rage-painted eyes, "i told you, he doesn't listen."
