“Not to mention, you complain all the time about your tiredness, and stomach aches and constip—”

“Okay— okay we get it!” You elbow over Ghost before he can blurt out anything else, face burning with heat. In your defence, you had told him all of that in full confidence and here he was telling everyone in the mess hall! It’s not your fault you were lacking on fibre. “Point is.. I haven't had sugar in a whole day, and I'm going crazy!” You groan, letting your head thump against the table dramatically as Soap chuckles, watching the display.

“How do you even survive deployments? Not exactly getting a teacake fix out there.”

“She doesn't.” Ghost huffs, shaking his head as he yanks your head up by your collar to reveal your exaggerated frown. “Came back from an op with chocolate smeared on her face before she even got in the shower.”

“I was gone for ages, that’s not my fault!”

“Of course it is, you have a sugar problem.”

—

As expected since he declared it last night after receiving the reports, he was not letting you have anything in the slightest. So, when you went on your weekly shopping in the nearest Tesco, you were immediately denied everything you tried to get.

“It had fruits and nuts!” You argue, pointing at the snack bars he’d taken from your hands to place back onto the shelves again.

“And chocolate. You can just eat fruit, you know.”

He carries on walking before you can argue about the convenience of the bar, and instead tosses you a bag of dried fruit followed by plain oats that look far less appetising than the one you picked out. “There, much better.” You eye the bag of fruit suspiciously, knowing it’ll taste bitter and probably like cardboard on your tongue. 

It’s later when you’re both restocking cereal that he stops you from adding your knock off coco pops you’ve been having for months, replacing with a much ‘healthier’ option. “I’m not even going to eat these—you are.” Unsurprisingly, he doesn't react to your words, only walking over and plucking the cereal box out of your hands just to replace it with bland oats. “Suppose you’ll just starve then.” 

Of course, you did try, sneaking into the rec room whilst you knew he was in a briefing.

“Where is it..” You hum to yourself, trying to find where he had locked away the stash you keep under your bed. It wasn't the worst deal, considering you had some inside the vent, and also in the pockets of your dress uniform that you never even used. Except.. He found all of that as well, and you had to sit and watch as he packed it into a neat bag to be taken away forever.

You open the cupboard where you saw him store your air fryer last time he confiscated it..only you’re met by an absolute mess of things shoved inside. Are they hiding a body back here? Well, all the more proof it could be right behind. 

You begin to take out some carrier bags, full of all kinds of things, one even definitely has mould all over it. “Yikes.. what the hell?” 

You spend the better end of the hour, organising all the random unlabelled boxes and throwing out the occasional one that looks like it could be nurturing the next virus. Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

Either way, you can feel the joy re-enter your body when you see the familiar bag right at the back. That’s the same sticker you took off a random fruit— and the pin you got from that random course you accidentally joined!

Finally, you can sink your teeth into something sweet that isn't fruit that isn't in even season, maybe some chocolate you left over? Perhaps a couple of haribos? Your mouth was watering and—-

“Nice try.” You look up at Ghost who stands behind you, arms crossed firmly over his chest like a child caught eating sugar. Wait— you basically are doing that.

You slam your hand into the bag before he can stop you, pulling out the first thing you see and ripping it open. The smirk on your face is devious as you chew into it only for you to start to taste the familiar dryness and dull taste of yet another plain protein bar.

Confused, you tip the whole bag out, all the bars falling in tandem and not a single sign of your chocolate anywhere.

——-

“He tricked me!”

“No I didn't, you chose to eat that. Not my fault you assumed it was chocolate.” Ghost stuffs another bite of chicken in his mouth, pushing his brussel sprouts into your plate just to piss you off even more.

“It’s going to go on forever until I'm a skeleton!” You groan, hands grasping Gaz’s arm in a desperate plea for vengeance. “Gaz please..”

“When does this so-called diet end anyway? It’s been almost a week now.” He takes the brussels sprout off your plate to eat himself, and then a couple of carrots, since you’re too busy leaning on him dramatically.  

“Until she stops trying to get it. Patience is a very important trait.”

“I have plenty of patience.” You argue, sitting up straight and pointing a finger directly at Ghost. “Who has to wait months for you to come home and sort out your smelly laundry? Or how about when you take so long in the shower, huh?”

“You take two hour baths.” He deadpans, and you stammer before Soap comes up opposite you, taking a seat. 

“Lt takes forever getting tae sleep sometimes. It’s bloody annoying when we ‘ave to share a sleeping bag.”

“That too! You always roll around and squash me, and then you start snoring!” You say proudly, knowing you don't move an inch in your sleep most times so basically you’ve won this. Just to rub it in his face, you high five Soap right in front of him, grinning.

“Am I the only one questioning how you’re getting squashed? Don't you have separate beds?”

You and Ghost lock eyes instantly as Gaz speaks up, and he quickly looks down at his plate to finish the food and get out of there. “She’s being dramatic.”

“He’s right I was being dramatic because o-once I was super tired and the lights were out, and I went to his bed accidentally, that's all!” You squeak out cheeks burning as you hurry to give them a reasonable answer.

This time Gaz and Soap lock eyes, a smirk rising on both their faces as they turn to you— of course they’d never get anything out of their lieutenant.

“Is he warm or really cold? Does he hug ya?” Soap nudges you under the table just as Ghost elbows him sharply before glaring at him. 

“Both of you shut up— now. None of that happened you bloody freaks.”

“None of what happened?” Price arrives with his own lunch, and you immediately shoot upright. If this is the moment you get baited out you do not want to witness the Captain’s reaction.

“I- I have to go. Goodbye!”

—————

The shower doors open as you sit beneath your covers, laptop settled on your lap as you sip at your unfortunately plain milk today. Your chocolate powder being confiscated was your last straw.

“Tomorrow I'm actually sleeping in.” He groans as he pulls his shirt over his head, leaving his damp hair to dry since the hair dryer had almost caught on fire last week. He checks his desk one last time, making sure he’s got nothing outstanding before he makes his way over to your bed.

“They were just teasing about the sleeping together thing— you don't actually have to sleep here now.” He hums, stealing more than a pea sized amount of your moisturiser to rub across his arms and neck. 

“Well, it doesn't matter because I'm not sleeping in your bed anymore.” You huff, carrying on with whatever odd game you’re playing today on your laptop.

“Alright, fine. We’ll sleep in yours then— you’re the only person who complains.” He sits on the bed finally only to stand upright when he realises he sat on your foot.. which is upright and digging into him. “Move up, I’m tired.”

“You have a bed, use it.” 

He narrows his eyes at your petty actions, and then realises you look so awkward because you’re actually laid out like a starfish.

“We always share a bed on weekends. What is this about now?”

“I want my chocolate back”

He groans as you stubbornly go back to playing your game, and giving him zero room in the already small bed. “No, I’m not giving it to you. It's for your own health.”

“You enjoy watching me suffer!”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs and then turns back, heading to his own. “Fine. I was only doing it for your sake anyway. You’re the one who likes to cling to me at night.”

——————

“Oh come on— you won't even let me touch you?”

The entire weekend went by with you stubbornly refusing to sleep beside him and when he tried to watch a movie with you today, you wouldn't even let him settle next to you. He was trying to stay as strong as you were in this, still banning you from your chocolates, but this was starting to grate on his nerves.

It’s not his fault— it’s the break in routine that’s all. He’s gone months without you, so it’s not like he craves your touch that badly. But when you’re right there, and you won't even let him touch you?

Finally, your next blood test comes around, which you go in alone for since you’re determined to turn your nose up at him until this is over. However, even when he receives the results that end up far better than the last time.. you still don't break. He lets you have more of your snacks again, lets you eat chocolate bars late at night.. and still, not even a peep of affection from you.

His last strength almost snaps when he sees you sitting on the couch with Soap too— what the hell is he doing with you?

“Oh, Ghost is here.” You deadpan at him like you’ve been doing for the whole week, and it’s killing him. 

“Just grabbing a snack.” Luckily he wouldn't be a SAS operator for nothing, and so he walks to sit right opposite you two. 

You bite your tongue before you straight up lunge at him. Of all things he’s munching on a damn ice cream bar— he doesn't even like them! He says it’s too sweet and way too much in one bite, and now he has the audacity to sit there whilst you’ve been deprived of sugar for two whole weeks?

“You alright, sugar?” Damn him for that— for that stupid nickname and even Soap snickering beside you, and even more when he holds out a bar for you. “You want one?”

Even if he had been giving you chocolates, you could only get this ice cream from a different store a little further out. In fact, it wasn't reachable by the bus you usually take to town, and was a lengthy walk too… But you’re supposed to be mad at him! You wanted him to grovel damnit, but isn't this what you also wanted? A perfect sugar hit? 

“It’s probably yoghurt isn't it.” You scowl, crossing your arms firmly over your chest as you try to keep yourself from giving in. There’s a smear of chocolate beside his lips too— you could just reach out and..

“Nope, your favourite, actually.” When you reach forward he snatches it back, just out of your grasp and you glare at him. “Simon.”

 It’s then that Soap excuses himself. Although thoroughly entertained, Simon did pay him off to do this on purpose. He still doesn't know what you have over his head, but he knows it must be serious for him to ask this kind of favour.

The door clicks as he leaves, and he takes another lick of the ice cream bar, making sure to exaggerate the noises. “You have to come sit ‘ere if you want it”

The ticks of the clock seem to be loud in your ears as you hesitate to move forward, just watching his fingers crinkle the plastic covering it. It’s probably melting in there.. just like the one in his hands. You can see it slowly moving down, calling out to you, to just lick away that melting drop until—

“Gotcha.” His arm wraps around your shoulders when you eventually give in and move over.

“Give me it—“ You reach over and snatch it from his hands, ripping it open in a matter of seconds and only pausing when you get a sudden brain freeze.

“Told you that you have no patience.”

You don't care for what he’s saying anymore, too focused on eating away the chocolate shell and savouring every last taste of it. What is he even saying anyway? You deserved this after how hard you work and—

His lips press to your cheek as he leads you to lean against him, tucked into his body, and his hand rubbing up and down his side. 

“You got chocolate on my cheek!” You groan, trying to wipe it off, but he stops you from doing so, instead getting his phone out to snap a picture of your wide eyes, mouth smeared in chocolate.

“And that’s my proof for your next blood test. In case you decide to go against my diet again.”

“Hey! Delete that! That’s forged— you put the chocolate there!”

“Maybe I should print it out and put it as a warning in the infirmary?” He offers, and you roll your eyes, opting to just savour your ice cream before you really shove it in his face. 

“Don't you dare.” You narrow your eyes at him, but he grabs your waist before you could even try to escape. 

“Alright alright. I’ll buy you a new pack of ice cream. At least you can actually go on your next deployment now.” 

“You won't be able to go on yours when I throw your gear into the lake.” You retaliate instantly but make yourself comfortable against him regardless. He lets you lean your head on his shoulder, giving him the widest grin you can.  “Can I get that cereal back now?”

“Take it from me, kid. Chocolate filled cereal is not the way to go.”  Your head snaps to the door in horror as Price casually walks in towards the kitchenette, not even commenting on how you’re basically snuggling his lieutenant.

“S-sir, I can explain–” You stammer, scrambling to sit up right and practically kicking him away from you.

“Oh yeah– take it from the great ol’ captain and have a cig for breakfast instead.” Simon huffs out, seemingly unfazed.

You can only glance between them as Price just rolls his eyes. “When I get you up early you sound like you do, Lieutenant.” Finally, he locks eyes with you, your embarrassed face and hands practically planted on the edge of the couch like you’re ready to bolt. “I’ll turn a blind eye to this if you defend me.”

“At least Price doesn't use bourbon as mouthwash” You instantly retaliate to Simon, pointing a finger at his chest accusingly. He’s literally never done that in his life, and he could definitely think of a million things to clap back at you with right now.. But he won't. At least not directly.  

“Would you like me to show Price the muddy puddle that made it look like you shit yourself?”

“Don't you dare—!” You yelp, instantly trying to grab the hand that reaches for his phone, struggling and failing to get it out his hands. “Stop— give me—“ 

“I.. didn't know WWE was on today.” You hear Gaz say behind you, followed by a camera snap which you can only assume captured you practically tackling Simon against the couch like a rabid dog. 

That’s how two new photos get added to Simon's wallet, and you lose a little more dignity. 

-----------------------------------------------------------

posting this now because i know i probably will definetly forget

rookie masterlist

buy me a coffee :)

He doesnt respond immediately, eyes closed beneath his mask as a nurse injects something else into his arm. It’s secured with a cotton ball and tape, his arm limp when the rest of the medics leave to deal with other injured. The door clicks softly, and you approach closer this time, eyes softening as his cracks open.

“Rookie.” He grunts, teeth grazing each other from the strain in his lungs. “Help me back to our room, will ya?”

You blink, surprised, mainly because he definitely shouldn’t even be allowed out of the infirmary in this state. “Huh? Wait, let me ask the nurse first-“

“I’ll just do it myself then—“ He shakes his head and lets out a low groan as he pushes himself upright, swinging one leg off the bed. That immediately makes you panic, quickly coming to his side to catch him. “Okay! Okay i’ll help, lets go. Lean on me, okay?”

You’re suddenly thankful for all your training, because he is heavy. The hallways are empty at this time, only the stray soldier practically running down the corridor for something or the other. He leans against the wall as you click your key in, opening the door and helping him towards his bed.

“Thanks.” He lets out a huff, and you straight up frown at him, fists clenched. He notices, obviously, looking up at you with narrowed eyes.“What’s yer problem now?”

“You said you’d come back safe!”

For a moment he genuinely raises a confused brow at you, one hand tugging off his mask and tossing it onto his desk. “I’m breathing, no? Do you want me manicured or something?”

You deadpan at him and he just rolls his eyes, reaching for a t-shirt hanging off his chair to slide over the multitude of bandages— hiding them from you. “Could’ve come back a bit cleaner at least.” That gets a laugh out of him, lips tugging up into a small smirk as he fixes the t-shirt over him. He’s not usually this.. relaxed, which is weird. 

Tonight, you curl into your own bed, although still watching as he leans back, stretching his legs on the mattress. You can't keep your eyes off of it at all even if it makes your gut clench every time a sliver of red peeks out. Something about this tells you that you shouldn't do too much trying to help him like you usually do. Despite Price and Gaz insisting he at least has some fondness regarding you, this is the first time he’s actually been injured like this in front of you. And it looks bad. 

This is not tidying his side of the room, or getting him a meal post op, it’s not even the same as when you convinced him to let you make him a ‘healing’ smoothie. You snap out of it as his head sinks into the pillow, the light flickering off soon after.

—-

The next day your eyes are glued to him whenever he enters the room. Annoyingly, he was pretty good at ignoring the pain and was already happy to ignore most of the medical advice apart from the medication and advised foods. You had yet to see him hit the gym thankfully, but he did take a leisurely jog around his usual route. Still, you couldn't let go of it, lips always set in a soft frown as he walked around without a care.

“Does he always do that? Just carry on even after those injuries?” You ask Gaz at lunch, whilst Ghost talks to Soap opposite you. 

“Yeah, we’ve tried to change him, trust me.” He sighs, patting your shoulder before shovelling another forkful in his mouth. It’s not only Ghost who looks worse for wear though, they all do. Gaz is practically forcing the food down and Soap’s mohawk is tousled and damp, strands weeping sadly— it’s not a good sight for any of them.

You wish you could do something, but everytime you get a bright idea all you can think about is how naive you probably are. This wasn't normal exhaustion, this was bone deep. It could be the weight of a hundred lives on their hands, hell even millions. What the hell could you do? And if you even so happened to mess something up, you can't stand the idea of giving them more work. Especially after Price and Gaz had to bail you out of that fight only a month ago.

So you do what you believe to be the most rational thing— avoid them all like the plague. You can't do any harm when you’re not near them, right? Plus, you didn't want to admit it, but when asked why they weren't eating as much Soap had just sighed, saying “Don't worry about it.”, and it hurt more than it should’ve.

They’re not wrong you suppose, technically you don't understand it at all. After all, you’ve never experienced what they have.

Every night you take a quieter routine in your room, making extra care to be very fast in the bathroom and then keep to your side after. You curl into bed, pretending to sleep as you watch Ghost move around. His steps are heavier now that he’s injured, no longer quiet and he only falters just slightly, and only ever in the confines of this room. Sometimes he looks over and you have to quickly shut your eyes, but he never approaches either, always heading to his desk or his bed. It reminds you of when you first met him, the nights you were terrified of him getting annoyed and just tucking yourself into the uncomfortable couch. It’s been forever since then.

He’s out for most of the next day, you heard from Gaz in passing, so you sit in the room during the day for the first time in a week. Your side is tidy, not quite neat, but nothing that could trip him or even make him huff about. He’s clean as well, but you can't help but walk over, setting all his things in the rightful places before sorting and dusting the room. 

When you’re all done cleaning his side, you settle on his bed for a breather, the sheets reminding you of the times you spent curled up beside him. No— you cant give into temptation. You would surely harm him if you did, putting pressure on his injuries, or you’d kick him in his sleep or wake him up at odd hours. Besides, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you really weren't in any place to wish for these things. It’s only by a stroke of luck that you ended up in Ghost’s room, and then even more that he let you talk to his team. 

Something sickening forms in your stomach as you sit there, eyes drooping at the thoughts eating you alive. It doesn't help seeing the soaked bandages in the bin next to his desk, or the empty painkiller packets. The fear was only half of the reason, truthfully you couldn't stand seeing him so injured either— but what kind of soldier did that make you? Probably a weak one. Only further proof you were way out of his league.

———-

“Hey kid, you doing okay?” Kyle’s hands are tucked tight in his jacket as he comes to where you’re sat on a bench outside during the usual mealtimes. You’ve been avoiding the mess hall and eating your lunch out here, so naturally you looked at him with wide eyes and stuffed cheeks when he caught you. “Looking like a squirrel there, huh?” He chuckles, sitting down next to you with his eyes still trained on you.

“ ‘m fine…” You mumble through the food in your mouth, hands clutching your box as his gaze washes over you entirely.

“Dunno, you’re acting kind of funny recently.” He adds, eyeing you suspiciously and then flicking open the lid of your takeaway box. It was only Wednesday, and you really shouldn't be having the greasiest food known to man in the middle of the week, but you also had a habit of stress eating. 

“Dont tell Ghost.” You plead, groaning when he starts to chuckle and just steals a chip with a nod.

You were hoping that would be all there is to it, until he shakes his head and leans back. “Nice try, I know that's not all it is. All week you’ve avoided us, private.”

You hated when he called you by that, making you groan again especially now you had to confront the truth.. or at least part of it. “I’m not avoiding you. Just keeping out of your way— it’s clear you're busy.”

He blinks, not really buying the excuse, but it does make some weird sort of sense he supposes. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You stuff another forkful in your mouth, and he just nods, slowly. When you look over you still see that exhaustion lingering, evident by how he turns his head to hide his yawn. 

“Alright. But.. you don't have to. At least come and sit with us, don't have to say anything if you don't wanna.” He hums before slowly standing, mumbling something about getting a good night's sleep and then he’s off again.

————————-

His words had left you wondering if you were going overboard with all this, after all you’ve barely exchanged more than a sentence with any of them for days now. So when you come back to the room that evening, you’re disappointed to find no sound of anyone within the room. With a soft sigh, you drop your bag by the door– a shower would surely pass the time until he returns again. He must be getting better by now too, so at least you won't have to feel queasy just seeing his bandages wrapped around him. 

You find out halfway through soaking your hair that your shampoo is completely empty, not even a backup one in the sink cupboard. He’s not back yet.. right? As carefully as you can, you get out of the shower, drying your feet on the mat and wrapping your body with your bathrobe before peeking out the door. “Ghost?” You speak out just incase but luckily there’s no sign of him at all, making you breathe out a sigh of relief. You rush through to your wardrobe, kicking your bag and accidentally splattering water everywhere from your wet hair. Oops.

In the end you get your shampoo without Ghost sneaking up on you— you’d never live that down. 

Wait, why the hell were you even acting like this? 

Ghost is the same person who wrapped his arms around you in his bed less than a month ago and the same guy who kisses your head everytime before he goes on leave. You were totally fine, hell you could just go ahead and hug him right when he enters. You towel dry your hair off after redressing, already thinking about how you’d approach him after being distant all this time.

“Hi Ghost sorry i avoided you like you were going to infect me can i please sit next to you as you do your work but of course if i annoy you please tell me to fuck off!”

Right, no, he’d definitely just give you a very strange look..and find you annoying like those privates who butter up to any higher rank they see. Most soldiers on base have already whispered that you are one of them and you do not want any more allegations.

Infact, it’s been like that for a.. while. You dont know when it actually started, just that it did, and it swallowed you. Every snicker, every point, every word too far for you to hear— it started to mix into one. Barracks Bunny. Boot licker. Suck-up.

No one has ever actually directed it at you, but you can feel the stares. Why would a girl like you, know a taskforce? How does a girl like you move up so easily? 

And it’s all too easy to get consumed by it, after all, it’s all the chatter going around. Nepo baby soldiers being able to do whatever they want, the rumours about night services that no one can actually attest to and now this— now it could be you. 

You’ve dragged them all into it— havent you? That’s what they’re all saying, ‘seducing’ them to your every whim. Manipulative, catfishing little—-

A loud thud echoes in the room, making your eyes snap to the bathroom door, especially when curses follow as well. 

Quickly you open the door, panicking. Forget the rumours you’d get no more hugs, no more team lunches,  no more sitting in the rec room and using his card for uber eats when you’ve killed off your lieutenant.

You look towards where the thud echoed, only to find Ghost upright. A sigh of relief escapes you as your heart starts pumping normally again until you realise you had just killed Sergeant Mactavish who is on the floor and cursing bloody murder.

“Are you okay?!” You hurry over as he rubs his face, grumbling as he looks up at you. 

“Yea, just bloody peachy— who the hell leaves water puddles all over the floor?”

You, that’s who, but you choose to ignore that part as you help him upright from where he had face planted onto the floor. His nose is bleeding, probably a noticeable bruise there tomorrow too, and you only notice now that Ghost is clutching his side. He lifts his shirt, cursing under his breath as he kicks the Scot with his foot. “You bloody idiot, why’d you start swinging when you fell huh? Now you ripped m’stitches.”

Your mouth widens in horror now that you realise you injured both of them in the span of one stupid mistake. In fact you think you might just burst into tears, beg for them to have mercy and forget you then ask for the next solo mission out of here. The only reason you wouldn’t quit is because that’d be the cowardly way out though you will have to consider releasing a public apology video.

“I didn't mean to- i didn't—“ You stumble on your words but he just shakes his head, Ghost snatching a tissue from the box on the dresser and pushing it towards Soap’s nose. 

“It’s his bloody fault for charging in— I tried to warn him but he was too focused on other things.” He rolls his eyes only for Soap’s jaw to drop, spinning around to him. 

“Ye did not warn me!”

“Not my fault you can't hear.” He retorts, grabbing his shirt and tugging him back out of the door.

“Well, we’ll be back later. Looks like a medical trip is due.”

And then, before you can say anything more, they’re both gone and leaving you standing here like a fool.

-

You pack your backpack hastily, swallowing down the guilt each time a new wave comes. After they left, you chased after them, only to hear Kyle telling them what he had talked to you about. You didn't stay after that, afraid they’d agree you’d only messed up things more and instead went around asking your friends if you could stay at theirs for the next week. If you stayed here any longer you’d only cause trouble and it’d be more like babysitting. Besides, you’ve long since passed your stay, the new barracks block was due to be ready any moment or so you heard. 

Stepping into the bathroom, you put your usual products in the bag, before hesitating on the shampoo. Even though it was technically yours, Ghost regularly used it as well. It’d sort of become a thing now, especially since it came at a cheaper discount when buying in bulk. You pick it up, running it over your hands and remembering the times he let you have baths for a whole hour. Sometimes he did have to knock and you’d hide behind the shower curtain whilst he grabbed the mask he hung up to dry, but even then you’d still yap his ear off and he’d listen.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You drop the bag as you spin around, met face to face with Ghost as he stands in the doorway. The last time you were caught like this was when you had accidentally seen him without the mask for the first time.. and you suddenly grow embarrassed remembering how you told him your opinions on his looks.

“I’m staying with my friend.. for a bit.” You say, trying to make it seem like it’s any other day and not because you’re actively escaping him.

“No— no way. I’m not letting you.”

“Ghost—“

“Simon.” He corrects you and you didn't even realise you’ve been only thinking about him with his codename recently. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Why?”

“You’re so busy, i’d totally get in your way!  Besides.. I’ve been outstaying my welcome long enough now..” You smile, phrasing it like its something to be expected but he only scoffs, stepping closer. 

“What? Is this what Kyle was talking about?” His mask is off, and you realise you don't often see his face truly harden like this. You wonder if this is what his enemies feel like, even if you’re seeing the whole of it rather than just the eyes. Either way, it’s intimidating to say the least, leaving you frozen in place as you stare up at him. “That’s bullshit, we’ve been fine for months livin’ like this. Tell me the truth.”

“W-well.. I couldn't stand the sight of all the bandages at first and then I saw the team, and they were equally exhausted and..” Each word makes you want to swallow harshly, but you owe him this much to say the truth and nothing but it. “You all walk around with the country on your shoulders.. I barely get asked for more than recon. Must be a little bit irritating— i must be so insensitive all the time scolding you.. about sleeping with wet hair.”

The poorly disguised insecurities doesn’t go unnoticed, neither does your own damp hair from the same shower that sent him to the infirmary. “So? I can't make a souffle, but I can tell when one is pretty shite. Don’t need to be a war general to know that the wet hair thing is bad..” His arms cross over his chest, challenging you to tell him more— the complete truth. 

“It’s not like that i..” You don't want to say he’s wrong, and you don't want to have this conversation right now when he’s so tired already. “I can't relate to you, I can't understand what you’re going through, and I know you’ll brush me off if I worry over your injuries.. I-i’m going to end up getting on your nerves.”

“Tha’s just stupid, you know i only stop you from fussin’ because i can handle it. Never said it annoys me.“ Stepping forward once more, he’s only inches away than the last time and though it should make you blush, you cant help but buzz with even more anxiety. 

“You don't need to say it— I know I’m nowhere near your reputation! Everyone knows how pathetic I am, of course it's my own damn fault for trying to look past it too.” With one last groan you shove the shampoo bottle in your bag that’s still on the floor, frustrated that he couldn't see the obvious truth. 

You start to walk forward, ready to move past him and get out of this room. Look at you, making him argue with you. If anything this was just proving you even more right than before. You really were useless when it comes to this.

“Tha’s it, I've had enough.” He puts an arm out before you can walk past, hand low and not even tensing his muscles.

“Go away, ‘m going.” You huff out, ruder than usual in an effort to get him to give up. However, you kept trying to move his arm only for it not to budge in the slightest. Dammit he had a t shirt on too so it was practically laughing in your face that he wasn't even straining his muscles. “Move—“ You try again but to no avail, letting out a huff before promptly trying to duck under his hand.

He hoists you up by the scruff of your shirt, effortlessly placing you against the wall to your right before letting you go. Then, just as you’re about to argue he steps closer, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me how to make it up to you.”

You stare at him dumbfounded, had he still not realised it? Maybe Lieutenants were immune to all rumours around this base, actually it’d make sense. Guess there’s one thing he’d never get about you.

“You’re not the problem—”

He pinches your cheek as you start to speak, making you frown and rub at the reddening mark left behind, instantly quietening down. “Clearly am if you’re leavin’ me. ” He sighs, but all you can do is continue to look at him in utter confusion, his face holding nothing but regret. “ ‘m sorry I havent been talkin’ with you either. I didn’t want you to see me like this— all bloody y’know?”

“A-arent you going to mock me for getting upset about that..? We’re soldiers, i should be used to blood and injuries but..” All you can do is fall quiet as he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Mocking ya wouldn't do anyone any good.” He leans in a little, just enough to make your eyes lock onto his. “I wouldn't want to see you like that either, for the record.” He’s still got you trapped against the wall as he speaks out the soft words, regret swirling in his eyes, one hand coming up to gently play with the free strands of your hair.  Finally he lets go, settling on cupping your shoulder, and then grazing down to your waist.

“Want you right here, rookie. You cant give me yourself for this long, and then snatch it away cause’ of a load of rubbish goin’ around base that you know isnt true.” 

Your eyes lock onto the dog tags hanging around his neck. The metal glints in the low light, reminding you of the burden he carries; you could never get one big enough to compare to him. “I..” You begin, a million things on your tongue, yet still your brain and heart conflict with one another. One side doubts everything, wallowing in the ‘truth’ of all of this.. the other wants to desperately believe every word he says.

When you still don't finish, he swallows sharper, gently clasping your hand. “You do know that, right? 

Your eyes immediately snap up to his again, the genuine concern in his eyes pulling at the blood vessels surrounding your heart. You’d be a damn liar if you said it hadn't already synced with every change of his mood.

“I’m not anything special anyway.” The shrug of your shoulders is soft, like how quiet your voice is. It kills him more that its more acceptance than insecurity now, like this is something you’ve prepared for and known your whole life.  “You dont have to..”

Lie. Pretend. Sugarcoat it.

That’s what you want to say to him, and to somehow soften the blow for yourself. Because you know it's coming, that he’ll get frustrated with you one of these days, that you won't just get it like everyone else. If you do the harm first then no one gets hurt— it's the easiest way out.

His watch buzzes where his hand grasps yours, grip only getting firmer with each of your words. You both glance down at the text from the Captain, something urgent maybe, who knows. 

“You’re busy— i’m sorry for keeping you..” 

You pull your wrist back but he only grabs your other hand too, stopping all your movements. Then, just as quick as he had done it, he crowds into your space, body stopping you from wriggling away. “Bullshit.” His hands abandon yours, leaving them to frame your cheeks instead.

“Simon—“

Its soft at first, his lips against yours, until the tips of his fingers gently grasp at your hair, drawing you in. It makes your limbs go weak, your heart overpowering any conflicting thought until your eyes are closed shut in the hopes he’d never let go.

“I’ll say this a million fuckin’ times if ‘ave to.” He breathes out, the rough scar on his nose brushing yours as he lets go, the calluses on his fingers brushing your face. “I want you. Here, right now, and it wont fuckin’ change. Yeah?”

“Y-yeah..” You practically squeak, anxiety quelled by his firm reassurance.. and the physical one too. Your hands reach out before you can stop them, finding home in his dog tags as you plead for more, desperate for him to take every last drop of air in your lungs.

He notices your eagerness, but also the tremble in your voice and in your fingers as they clutch the tags. “C’mere.” So, he pulls you in, your hands finding comfort in clutching at the back of his shirt as he holds you close. “You fuss anymore, hm? Wont believe the rubbish going around?” You nod your head, nose brushing his chest, soft promises falling from your lips. He can feel your fingers fidget as he easily flattens your concerns— even your breath trembles slightly. 

“If you have a problem, you come and talk to me about it. No more running away— we handle this like the damn soldiers we are.” 

“I.. promise. I- i will.” You nod quickly again, blood pumping even faster with being so close to him after something so.. sudden. You cant help but replay it over and over in your head, face burying into his shirt to hide the burning warmth in your cheeks. He tightens his grip in response, nose tucking against your hair and breathing the scent of you in, the strawberry shampoo and the perfume you liked. He hasnt touched you since he left for the mission a month ago— it feels like heaven to feel you like this again.

When you fidget again, moving back to tilt your head up and nervously look up at him, he raises a brow. “Go on, tell me.”

“Can we do that again?” Your hands slide to drape around his neck, eyes soft and almost watery. “Please?”

The plea makes even him soft, and he nods, pushing you back against the wall as he leans in once more, your eyes already shut as you grab fistfuls of his shirt.

—-

“Simon!” You squeal as he throws you over his shoulder, forcing you over to his side of the room. “You’ll rip your stitches.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. You can check ‘em for me.” He sets you down on his bed, turning around briefly to tug off his old shirt and replace it with the soft sleepshirt you bought him on a one off. For some reason you insisted he had dedicated sleep clothes like you did, and well, he couldn’t let them go to waste.

You frown at his lack of care, and he groans playfully, sliding onto the bed before effortlessly manoeuvring you beneath the duvets with his arms wrapping around soon after. “Oh come on, sweetheart. The whole week you ‘avent let me touch ya once and you still wont cause of some stitches?” He groans, burying his nose in your hair as he pulls you flush against him, pulling another yelp from you. It’s silent for a little while he takes in all he’s missed like he’s been starved— technically he has you suppose. It should just make you roll your eyes, but this time your stomach is all queasy and cheeks still hot.

“I made you rip them..” You wiggle in his grip, managing to roll around to face him.

 “That was Johnny, not you.” Unlike you, he wasn't fazed at all at the fact you two had just had your very first kiss. Meanwhile you were barely keeping yourself from running into the bathroom in an attempt to get your face to cool down.

He notices it though as his arm reaches past you to click off the main light, only the soft lamp behind him glowing now.“You look nervous— like I'm gonna eat ya.”

“Well how would I know? You could.” That makes him chuckle, especially as your petty frown still stays, harsher almost.

“Alright, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He appeases your complaints, hand rubbing your shoulder as you get comfortable next to him. “I should’ve asked beforehand but to be fair.. You looked like you wanted to eat me too y’know–”

“You freak!” You groan, slapping your hand over his mouth and turning his words into muffled gibberish,  his eyes creasing as he smiles. Still glaring at him, you drop your hand and let your head thump against the pillows, rolling onto your back. He props himself up as you stare at the ceiling, his eyes watching every soft movement of your body. This time he waits for you to speak, letting the silence sit comfortably.  “Can I see them..?” 

He raises a brow, following your gaze to where his shirt has risen, showing the bandages peeking out. He nods, sitting more upright before lifting his shirt properly, letting you see the clean white wrapping around his body. The shallower cuts are left uncovered, and your fingers reach out, not quite touching but instead tracing the scar as it deepens. “Do they still hurt?”

“Pretty used to it now.” He murmurs, surprised by the way you handle him so delicately. He always assumed that someone worrying over him was cowardly. Someone to be pitied was someone who needed protecting, and he swore he’d never rely on someone like that ever again. But now you’re here, only afraid of causing him harm, because you know that you would hate it if it were you.

Finally you trace the edge of the last bandage, humming gently as you tug down his shirt, like the entire process of checking him over soothed the nerves eating at you. You blink tiredly, suddenly feeling the weight off your shoulders now that you weren't terrified of disappointing him, nor harming him. It was so freeing. “So, can I sleep here on weekdays too now?”

“Just using me for my bed, aren’t ya?.” He feigns annoyance, grumbling as he tucks the blankets up to your neck. “And no, I told you, I'll miss my alarm.”

“It's called taking advantage of what you have.” You lean into his hand that pats down the duvet behind you, making sure there's no gaps for cold air to sneak in. “One day a week? Please?”

You were definitely taking advantage of how weak he was for you, that was for sure. So, he closes his eyes, like a sailor covering his ears from a siren’s spell, and you’d be a very pretty one at that. “Mmm… no.”

“Bastard…” You scoff, and he holds back a smile, but you wrap your arms around his middle anyway, settling your head against his neck as you let out a small sigh. He’ll agree tomorrow, you’re sure of it. Cornering him can't be that hard.

----------------------------------

ROOKIE MASTERLIST

COD MASTERLIST

Buy me a coffee?

taglist:

I wanna make things with my hands!!

You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.

What a cutie.

Wait till she grows up.

As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.

As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.

Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.

Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.

It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.

And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.

You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.

Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.

Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.

But you didn't hesitate.

You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.

Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.

The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.

And yet, all you can see is possibility.

For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.

"Excuse me?"

You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.

He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."

"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."

Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.

"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"

A sound cuts him off.

An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.

Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.

For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.

Then your stomach drops.

The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.

He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.

To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.

The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.

Your shoulders tense on instinct.

It was straight out of a horror movie.

"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"

"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.

"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."

Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.

A woman alone in the woods.

Right.

You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.

His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.

Halfway there, he slows and glances over.

Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.

Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.

Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.

"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."

You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.

His view of you was completely different.

All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.

Too small for this place.

You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.

He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.

Could see you almost too clearly.

The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.

And now occupied.

His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You wake up before the sun does.

The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.

The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.

But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.

You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.

You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.

Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.

You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.

Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.

"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"

You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.

"Four."

You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.

You're stalling. You know you are.

Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.

A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.

You freeze.

Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.

He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.

He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.

And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.

Your heart jumps straight into your throat.

You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.

"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."

"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."

The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.

You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.

The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.

"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.

"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.

The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.

It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.

The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.

"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.

Bunny?

"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.

He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."

"Sorry about him," he adds.

"He likes to wander."

"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.

"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."

His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."

"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."

"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.

"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.

You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"

"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.

"I'll take you."

You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"

"Already going," he replies simply.

You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.

Large freezers are secured in the back.

The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.

cute, you think.

"Simon,"' he introduces himself.

“Y/n."

The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.

You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.

Private bloke

Not private enough clearly.

Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.

Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.

"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.

"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."

"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"

Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.

"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,

He hums in understanding.

The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.

"This good?" he asks.

You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.

"I'll be back," he states.

You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.

You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The day goes by quicker than you expect.

One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.

"Lovely," some say as they walk past.

It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.

At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.

By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.

The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.

You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.

Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.

"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.

"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."

"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."

You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.

As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.

"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.

You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"

She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.

You follow her gaze.

A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.

"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.

That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.

"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.

"What about him?"

"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.

We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."

"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.

She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.

"Not much to him, really," she says finally.

"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."

"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.

"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.

Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.

"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."

You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.

Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."

Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."

You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"

She clicks her tongue.

"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."

"And people?"

She doesn't answer right away.

"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.

"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."

You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.

"Oh," you say softly.

Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.

"Just... take care, love."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.

"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"

You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."

"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.

"More curious than anything."

She hums, unconvinced but listening.

"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."

"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.

"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."

Her eyes soften at that, just a little.

"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.

You pause, then shrug.

"Not really. New place. New sounds."

You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."

She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."

"Mom—"

"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."

"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."

There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."

Her gaze sharpens immediately.

"About?"

"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."

"That doesn't make you uneasy?"

You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.

She doesn't look convinced.

"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back

"A ride?" she repeats.

You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.

"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”

She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."

"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."

She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.

"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."

You nod.

"I will."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You're not sure when it became a routine.

At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.

Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.

You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.

"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.

You did it again the next morning.

And the one after that.

Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.

Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.

"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.

You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.

By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.

Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.

And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.

No freezers. No crates. Nothing.

You noticed it once.

Twice.

Then you stopped looking.

It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.

He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.

On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.

But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.

It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.

Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"

You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.

It was.... pleasant.

Comforting even.

Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.

"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.

"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.

They nod toward the window.

Outside, the red truck waits.

"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.

the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.

"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.

"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.

"Don't know what you mean," he hums.

You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."

He glances over for half a second. "Different?"

"Mmhm." You nod.

He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.

"Have you eaten?"

You click your tongue.

"No."

The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.

This wasn't part of the routine.

You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.

"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"

You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.

You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.

It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.

He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.

And you do.

When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.

You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.

Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.

"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.

"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.

Shadow listens anyway.

Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.

Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.

Yours doesn't try to hide you.

There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.

It smells like you.

Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.

His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.

The kitchen's small. He isn't.

He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.

You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.

This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.

The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.

You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.

"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.

"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"

"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.

He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.

You lean back against the counter, watching.

The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.

It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.

You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.

"That smells amazing," you beam.

He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.

He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.

You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.

He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.

"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.

You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."

It slips out softer than you mean it.

For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.

"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.

"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.

"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."

You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.

Between the shop and... everything else."

"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."

That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,

"Don't like going into town much."

You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."

You meant it as a joke-only half truth.

He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.

The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.

Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.

The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.

You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.

You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.

Every area except one.

You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.

The closer you got, the clearer it became.

Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.

The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.

You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.

For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.

Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.

You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.

"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.

All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.

"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."

Today, though?

Today, you wanted that angle.

Simon be damned.

You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.

You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.

You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.

You looked like a lost bunny.

The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.

He paused what he was doing and just stared.

You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.

Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.

Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.

Then you showed up.

He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.

And yet.

You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.

He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.

By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.

Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.

You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.

He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.

"Can I help you."

You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.

You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.

Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.

"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."

He exhaled through his nose.

"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."

He meant it.

Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.

"I didn't walk in, though, did I."

Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.

He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.

He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.

He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.

The contrast caught you off guard.

He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.

Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.

Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.

This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.

The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.

"Now?"

"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.

Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.

"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.

"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.

"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."

You stopped short and turned back to him.

"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"

He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.

You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.

The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.

He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.

You looked at him properly then.

The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.

You noticed things you hadn't before.

The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.

He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.

You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.

Brutal. Masculine.

Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.

"You alright, bunny?" he asked.

You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.

"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.

"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.

As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.

You were about to apologize when he spoke.

"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."

You blinked-then laughed again.

"Can I?" you asked again.

This time, he stayed still.

You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.

The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.

"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.

"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.

"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.

He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.

"Because you look like one."

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.

You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.

Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.

"You got a boyfriend?"

Your hand stilled mid-line.

"Why the sudden question?"

"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."

You laughed at that.

"No," you said. "I don't."

He hummed in acknowledgement.

Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.

"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"

"Mmm. Couple years."

You click your tongue.

"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."

He shrugged.

"You can allow whatever you want."

You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.

He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.

"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"

You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.

"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."

"People included?"

"Especially people," you admit.

He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.

"You any good?" he asks.

You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."

"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."

You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.

You go back to drawing.

Time slips by without either of you noticing.

The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.

Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.

"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.

"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."

You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.

"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.

The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.

You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.

"I think that's enough," you say softly.

Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.

You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.

"Here."

He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.

That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.

Then, quietly, "You see a lot."

"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.

He nods once.

"Thank you," he says.

The words hang steady.

"Of course!" You smile softly.

The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."

"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.

"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.

"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.

Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.

His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.

A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.

The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.

You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.

Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.

A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.

He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.

"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.

You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.

"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"

you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.

He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.

His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.

"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.

You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.

"I can handle a little cold," you tease.

You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.

Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.

It's one of those nights.

The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.

You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.

But moments like this don't let you.

They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.

It makes your cunt ache.

Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.

You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.

You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.

The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.

Fuck.

Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.

Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.

You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.

You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.

You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.

His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.

Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.

Your thighs squeeze together.

You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.

Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.

A moan slips free.

"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.

Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?

Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.

The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.

"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.

"Si-"

Boom.

The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.

You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.

"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.

Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.

"Y/N!"

The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.

You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.

You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.

The power's out.

When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.

"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"

“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."

"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."

"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"

"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.

This place isn't insulated well enough for it."

You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.

"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."

"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."

You don't argue after that.

The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.

Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.

When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.

You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.

He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.

The warmth hits you immediately.

The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.

And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.

It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."

"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."

The words hit harder than they should.

Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."

"I would never," he says, without hesitation.

Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.

"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.

You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.

Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.

"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"

He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"

"Keep it around for storms." He adds

You blink. "Of course you do."

He almost smiles.

The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.

"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."

He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."

You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."

"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.

You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.

"You're quiet," he says after a while.

"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"

He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.

"No," he says. "Just noticing."

You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.

"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.

And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.

"Tea's good for you,"

The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.

The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.

"You're shaking," he says softly.

"I'm not," you lie automatically.

He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.

"Come here," he murmurs.

It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.

You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.

This is new for the both of you.

Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.

His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.

You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."

He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.

You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.

The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.

You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.

"You don't have to run," he says gently.

You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.

You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.

The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.

He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.

Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.

He stops immediately.

"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.

His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.

"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."

A beat passes.

Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.

"It's not," he says.

His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.

You don't.

The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.

His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.

You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.

"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.

Hungrier.

As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.

"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.

He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.

You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.

"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.

"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.

"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.

His expression doesn't change.

"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.

"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.

Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.

"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."

Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.

You can't imagine what you must look like right now.

You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.

The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.

"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.

His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.

Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.

He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.

"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.

Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.

"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.

"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."

His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.

No pictures. Exactly what you expected.

He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.

"Like what you see?" he teases.

"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.

The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.

Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.

"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."

Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.

His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.

Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.

You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.

"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.

He inhales deeply.

You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.

His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.

"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.

"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.

"Need you."

Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.

"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."

You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.

True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.

Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.

"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.

"Please."

He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.

You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.

"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.

"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.

He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.

His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.

The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.

You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.

He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.

He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.

Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.

You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.

He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.

One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.

"Oh my god, Simon—"

They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.

Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.

"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."

It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.

The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.

He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.

"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.

"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.

Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.

It's huge.

So thick it barely holds itself upright.

Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-

Would this even fit inside you?

But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.

Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.

The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.

You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.

"You think you can take it, bunny?"

Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.

"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.

Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.

He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.

"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.

"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."

For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.

"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.

No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.

"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.

His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.

Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.

"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.

Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.

He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.

Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.

"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."

You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.

He looks nothing like you feel.

He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.

Then warmth—unexpected.

You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.

"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.

You almost wish you hadn't.

It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.

He hasn't looked away once.

"Almost in, baby," he tells you.

Then he stops. All the way in.

You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.

Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.

Letting the shock fade.

"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.

You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.

When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.

Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.

He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.

You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.

You want him. So bad.

"You can be rougher-ah,"

"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."

His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.

"I do!" you say breathless.

You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.

And you don't want him to.

"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.

His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.

"You don't know what you're asking for."

The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.

"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.

Something flips inside him.

He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.

All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.

Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.

You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.

"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."

The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.

With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.

"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.

"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”

He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.

You don't hear him.

You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.

The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.

"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."

You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.

He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.

"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"

"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.

"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.

Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.

"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.

The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.

Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.

"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.

It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.

You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.

As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.

"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.

"Bend over."

His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.

"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."

"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.

His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.

And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.

Music to his ears.

Fuel to his aching cock.

He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.

"Sii-"

His thrusts are messy—messier than before.

Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.

Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.

You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.

"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.

"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.

The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.

You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.

He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.

He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.

From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.

"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.

“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”

His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.

"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.

It made Simons cock impossibly harder.

He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.

"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.

He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.

Then everything disappears.

Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.

You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.

This last one knocks you out completely.

You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.

"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."

He doesn't give you time to recover.

He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.

"Make me cum, bunny."

"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.

"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."

His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.

And then his earlier words echo in your head.

M'gonna breed you.

You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.

You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.

"Want it inside," you beg.

Simon's eye twitches.

His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.

His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.

It's sudden. Too sudden.

You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.

Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.

His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.

Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.

"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."

He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.

You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.

You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.

Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.

"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.

"Fuuuck, bunny."

Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.

He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.

You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.

"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.

You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.

The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.

"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.

Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.

"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.

You hum in response, too spent to form real words.

He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.

You melt into him easily.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"

His arm tightens just a little.

"Good."

You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.

He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.

"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.

You tilt your head, listening.

"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

© all content belongs to httpxyeager 2026. do not modify or repost.

+ a gif

Simon would rather the world combust than apologize. When was the last time he genuinely apologized to someone? Perhaps it was three years ago, when he walked in on Kyle mid jerk off. Nah, that one wasn’t sincere; he immediately told him that he should’ve locked the door.

The hallway was empty, as per usual. Simon could hear the sounds coming from everyone’s unit as he walked by. Unit 301 was watching some reality show, unit 302 was listening to some classical music, unit 303 was quiet.

Then, he stopped in front of your door.

His knuckles reached up to knock but then he stopped himself. Could he ever redeem himself again? He bought cookies and a bottle of wine from the nearest convenience store as a way to apologize for his… rudeness, for an appropriate word.

Simon didn’t know how long he stood there. What he did know, was that he took in ten deep breaths and paced back and forth thirty-two times before he finally got the courage to knock. His knuckles reached up to the wooden door again, giving it one knock before you swung the door open.

The two of you locked eyes, your expression surprised and lips slightly ajar while Simon stared back at you with the same expression.

He was shocked to see you standing right at the door the moment he knocked. You were shocked to see him standing there after months of giving you the cold shoulder.

“Got y’ some stuff,” Simon spoke up before you could inquire about his sudden presence. He lifts the paper bag just slightly, the handles hanging loosely over his curled index and middle finger. “For being an arsehole,” he adds. You know, in case you were wondering why he decided to gift you some lackluster, dry cookies and wine that wouldn’t get you drunk.

Your eyes dropped down to the bag by his side. At least he tried, right? No— you weren’t going to give in. Plus, why the sudden change? He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to just wake up one day and think: “yeah, I was a total asshole. Let me make it up to her and try to be friendly.”

In fact, Simon wasn’t at all. And that’s why he finds this whole situation ridiculous.

When you didn’t respond fast enough, he realized how badly he had fucked up. Because now, you were staring at him like you weren’t falling for whatever bullshit he was doing and you were definitely not in the mood to engage in any sort of conversation with him.

“Where you goin’?” Simon randomly blurts out, noticing your attire… and the fact that you opened up the door before he could even finish three knocks.

He realized just how stupid that question sounded. Is he sure he’s not a spy?

“Didn’t mean it like that. Just figured since y’know— couldn’t even knock on your door before y’opened it up,” Simon added, shrugging awkwardly.

Oh no.

You’re still giving him that flat expression. And you’re not answering him! Now he knows how you felt for the past three months.

Oh gosh, was this how you felt? Ignored and disliked for no reason? Here he was, giving you an apology along with snacks and drinks. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, giving him the driest look on your face and the silent treatment.

When he realizes that you weren’t going to respond, he takes a step back and nods. “Just wanted to apologize for being a dick. Not use to talkin’ to people,” he says, lowering his head and unable to meet your gaze.

You gave Simon a hum and stepped out of your apartment, locking the door right after. You weren’t going to respond to him— how dare he give you some half assed apology and think you’d take it?! He can shove it in his— No. Now you’re just being mean.

“I just thought you were really pretty— Didn’t mean t’ be an arse, really. I don’t usually have a line of pretty women waiting t’ talk to me,” Simon blurted out sarcastically, watching as you tried opening your door to ensure you locked it fully. “Just- I just didn’t trust you—“

God, he was a mess. He’s fumbling left and right. Is there anything Simon can do properly? Apparently everything else but talk to the only woman who had given him attention.

You looked back at Simon, your face morphed into confusion. “Excuse me?”

There we go. Now he’s getting somewhere. Except— you didn’t seem to take that as a compliment. Honestly, could anyone? “I mean— ‘cause you’re a pretty lass. Pretty lass’ don’t talk to men like me,” Simon tried to explain, his voice almost timid now.

If anyone on his team witnessed this, they would’ve cackled and recorded. No way would anyone hear Simon talk like he was a child caught doing something bad.

A small scoff fell from your lips as you rested your hands on your hips, glaring at him. He’s not giving you the full story, hence, why you’re still confused and a bit angry. The average person would be anyways!

“Do I gotta get down on my knees for y’t realize I’m being genuine?” Simon ask, head tilt from irritation and embarrassment. Before you could even answer, he sets the bag down besides him and got down on his knees, staring up at you, “thought you were a spy, alright? Not something I like admitting, but I was wrong. If y’ give me a chance, I’ll prove to you that I’m not that much of an arsehole.”

Oh.

Oh.

The realization dawned on you. This whole time, you thought Simon was just being a jerk because he thought you were annoying. No, he was ignoring you because his line of work taught him to.

Then, another thought popped up in your head.

“Why are you apologizing now?” You stared down at him, gaze unwavering and lips pressed into a thin line.

Simon really didn’t want to answer this. He’s already made himself look like a fool by admitting his mistake and getting down on his knees. When was the last time he’s gotten on his knees? He knows that once he stands up, his knees will crack. “… Did some research,” Simon grumbled under his breath and looked at the nearby wall.

Slowly, you blinked three times. He stalked you. “You’re a real creep, you know that?” you ask, taking a step back to fully look at him on his knees.

Simon huffed, “don’t ya’ think I know that?”

That answer caught you by surprise. You hadn’t expect him to just fully agree to it and give in. Then again, you didn’t know him at all. His explanation seemed to match up to why he had given you the cold shoulder. And you couldn’t exactly stay mad at him. Not when he was on his knees, begging for forgiveness and even made an effort to buy something small.

A deep sigh escaped your nose as you looked up at the ceiling. This better not be a mistake. You looked back down at Simon, “Lucky for you, I was just heading down to get some brunch,” you grumbled, still mildly irritated. “If you’re up for it… You might as well join me and explain everything.”

Simon’s eyes shot up towards you. He wasn’t controlling his facial expression anymore; eyes filled with relief and lips parted. “Yeah—“ he stood up, knees cracking. “Yeah— I can do that,” he adds, grabbing the bag and handing it to you. “Simon. My name’s Simon Riley.”

You hesitate for a moment, staring down at the bag before finally grabbing it out of his grasp. “Creep…” you mumbled out before sharply turning around and headed towards the lift.

Simon bit back a smile as he watched your retreating form. “I’ll make up for it,” he says to himself and follows behind.

The sound that rips out of him is raw, animalistic—half groan, half roar, and loud enough to rattle in your chest. His head drops to your shoulder, strong hips slamming forward, and then he doesn’t stop making noise.

And to someone who gets off on sounds, it’s pure, heavenly filth.

Every thrust drags another wrecked sound from his throat; deep, guttural moans that vibrate against your skin, rough growls when you tighten around him, broken curses growled right into your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—tight little cunt—so fuckin’ good—”

He’s loud, shameless, voice cracking on your name like it hurts. When you rake your nails down his back he actually whines—a desperate, needy sound you’ve never heard from him before—and drives into you harder, the bedframe knocking against the wall in a steady, obscene rhythm that makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

You feel him lose the last of his restraint when you clench deliberately and gasp, “Love how you sound, Si. Ngh... love knowing it’s me—”

Simon lifts his head, eyes wild and dark, and the noise he makes then is pure filth: a long, drawn-out groan that sounds like it’s being torn out of him, ending in a gravelly: “Gonna fuckin’ come—gonna ah fill you up—”

And he does—hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you as he roars your name against your neck, loud enough that you’re half-sure the neighbors heard. The sound alone tips you over, and you come clenching around him, sobbing his name into his shoulder.

After, he doesn’t go quiet again.

He collapses on you, still twitching, breath ragged, but even spent he’s vocal—soft, rough praises growled against your skin.

“Christ… you ruin me, pet.”

“Can never get enough of you.”

“Sound so fuckin’ pretty when y’take me.”

From that night on, once the trust is absolute, Simon is unashamedly loud and proud about it.

Not performative—never that. Just raw and unfiltered. The man who barely speaks in public will growl filth in your ear like it’s the only language he knows when he’s inside you. He moans like a dying elk (deep, hoarse, loud, and utterly wrecked) every time you ride him slow. He whimpers—actually whimpers—when you suck him off and look up at him through your lashes, moaning softly around his meaty cock.

And every time, without fail, he presses his sweaty forehead to yours afterward and rasps, voice hoarse from shouting your name:

“Only for you. Only ever this loud for you, baby,” he’ll grunt every time.

And you believe him; feeling it in your bones every time he loses himself in you. Loud, filthy, and completely, irrevocably yours.

When you finally spoke to him it wasn’t fate crashing into place like he’d expected. It was casual and very human.

And that terrified him.

For the first time since the moment his heart had stumbled at the sight of you, Simon wondered if wanting you wasn’t enough. If maybe being destined for someone didn’t mean owning them, but choosing them, again and again, even when they could walk away.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure whether he was more afraid of losing you…or of loving you the right way and still not being chosen.

Simon first noticed the subtle change in himself the day you leaned over the printer, squinting at the screen. You muttered something under your breath, but he couldn’t stop watching. Your hair fell over your face-, and he caught himself imagining how it would feel to brush it behind your ear for you. His chest tightened. His fingers twitched against the edge of the counter.

You didn’t notice him there. You were too busy tapping at the screen, muttering, adjusting your hair, completely unaware that somewhere in the corner of the office, Simon Riley was quietly rewriting the meaning of his existence.

When you finally straightened, you smiled at someone else across the room and Simon felt like he got stabbed with a knife. He told himself he was fine. He wasn’t.

Later that week, you were in the kitchen making tea. He leaned against the doorway, waiting for the coffee machine, but really, just wanting to watch you move. You hummed a little song, a tune he didn’t know but felt familiar somehow, and he froze mid-step. The way you reached for the sugar, the way your fingers lingered on the jar for just a moment too long, it was nothing, and yet everything.

“Want some?” you asked, holding out a cup toward him without thinking.

Simon’s chest stuttered. “Uh… sure,” he said, trying to sound casual.

You smiled, bright and innocent, and he had to close his eyes for a second to stop the world from spinning. He could feel your warmth through the paper cup. That was all, just warmth. But it was devastating. He swallowed, forced a smile, and muttered, “Thanks.”

And then you were gone, leaving him with the ghost of your presence, a laugh echoing in his chest.

One evening, you ended up outside on the steps, just after a long day. You didn’t even realize you’d chosen to sit next to him, and yet there he was, shoulder brushing yours. The air was cool, biting slightly at your cheeks, and you blew out a breath that drifted over him. He wanted to reach out, touch your hair, hold your hand…but didn’t. He never would… not yet.

“Long day,” you said, voice soft.

Simon nodded. “Yeah.”

You didn’t look at him, just tilted your face toward the sky, letting the faint glow of the streetlight illuminate your profile. “Do you ever feel like time’s moving wrong?” you asked. “Like you’re either too early or too late for everything?”

He swallowed hard, words thick in his throat. All the carefully rehearsed lines he’d written in his head evaporated. “All the time,” he said finally, before he could stop himself.

You hummed thoughtfully, and nudged your knee against his lightly. It was accidental, but he felt it as though you had pressed straight into his ribcage. He froze, trying to control the hammering in his chest, the way every instinct in his body screamed to lean in, to hold that space with you. But he didn’t. He just stayed still, and let you be.

Because loving you wasn’t about forcing you into his world. It was about choosing restraint, over and over, even when it burned.

Simon memorized everything. The little things nobody noticed. The way your eyebrows knitted when you concentrated, the faint crease in your smile when you laughed too hard, and he stored them in his heart, as his precious little secret.

And you, completely oblivious, moved through life like a sunbeam, unaware of how close you were to someone who had fallen utterly, irrevocably for you.

…

Simon woke one morning already exhausted, though he hadn’t moved from his bed. He’d been replaying yesterday’s and how he’d nearly told you how he felt in the kitchen, how the words had fizzled into nothing.

He told himself he could do it today. Today would be different. He’d walk up to you in the hall, lean against the doorway, maybe brush some hair from your face, and just say it. That was all. Simple.

By the time he saw you, leaning against the lockers, hair half-falling over your face as you read something on your phone, his plan was already trembling in his hands. His throat felt thick. His palms were sweaty, and his heart kept hammering like it wanted to escape.

“Hey,” he said instead.

You looked up, smiled, completely unaware. “Hey!” Your eyes crinkled at the corners, warm and bright, and Simon felt his courage crumble. Words were stuck in his chest. He opened his mouth again, tried to start over.

Then someone called your name from the other side of the hallway. You waved and walked toward them, and Simon just… watched.

Lunch was worse. You were sitting outside with your usual group, laughing at something dumb, hair falling in soft waves across your shoulders. Simon had been building up to this all morning, imagining walking up, sitting beside you, leaning just close enough to brush your hand as he spoke.

But every time he took a step forward, a new wave of fear hit. What if you laughed? What if it changed everything? What if you didn’t feel the same way?

So he stayed back. He leaned against the wall, pretending to scroll on his phone, every instinct screaming at him to just say it. To reach out. To tell you he had wanted you from the very first moment he saw you. But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched you. Memorized the way your eyebrows lifted when you laughed, how your eyes crinkled at the corners, how your shoulder brushed your friend’s for just a second.

Later, walking back from the cafeteria, Simon almost did it again. You were joking with him now, leaning close enough that your hair brushed his shoulder. Perfect timing, perfect light, perfect quiet. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing into his chest.

“Can I…” he started, words choking off before they could form.

You tilted your head, waiting for him to continue and Simon—stupid, terrified, human Simon—looked down at his shoes and mumbled about the weather instead.

You laughed at his ridiculous comment, your eyes sparkling. He forced a smile back, heart breaking in a slow, painful rhythm.

By evening, Simon was pacing in his room, running his hands through his hair, muttering to himself. Okay. I’ll text them. No, wait. I’ll wait for tomorrow. No, now. No—what if I ruin it? What if I scare them off?

He sank onto the bed, head in his hands, trying to make sense of the fire in his chest. Wanting you wasn’t enough. Waiting wasn’t enough. Saying the words might be worse. And yet, the thought of another day of just watching, memorizing, aching silently… it was unbearable.

Simon realized, finally, that he wasn’t just scared of being rejected. He was scared of the possibility that loving you the right way might not be enough to make you stay. That maybe, after all this, you could still walk away.

And so he waited. Again. And memorized. Again. And hoped. Quietly, desperately, painfully. Again

Because loving you was terrifying, but not loving you… God that was impossible.

…

Simon leaned against the railing of the stairwell, hands gripping the cold metal, heart hammering so loudly he was sure you could hear it if you were close enough. He had rehearsed this moment in his head for weeks. Every word. Every pause. Every little breath between syllables. Tonight, he told himself, he was finally going to say it.

You appeared at the top of the stairs, humming softly to yourself, completely unaware of the war waging inside him. You spotted him and smiled, a small, careless thing that made Simon’s chest both ache and skip.

“Hey,” you said, stepping closer. “Everything okay?”

Simon nodded, though his stomach was twisting into knots. He took a deep breath, opening his mouth to finally say it.

“I… I need to tell you something,” he began, voice low and steady. His heart surged, pounding so hard he thought it might give him away.

But before he could continue, you grinned and practically bounced on your toes. “Oh! I wanted to tell you! I’m so excited! Mark asked me to grab dinner tonight! I can’t believe it; I’ve been talking about that place forever!”

The words hit Simon like a bucket of ice water. His chest went tight. The syllables he had lined up perfectly, the truth he had been holding for months, evaporated in an instant.

“That’s… great,” he said, voice tighter than he intended, forcing a small smile. His hands itched to reach out, to stop your happiness from hitting him like this, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

You laughed, talking about the menu, the dress you wanted to wear, the joke Mark had made earlier. Simon nodded and smiled along, but inside, it was like someone had hollowed him out. The courage, the words, the vulnerability, they were all gone, buried under the weight of your excitement for someone else.

He wanted to say wait, don’t go, I need you to hear me—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stayed there, shoulders slumping, staring at the stairwell floor as your voice bounced off the walls and left him feeling smaller than ever.

When you finally turned to leave, he whispered your name, but you were already gone, leaving only the echo of laughter, of hope, and the brutal knowledge that sometimes wanting someone with every part of yourself still wasn’t enough.

Simon pressed his forehead against the railing, letting out a shaky breath. Tonight, he had come close. Tonight, he had almost had it.

And tonight, it had all slipped through his fingers.

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don't hate me pls