Gonzils

Footsteps were coming down the hall.

Simon’s eyes opened fully, his attention fully on his front door. Every soft, half-sleeping part of him vanished at once. His arm tightened around you, not enough to wake you properly, but enough to feel the slow rise and fall of your breathing against him.

Across the hall, and outside your door, something shifted. A light scrape came next. Then a small thump, barely anything at all, but Simon heard it as clearly as if it had landed beside his head.

His body moved before thought caught up. He eased you off him as carefully as he could, but you stirred anyway, blinking in confusion when the warmth of him disappeared.

“Simon?” you murmured, voice rough with sleep.

He was already reaching for the floor, finding his trousers and pulling them on quickly. “Stay here,” he said.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair messy, eyes still lidded with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s outside your door.” Simon crossed the room in three strides, grabbing his mask from the floor and pulling it on. His shirt was still somewhere near the couch, but he didn’t grab for it. “Don’t open this door.”

Now you were fully awake, he saw it happen, the fear cutting through your confusion as you sat up, suddenly aware of everything that was happening. You reached for the closest covering you could find and pulled his shirt over your head, the hem swallowing you as you climbed off the couch.

“Be careful,” you said again, sharper this time.

He didn’t answer. He opened the side table drawer, the one he’d told you not to touch, and took out the handgun inside. Your eyes dropped to it, then back to him, but you didn’t say anything.

Simon moved to the door and listened.

The footsteps were retreating, light and quick. Too light, maybe. He opened the door fast and stepped into the corridor with the weapon low at his side, his shoulders squared and his eyes already cutting toward your flat.

An orange envelope sat on your welcome mat, and at the far end of the hall, near the stairwell, a small figure froze.

It was not the bastard Simon had been waiting for. It was a boy, maybe eleven or twelve, with a hood pulled up and trainers damp from the street. He had one hand on the stairwell door, eyes wide as he looked back and saw Simon standing there shirtless, masked, and armed.

The boy made a terrified sound and bolted. Simon cursed and went after him, putting the gun down before he left.

He didn't want to scare him worse than he already had, but the boy didn’t make it three steps down the stairs before Simon had him by the back of his hoodie, firm enough to stop him, careful enough not to hurt him.

“Easy,” Simon said, keeping his voice low despite the anger burning hot through his chest. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The boy twisted anyway, panic all over his face. “I didn’t do nothing! I swear, I didn’t do nothing.”

“You left a package at that door.”

“I was told to!” the boy blurted. His voice cracked, and the sound cut through enough of Simon’s rage to remind him what he was holding onto. Simon let go immediately. “Some bloke paid me, yeah? That’s all. He gave me twenty quid and said leave it at that door. I didn’t know it was bad.”

Simon crossed his arms looking down at the boy. “What bloke?”

“I don’t know.” The boy shook his head hard, eyes darting toward the lower flights like he was still calculating whether he could make another run for it. “He had his hood up. Had a hat too. He was by the alley near the corner shop.”

“What did he look like?” Simon asked.

“I don’t know,” the boy said again, more desperate now. “White, I think. Maybe old. Not old old, just older than me. He had gloves on. He said I could keep the money if I didn’t look in the bag.”

Simon’s jaw worked behind the mask. What a piece of shit, paying a child to do his dirty work. “You remember anything else?” Simon asked.

The boy shook his head, then hesitated. “He smelled weird.”

Simon looked him over, committing everything to memory. The panic seemed real enough, and the kid had no reason to protect the man beyond the twenty quid already in his pocket.

“Go straight home,” Simon said. “If he comes near you again, you tell someone.”

The boy nodded fast. “Yeah. Okay. I will.”

“And don’t take money from strange men,” he added from the stairs, voice softer than usual for him but no less serious.

Simon watched until the stairwell door below slammed shut. Only then did he turn and come back up to you, your face pale and your eyes fixed somewhere beyond him when he came back and opened his flat.

“What happened,” you said.

“It was just a kid, he was a messenger,” Simon replied.

Your gaze lifted to his. “What kind of sick person does such a thing?”

He didn’t argue, because you were right.

The package still sat outside your door. It was small, with your name written across the front in the same uneven hand from the note at work. Simon hated the sight of it so much that his fingers flexed before he forced himself to grab it.

You were trying to be brave again. He could see the effort in the way you held your shoulders, the way your fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt.

When he came back, he didn’t let you touch the package. You made a small sound from the couch, and Simon’s eyes flicked to you before he opened it. “You don’t have to look.”

“Yes, I do,” you said. Your voice was quiet but steady.

Simon looked at you for a second longer than he meant to before reaching into the envelope.

There was a photo inside. It was you outside your workplace, from earlier. You were beside the bike, helmet in hand, his jacket draped over your shoulders, your face turned up toward him with tears still bright in your eyes. Simon was in the frame too, standing close, one hand near your face.

The angle was from across the street.

Simon went cold. He had been there. The bastard had been there, close enough to take the photo, and Simon had missed him because you had come out crying and his whole world had narrowed to you.

He set the photo down carefully.

“Simon,” you said, but he didn’t look at you right away.

There was a note beneath the photo. He unfolded it slowly, already knowing he wasn’t going to like what he found.

You're mine.

Simon stared at the words until they blurred at the edges of his anger. Anger, clean and focused and so deep it took ahold of his lungs

“He was there,” he said.

You stood from the couch, his shirt slipping slightly from your shoulder. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I should’ve.”

“You were watching the building all day.”

“And he still got close enough.” Simon looked at the photo again, at the angle, at the distance, at the street he had scanned so many times. “He watched you come out. Watched me with you, and took this while I was right there.”

You stepped closer, careful like he was something dangerous enough to spook. “Simon, I came out crying. It was my fault, I distracted you. You were looking at me because I was falling apart.”

“No. Don’t blame yourself. I won’t allow that.”

“It’s the reason,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours then, but before either of you could say more, his phone rang from the side table.

Simon didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. He answered on the second ring. “Talk.”

There was a pause. “Good evening to you too.”

“Price.” The edge in Simon’s voice must have said enough, because Price didn’t bother with another comment. “We found something.”

Simon looked at you again. You were still standing close, arms now crossed at your chest, looking down at the photograph.

“Give me a name,” Simon said.

“Elias Lawrence,” Price replied. “Former internal mailroom and facilities staff at her company. Fired four months ago after multiple complaints. There;s all kinds of notes from harassment, inappropriate behavior toward staff, repeated boundary issues. Nothing stuck properly because nobody wanted the paperwork, but there’s more.”

Simon’s eyes moved to the evidence on the table. “Go on.”

“Prior caution for stalking an ex-girlfriend. Public indecency charge from a few years back. A couple of drug possession arrests, nothing major, but enough to suggest he’s not stable. His last known address is outdated, but I’m sending you the file now.”

“He sent a kid to her door,” Simon said.

Price went quiet. “What?”

“Paid a child twenty quid to leave a package with a new photo and a threatening note. Not enough to charge him but conveying enough .”

“Christ.” Price exhaled hard. “Send me a photo of everything, and I’ll move this faster. But I mean it, Simon. Don’t do something stupid.”

Simon ended the call without promising anything.

A second later, his phone buzzed with the file. He opened it, and Elias’s face filled the screen.

Your nosy little mind came into his peripheral vision looking at his phone, then you made a sound like the air had been knocked out of you.

Simon looked up. “You know him.”

You nodded, staring at the photo on his phone. “That’s Eli. He used to deliver mail to our floor.”

Simon handed you the phone carefully, but your fingers still shook as you took it. You didn’t look away from the screen, your eyes fixed on the face there like you were trying to match the man in the file to the person you barely remembered from work.

“He was always around,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “He came by the front desk, the offices, the little break room near the lifts. Everyone knew him, sort of. Not well. He kind of kept to himself a lot.” 

Simon said nothing. He let you put the pieces together because he could see them forming behind your eyes, one after another, each one making your face go a little paler.

“I don’t think I ever had a proper conversation with him,” you continued. “Maybe a thank you if he handed me something, but that’s it. He was always so... reserved. Quiet, I guess.”

You looked at the package on the table, then at the photo, then back down at the file in your hands. The color had gone from your face.

“You think it was him?” you asked.

Simon took the phone back before your hands dropped the phone. “Looks that way.”

The answer didn’t comfort you, and it sure as hell didn’t comfort him either. His eyes cut back to the note on the table, to the ugly little sentence written there like the bastard had any right to put a claim on you.

You’re mine.

No. You weren’t Eli’s. You weren’t anyone’s to own, and the thought of that man sitting somewhere staring at your photos, writing those words, made Simon’s blood turn hot. Now more than ever, there was a part of him, dark and impossible to bury, that wanted to put himself between you and the rest of the world and dare anyone to try taking you.

He couldn’t get enough of you. He wanted to be near you every second of every day. The way you had so easily broken into his life, the walls he’d spent years building crashing down from the feel of your hands on him alone, left him lost in you in a way he didn’t know how to fight.

But if you changed your mind, if you gave him even one thought that said you didn’t want him, he would leave. He would tear himself away before he ever made you feel trapped. You were nobody’s, but for now, he was yours.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, his shirt loose around your frame as you stared at the coffee table. Simon couldn’t fight the urge this time. He reached for your waist and pulled you into him, careful but firm, until you were close enough to tuck yourself against his chest.

“What happens now?” you asked, looking up at him.

Simon looked down at you, tears threatening to spill from those pretty eyes, His hand moved to the side of your face, brushing your hair behind your ear with more gentleness than he felt capable of.

“He won’t get his hands on you,” Simon said, voice low. “Once he shows his face, it’s over.”

Your arms wrapped around his frame then, tight enough that he felt the tremble in them. You buried your face against his chest, and Simon held you there, one hand at the back of your head while the other stayed firm at your waist.

“What if he doesn’t?” you asked quietly.

“He will,” Simon said. “Men like him always do. They get desperate when they realize they’re losing control.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, eyes still wet but steadier than before. “How do you know all this?”

A breath of amusement left him before he could stop it. “I’m in the mafia, remember?”

That earned him a small, disbelieving laugh. It wasn’t much, barely more than a crack in your fear, but Simon took it as a win. You tapped him lightly on the chest, and he caught your hand before you could pull it away.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said.

“Been called worse.”

Simon’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.  “I promised I’d keep you safe,” he said. He leaned down and kissed your lips, trying to comfort you in your fear. You leaned into him, and Simon let himself have that one small second before lifting his head.

“I don’t break promises.”

-

By the time Simon pulled the bike back into the underground garage, the evening had settled. He parked in his usual spot and cut the engine all too aware of your hands loosening from him and the way you sat behind him for half a second longer than necessary before climbing off.

You handed him the spare helmet, both your hands brushing together faintly as he took it from you. “Thank you,” you said, a little softer than usual. Simon set it back on the shelf above his parking spot, right beside his own.

When he turned around, you were straightening your skirt and trying to pat your hair down. The helmet had done a number on it, leaving pieces loose around your face and the rest of it slightly wild no matter how much you tried to fix it.

You caught him staring almost immediately. “What?” you asked, hands still in your hair and eyes narrowing at him.

“Nothing,” Simon said.

Your face shifted into amused suspicion. “I know, I know. My hair’s probably a mess. Next time, I’ll braid it or something.”

Simon tilted his head slightly. “Next time?”

You paused, realizing what you’d said. “I mean...”

“Not so scared of the bike anymore?” he asked, pushing his luck tonight.

You looked away first, fussing with your bag to hide the little smile pulling at your mouth. “Well, with the way you ride it, I didn’t have much choice but to get used to it quickly. Plus, it’s...” You trailed off, shoulders lifting a little like you were preparing to defend yourself.

Simon stepped closer to you, enough that your eyes flicked up to his. “Plus what?”

“It’s kind of fun,” you admitted. You shrugged again, almost helplessly, and the smile that followed was detrimental to him. Christ, you were killing him. 

“Come on,” he said, reaching for the bag around your shoulder. “Let’s get upstairs before you get the urge to apply for a licence."

You scoffed and nudged his shoulder with yours as you walked past him. “Okay, that’s a little much. I said it was fun, not that I’m planning to get my own.”

Simon followed beside you toward the lift, his attention moving over the garage, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing shifted between the parked cars. No footsteps echoed from the stairwell, and no one waited near the lift. Still, he kept close enough that your jacket sleeve brushed his often.

The lift carried both of you up quietly. You looked tired, but the fear from earlier had eased from your face, at least for now. Simon saw you glance at him once in the reflection, and when he caught your eyes there, you looked down with another small smile you tried to hide.

The doors opened with a faint beep, and he stepped out first. His eyes went straight down the hallway to your door, then to the floor in front of it. No orange envelope sat on the mat, and nobody was lingering near the stairwell.

Simon stopped when they reached his door instead of yours. “I have to grab a few things,” he said, taking his keys from his pocket. “Stay right here.”

You stopped beside him, brows lifting slightly. “Okay.”

Simon unlocked his door and mentally scolded himself for not being smarter. He should’ve packed more into the shitty duffle he’d brought over to your flat a few nights ago when he started sleeping on your couch. Crashing, he corrected himself. He was crashing on your couch, not settling in.

It was the best sleep he’d had in years, but he refused to let himself believe it was permanent. Once the bastard leaving envelopes finally showed his face, and Simon knew he would, life would go back to normal. You’d be safe, Simon would return to his flat, his job, and the distance between your doors would feel like miles again.

He only hoped you’d still knock every once in a while when you needed help opening a jar.

“Can I come inside?” you asked softly from behind him.

Simon’s hand froze with the door open barely two inches. For half a second, he didn’t move at all. Then he pulled it shut again and turned back toward you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “I’ll only be a minute.”

You looked past him to the door, then back at his face. “Please?”

Bloody hell. There were worse words you could’ve used, but Simon couldn’t think of any in that moment. He sighed through his nose, turned back, and opened the door all the way.

“Fine,” he said, holding it open for you. “But don’t touch anything.”

You stepped inside carefully and Simon closed the door behind himself, watching you take in the bare bones of his flat.

It was dark, because he kept the curtains closed at all times. The dusty shutters let in only a little light from the street two floors below, cutting thin lines across the floor and the edge of the old coffee table. The couch took up most of the living room, ripped at one arm and sagging in the middle from too many years of use. The table in front of it had been salvaged from the side of the road by him and Johnny after a night out neither of them had ever fully explained to Price.

You looked around while Simon stood by the door, suddenly more aware of the place than he’d been in years. The walls were bare. The kitchen counters held nothing that didn’t need to be there. No plants, no blankets, no stacks of books, or candles. There were no traces of a life in here. God, he was decrepit. 

In his defense, he was gone most months out of the year. There was no point decorating a place he barely lived in. Even if there had been, he wouldn’t know where to start. What the fuck would he decorate with anyway? Flowers?

“It’s...” you started, then stopped. You were definitely trying to be kind and struggling to find the right lie. “It’s nice.”

Simon gave you a look and you folded almost immediately. “Okay, it could use some work.”

The honesty made the corners of his mouth lift beneath the mask. “Could it?”

“A little,” you said, and your shoulders lifted as you smiled. “But I figured it would be something like this.”

“It’s a roof over my head when I’m not deployed,” Simon said. He moved past you toward the small hallway leading to his bedroom, but his attention stayed half on you and half on the flat around you.

“No pictures even?” you asked.

He sighed. The answer was simple in his mind, but he knew it would sound colder out loud to someone like you. A flat that was full of proof that people exist, that those people mean something to him, was not good in his line of work.

“Pictures can be dangerous,” he said eventually. He glanced back and saw you watching him. “Everything about this place is intentional.”

Your eyes then continued to explore what little this place had to offer. “Everything?”

“For example,” Simon said, stepping back to you before your attention lingered too long on somewhere definitely not meant for you, “don’t open the drawer in that table.”

Your gaze snapped to the drawer. “Why?”

He stepped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “Because I said don’t.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.” Simon’s voice stayed calm, but he let just enough weight into it that your expression shifted. “That stubborn little head of yours is going to want to snoop, and I need you to verbally confirm you won’t go poking your nose into things.”

You lifted your hand in a mock salute, eyes bright with mischief now. “Yes, sir. I promise.”

Simon shook his head at the audacity of the woman before him, unable to fight the smile hidden on his face. Then he reached out and took your face gently between both hands hoping you realized that this was serious. Your smile faded into something quieter as his thumbs rested near your cheeks.

“Stay right here,” he said.

Your eyes held his. “I just promised.”

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t move for another beat. “I'll be right back.”

You nodded, smaller this time. Simon let go before his hands could think for themselves, then turned and went into his bedroom.

His room was no better than the rest of the flat. Bed made with military precision, another duffle half-packed near the wardrobe, one spare pair of boots, and absolutely nothing personal sitting out. He grabbed a few T-shirts, socks, and the toothpaste he kept forgetting to replace at your place, then stood there for a second with the items in his hands.

This wasn’t really staying over for your protection anymore. Not really. At some point, without either of you saying it out loud, his things had started moving across the hall one at a time. He knew this was going too far, but he couldn't fight himself.  

When he came back out, he stopped dead in the hallway.

You were by the window, one hand resting against the frame, the other lifting the blinds just enough to look down at the street below. The low light caught the side of your face making you look even more out of place in his flat than you already were.

You didn’t belong in a room like this, and you really didn't belong near him. Everything about you made the space look worse by comparison. You were soft where his life had gone hard. Warm where he kept everything stripped down to cold and useful. Bright in a way that had nothing to do with the weak streetlight coming through the blinds.

Simon stood there with T-shirts and toothpaste in his hand, feeling ridiculous and rooted to the floor.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this. He didn’t know what strange, temporary mercy had placed you in the flat next door, then kept you close long enough for him to feel this way. But he knew better than to trust it and to hold on too tight.

Still, as you peered down at the street from his window, unaware that he had stopped breathing behind you, Simon knew he was going to hold on for as long as you let him.

You turned around when you noticed him standing there.

“You okay?” you asked, letting the blinds fall back into place. 

Simon set the things down on the nearest clear surface. “Fine,” he said, and even to his own ears it sounded like a lie.

You didn’t call him on it. You only crossed the room slowly, eyes moving over his face, his shoulders, the way he stood bracing for an impact. When you stopped in front of him, close enough that he could see the rain droplets still clinging faintly to your hair, Simon forgot how to move.

Your hand lifted first. When your fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, he should’ve stopped it there.

You looked up at him. “Simon,” you said, and his name from your mouth was one of the most dangerous things he’d ever heard.

He couldn’t help himself. One hand came to your waist, light at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. You stepped closer like you’d been waiting for the permission, and for one second, one stupid, impossible second, Simon let himself lean in.

Then his control snapped back into place.

“Stop,” he said, pulling away abruptly. His hand left your waist, and the loss of warmth hit him almost as hard as a punch to the face. “This is going too far. I won’t do this to you.”

“Do this to me?” you asked, blinking at him like you couldn’t make sense of the words. “Simon, what are you talking about?”

He moved around the small kitchen island, creating distance because that was the only thing saving you from him. His heart was beating too hard, and his head was full of your perfume, your voice, your hands.

You stayed where you were for a moment, arms slowly wrapping around yourself. “I’m sorry,” you said, and the shame in your voice cut through him. “I guess I just read this whole thing wrong. I should go.”

You turned toward the door, and Simon was moving before you made it there. He got there first, making you stop and look up at him.

“Listen to me,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he wanted, so he forced it lower. “You didn’t read anything wrong.”

“Then why are you acting like I did?” you asked. Your eyes were wet again, and he hated himself for putting that look there after spending all night trying to keep it away.

Simon looked down at his hands. His gloves were still on, hiding scars and burns and plenty of things worse than that. “I’ve done things,” he said. “Horrible things. These hands are tainted, and every time I touch you, I feel like I’m taking something I don’t deserve.”

Your expression changed, not into pity, but into something softer and more stubborn. “Simon, you’ve been nothing but kind and gentle with me. I know I— I won’t understand everything about you, I get that, but it doesn’t scare me.”

“It should,” he said.

“It doesn’t.” You stepped closer, slow enough that he could move away if he wanted to. “I want this. I want you.”

Simon looked up at the water-stained ceiling because looking at you was too much. He could take everything his life threw at him, but this? This was the thing that threatened to undo him.

“I’ve sealed my fate,” he said, and the words tasted bitter. He looked back down at you, unable to stop himself. “This isn’t in the cards for me, no matter how much I want to change that.”

“I don’t believe that,” you said.

There was no force behind it, no grand speech, or attempt to convince him with pretty words. You just looked up at him like the fact of it was simple.

Then you reached for his hand.

Simon let you take it. His eyes tracked your every move, every small detail he had spent weeks trying not to memorize. The curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the dark sweep of your lashes when you looked down, the careful way your fingers closed around his wrist like you knew there were places on him that still hurt.

You turned his hand over, palm up. Your phantom touch was so gentle he could almost write it off as imagined, but there you were, real and warm and taking your time with him.

You were giving him every chance to pull away. If he told you to stop again, you would. If he stepped back like last time, you’d let him go. That would be the end of it, or at least the end of whatever fragile thing had been sitting between you.

You worked his glove off slowly, then did the same with the other hand, careful with each finger before sliding it free. When it came away, you placed it on the side table. Your eyes never left his hand, his skin, the scars that ran across his knuckles and down toward his wrist. 

Your thumb brushed over a scar that rose up his forearm, then another across the top of his knuckles. The contact was light, hesitant, but Simon felt it everywhere.

He couldn’t think straight. His free hand rose to cup your face, and he tilted your chin up enough to make you look at him.

“Don’t give me this,” he said. He didn’t know if he meant hope, or your tenderness, or the feel of you touching him. “Don’t give me something I won’t know how to live without.”

You leaned into his hand instead of answering. Your face fit against his palm and your eyes had gone glassy again, though this time it wasn't sadness.

Your hand lifted toward his mask. You moved slowly, hesitation flickering through you, but Simon didn’t step back. He didn’t have it in himself.

Your fingers found the bottom edge of the fabric and curled beneath it. You rolled it up only a little at first, just enough to expose the base of his throat and the scars littered there. Simon’s hand dropped to your waist, pulling you in just the smallest bit, braced for you to cower away, rethink this whole thing, and run for your flat locking the door from the scary monster across the way.

You rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to the base of his neck.

Simon closed his eyes. His grip tightened at your waist before he could stop it, pulling you closer even more as he took in the scent of you, your hair, your shampoo, the damp trace of rain still clinging to your clothes. The kiss was small, barely there, and he wanted more.

Then you rolled the mask higher, over the bridge of his nose. Your hand came to his cheek, thumb tracing the uneven skin near a burn that ran down from his ear toward his mouth. Simon kept his head lowered for you, eyes closed, because he couldn’t bear to open them yet.

He didn’t want to ruin this by seeing the moment your expression changed. He wanted to stay right there, with your hands on his skin and your breath close to his mouth. Every brush of your fingers over a scar, every careful touch over an old burn, felt like you were finding the ugly things life had left on him and sealing them away.

Your lips touched the side of his face, right over the mark near his cheek. The kiss was so light, that Simon leaned into it before he could stop himself.

One of your hands slipped behind his neck, fingers threading into his hair. You drew him down gently, and he went because he didn’t have the strength to do anything else. You were almost flush against him now, chest to chest, close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of your breathing against him.

His fingers curled into the waistband of your skirt, holding on to you. He had no idea whether this was mercy or punishment. Maybe it was both.

Your hand slipped beneath the mask again. You paused before taking it farther, waiting for anything from him that told you to stop. He gave you nothing.

You removed it in one careful motion, slipping it up and over his head until there was nothing left between you and his face.

Simon kept his eyes closed.

He focused on your hands instead. Your fingers that traced the lines of his face, slower than he thought he could survive. They brushed along his jaw, over the bridge of his nose, over the scars and uneven patches he’d spent years keeping hidden. Then you pushed a few strands of overgrown hair off his forehead with a gentleness that made his chest ache.

You took his face in both hands and lifted it just a little. He knew you were looking at him. He could feel your eyes on him, feel the awful, naked exposure of being seen without the mask, without the skull, without anything to make him less human.

“Look at me, Simon,” you said.

His eyes opened because your voice asked him to. Apparently, that was all it took now.

For a second, he couldn’t breathe. You were so close, your hands still on his face, your eyes searching for him and he found there was nothing you wanted to run from. Simon felt the pressure behind his own eyes and prayed you wouldn’t notice it.

The walls he built around himself had survived every order that had tried to turn him into something useful. But they couldn't survive you saying his name.

You brushed his hair back again and cupped his cheek. “I want you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “All of you.”

He couldn't take it anymore.

He took your face in his hands and kissed you with everything he had been trying to hold back. There was nothing careful about the first press of his mouth against yours. His restraint was lost and he didn’t know how to want you gently.

You kissed him back. Your arms went around his neck, pulling him closer, and Simon made a sound low in his throat that he couldn’t have stopped if his life depended on it. He tried to slow down, to give you room and let you breathe. Then your fingers tightened in his hair, and any rational thought scattered.

He bent slightly, hands sliding to the backs of your thighs. “Up,” he muttered against your mouth, and when you let him, he lifted you up as you fell against him.

Your legs wrapped around him then too, and Simon turned, pressing you back against the door, keeping you from hitting it too hard but with enough need that he felt your breath catch against his mouth.

“Simon,” you whispered.

He heard the warning in it, or maybe the want. He couldn’t tell anymore. He only knew his name had never sounded like that from anyone else.

His mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower to the side of your neck. He kissed you there, slower at first, then with less patience when your hand tightened at the back of his neck. You tipped your head to give him more room, and Simon nearly lost what little control he had left.

He kissed along your throat, felt your pulse beneath his mouth, felt the way you trembled against him without pulling away. His hands held you carefully, one at your thigh, the other braced near your waist, keeping you secure between him and the door.

He wanted more than this. He wanted more than he had any right to ask for.

Simon lifted his head and looked at you.Your lips were parted, your eyes wide, your hands still in his hair. You looked wrecked in the softest possible way, and he was bare-faced in front of you, breathing like he had run out of places to hide.

He rested his forehead against yours, trying to pull himself back from the edge without letting go of you completely.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.

You shook your head, just enough that your nose brushed his. “No.”

Simon closed his eyes for half a second. “Tell me.”

Your fingers slid from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him there. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, deep enough to make you melt against him. Simon felt the shift immediately, the way your body stopped holding itself and completely softened into his.

His hands tightened under your thighs as he carried you away from the door. He moved carefully despite the way his blood was burning, one part of him still aware of every corner and edge in the room, every way he could bump you or make this less gentle than he wanted it to be.

When he lowered you onto the couch, the springs creaked beneath you. Simon hated the sound immediately, hated the couch, hated his dim flat, and hated every stripped-down ugly thing around him because it all looked worse with you lying there.

He braced one arm beside your shoulder and hovered over you. Your hair had fanned messily against the cushion, your cheeks were flushed, and your lips were slightly swollen from kissing him. For a second, all he could do was stare.

“We should go back to yours,” he said.

Your brows pulled together faintly. “What?”

Simon swallowed, trying not to look at your mouth again and failing almost immediately. “Your place. It’d be better for you.”

“I want to stay here,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “It would be better.”

You lifted a hand to his face, another slipping around the back of his neck as you brought him closer, determined not to let him go. “Stay here with me, Simon.”

Who the hell was he to deny an order?

“Kiss me,” you whispered, fingers sliding into his hair. 

He lowered himself and kissed you again. The couch complained beneath the shift of his weight, but you didn’t seem to care, and after a moment, neither did he. Your arms went around him, drawing him down until his chest pressed closer to yours, until there was barely any room left between you.

His hand moved along your side, slow enough to give you time to stop him, careful enough that he could feel every breath you took beneath his palm. You arched into him, pushing yourself closer to him.

Simon made a rough sound against your mouth. 

Your eyes opened slowly. You looked dazed, still holding onto him like you were afraid he might disappear if you let go. He could feel the faint tremble in your legs where one had shifted around him, hooking over his hip.

“Baby,” he rasped, his voice rough enough that he barely recognized it. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, trying to pull him back in. Grabbing at anything that would let you. 

Simon held himself still above you, every muscle locked in place. “Tell me properly.”

Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck. “Yes, Simon. Please.”

He moved slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind, and lifted your shirt up and over your head. The sound you made when the cooler air touched your skin went straight through him, and the delicate lace covering your chest did nothing to help him either.

He set the shirt aside without looking away from you.

You reached for him almost immediately, fingers catching the bottom of his own shirt. You glanced up at him first, a silent question in your eyes. Simon nodded once, then helped you pull the shirt up and over his head.

Slowly, carefully, Simon moved his hand over your bare skin, his thumb brushing over the soft lace that had been hidden from him only moments ago. He squeezed gently, and the whine it pulled from you was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He lowered his face to your chest, kissing along your sternum with all the reverence he had. He was painfully aware of your heartbeat beneath his mouth, quick and unsteady, proof that you were right there with him.

His hands continued down your sides, memorizing the shape of you beneath his palms. The feel of his calloused skin against yours made him dizzy, and when his hand settled briefly at your hip, he forced himself to look back up at you.

He needed to see your face. Needed to make sure there was no hesitation, no fear, no sign that you wanted him to stop. But all he found was desire in your eyes. That was all the confirmation he needed as he slipped his hand underneath the thin fabric.

His touch lingered on you, as he moved in small circles. Simon found himself chasing every small reaction it drew from you. Memorizing every response your body gave him. How you reacted when he pushed a finger in, when he sped up or slowed down, the breathless moans he tore from you.  

He watched your breathing change beneath his hands, felt you clutch at him when he found exactly what you needed, and stayed there with quiet determination until the tension finally broke and left you trembling against him. He kissed you through it, swallowing your cries and holding your hips in place as you came crashing down. 

When you came back to him, and the shake of your legs around him settled, he whispered your name against your neck, praying this moment would never be taken away from him. 

You reached for the rest of his clothes and before he knew it, there was nothing left of him to hide. Your hand came up to his face again, fingers tracing every scar before bringing him down again lips crashing to his

He pushed himself in, groaning at the feeling of you stretching around him with the sound of you moaning, whispering his name breathlessly. He moved with purpose. Every breath you gave, he answered with a groan, a kiss to your jaw, a brush of his knuckles across your ribs. He never stopped touching you. Never once looked away.

He whispered your name, lips dragging down your collarbone. It was the only word he could force out.

His whole body locked for one breathless second, muscles taut, a quiet groan pressed into your throat as your name was dragged out of him again. He felt his body start to give, the way he collapsed into you just slightly, like the sensation of everything had overtaken even his impossible control. You tightened your hold around his back as you broke apart again, your breath stuttered out against his skin.

And when his body finally surrendered, you clung to him like gravity, head buried in his shoulder, gasping at his name as if the syllables alone could hold the both of you together.

His arm curled tighter beneath your shoulders, his mouth brushing against the hinge of your jaw. He held you there as his breathing began to slow, careful with you even now, like some part of him still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him. He stayed there with you tangled together, both of you trembling from where you’d fallen into something too deep to name.

Your fingers moved along his jaw, careful over the scars you had already touched. Simon felt the moment your breathing changed, felt the small shift in your body beneath him before your eyes found his.

“Don’t leave me,” you whispered.

His chest tightened. He heard what lived underneath the words, the plea that had nothing to do with crossing the hall. 

Simon lowered his forehead to yours and brushed his thumb over your cheek, “I’m here,” he said.

Eventually, he shifted enough to pull you closer, careful with your tired body and the ruined couch beneath you. You tucked yourself against him, fingers dragging loosely over his chest, and he lowered his mouth to your forehead. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t reach for the mask. He only held you while the room settled around you both and let himself believe, that maybe he had found something worth coming home to.

-

-

Simon watched you take another bite of noodles and knew that bringing you here had been the right call.

The place was small, tucked between a closed laundrette and a corner liquor shop. The lights were so dim they looked like they were on their last stretch of life before giving out completely, casting a weak yellow glow over the room, and the air smelled like soy sauce, ginger, and fried garlic.

He’d picked the table in the back, the same one he always took. His back was to the wall, the entrance was in clear view, and he could see out the front window to keep track of movement outside without making it obvious. 

Although, no one had followed them. He’d taken enough wrong turns, doubled back twice, and cut through enough side streets that anyone keeping pace would’ve had to be highly trained, like him. Whoever was sending those envelopes might be bold, but Simon doubted they were that good. He basically took twice the amount of time to get here than it would usually take. And he did that for your safety, of course. 

It had nothing to do with keeping you on the bike longer, with your arms wrapped tight around his chest and your helmet tucked against his back.

He took another bite of rice and pushed that thought down where it belonged.

You sat across from him with his jacket still around your shoulders, your hair a little wild from the helmet, cheeks still flushed from the ride and the cold. You looked better than you had outside your work building. Your eyes brighter again, but every few minutes your attention drifted toward the window before you pulled it back.

“This is really good,” you said, pointing at your container with your chopsticks. “I didn’t expect you to have a secret little takeout place.”

Simon looked down at his own food. His mask was pushed up just enough to eat, and he kept his head angled slightly away from the front window out of habit. “It's not a secret.”

You looked pleased by that for some reason. “So you come here all the time?”

“When I’m around.”

“That’s very vague and mysterious of you.”

You hummed like you didn’t believe him and took another bite. Simon watched the tension in your shoulders ease a fraction, watched you settle into the chair.

“It’s not as good as yours,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his. “What?”

“The food,” he said, nodding toward the table. “It’s good, but not as good as your cooking.”

The surprise on your face was worth the risk of saying it. You looked down at your noodles, suddenly interested in stirring them around.

“That’s very sweet,” you said.

Simon sat up a little straighter and draped an arm over the back of the chair beside him. “Don’t think about it too long.”

You just rolled your eyes and took another bite of your noodles. 

By the time the containers were mostly empty, more color had come back into your face. You reached into the paper bag between you and pulled out two fortune cookies, holding them up between the two of you.

“These are the best part,” you said.

“Dust cookies with paper in them.”

You stared at him. “That is such a sad way to say that.”

“It’s true.”

You rolled your eyes and tore yours open. Crumbs scattered across the table, and you picked up the little strip of paper, studying it with total concentration, and Simon found his attention narrowing to the way your brows drew together and the slight purse of your lips as you read. You cleared your throat like you were about to deliver the morning news.

“Your light brightens every dark room,” you read, then immediately made a face. “Wow. These are always so cheesy.”

Well fuck, that couldn't be more true Simon thought. What kind of witchcraft do they put in these things?

You shrugged and set the fortune down beside your container. “I swear they’re all written by someone’s weird aunt or something.”

Simon huffed a quiet laugh, but his eyes went back to the fortune on the table.

Your eyes narrowed, but you let it go for exactly three seconds before sliding the second fortune cookie toward him. “Your turn.”

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t open them.”

He noticed your mood shift immediately. Your teasing softened at the edges, and you leaned back in your chair with the cookie still between two fingers.

“You never open them?” you asked.

“Not anymore.”

The words came out before he thought better of them. Simon looked toward the door, watching a man in a navy jacket step inside and collect an order from the counter. He was just a man picking up dinner. No threat or second glance, nothing worth noting.

To his surprise, you didn’t push right away. Somehow, that made him answer more than he should have.

“I used to when I was a kid,” Simon said. His voice stayed even, but he felt the old burn of the memory crawl up his throat. “With my brother. We’d crack them open all the time.”

You stayed quiet across from him, watching him. Listening closely. 

“They always made it sound like something better was coming,” he continued, eyes still on the front door. “Good luck. Bright future. Better days ahead. That sort of rubbish.”

His mouth pulled into something that wasn’t a smile. He looked down at the table, at the crumbs near your hand and the fortune you’d dismissed so easily.

“After a while, I stopped,” he said. “No point searching a biscuit for hope when it never shows up.”

The silence after that was different, heavier. You were holding the words he’d given you without knowing where to put them.

“You don’t have to open it,” you said. Your voice was soft, but there was no pity in it. He appreciated that more than he could say.  “It’s just a cookie, afterall.” you added.

Then you gave him a small smile, a knife to his heart practically. Simon looked away first.

You saved him from having to answer by picking up your drink and changing the subject. “So, can I ask you something else?”

“You always do.”

“I’m very curious.”

“I noticed.”

You smiled into your cup. “What do you actually do in the military?”

“It’s classified.”

Your face lit up with immediate mischief, both hands raising in a mock defense. “Oh, sorry. It’s classified.”

Simon heard the way you said it, all exaggerated and with a terrible posh spy voice, and despite himself, he chuckled. He looked down at his food like that might hide it, but the damage was done.

You leaned forward slightly, elbows near the edge of the table. “Come on, you can’t tell me one thing you do?”

Simon shifted in his seat. He shouldn’t, he really really shouldn’t. Price's warning sounded like alarm bells in his head at this moment. This was already too much.

“I work with an international task force,” he said at last. “We take out...big threats.”

Your brows lifted. “Okay, Mr. Big Shot.”

He stared at you and you lifted both hands in surrender again, but you were smiling. “Sorry. Sorry. International task force. Big threats. Very serious.”

“It is serious.”

“I know.” Your smile eased into something more sincere. “I’m teasing.”

He knew that too, but that was part of the problem. It was making him feel at ease, lighter than he’d felt in a long time. Happy, even. The feeling was so unfamiliar, buried so deep beneath years of brutality and violence, that it felt foreign to him.

You tilted your head, studying him across the table. “I can see it, though.”

“Can see what?”

“You being all undercover military and serious all the time,” you said. “You’ve got that whole thing about you. Like you’re constantly aware of every exit and also judging everyone’s posture a bit.”

“I’m not judging posture.”

“You absolutely are.”

He glanced toward the front window because you were hitting closer than he wanted to admit. You were seeing him more clearly. “Some people stand wrong.”

You laughed then, a real laugh. He wanted to hear it again and he wanted to keep being the reason for it.

“It must be stressful,” you said after a moment.

Simon looked back at you. “It can be.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you can’t.” You traced your thumb along the edge of your cup, then glanced up again. “I just mean, carrying that kind of responsibility all the time. It sounds like a lot.”

It was, but he’d never let himself think about it much. It simply was. Mission, threat, briefing, extraction, blood, silence, sleep, repeat. That was his life. 

“My team’s solid,” he said. “That helps.”

“They must mean a lot to you.”

Simon sat with that for a second. The answer was simple, but he struggled to find the words to say.

“We watch each other’s sixes,” he said. “Nothing more important than that.”

You studied him for a long moment after he said it. Your face had gone soft again, warm in a way that made him feel exposed from an angle he hadn’t prepared for.

“No wonder I’ve always felt so safe around you,” you said.

Simon couldn't break your eye contact. You seemed to realize what you’d said only after it was out. A little color rose in your cheeks, and you looked down at the table, suddenly very interested in the folded edge of your napkin. He had no idea what to do with the way that hit him.

So he reached for the fortune cookie.

Your head snapped up. “Wait, you'll break your streak!”

Simon turned the cookie over in his fingers. It was a small stupid thing, really.

“Maybe it’s time to try changing some things,” he said. He broke it open before he could change his mind. A few crumbs fell onto the table, and the slip of paper slid out between the halves.

You leaned forward, trying not to look too eager. “Well?”

Simon picked up the fortune and read it.

The best things in life are often right in front of us.

He stared at the words. For a moment, the noise of the little restaurant seemed to dull around him. He looked from the paper to you, sitting across from him with his jacket around your shoulders and your eyes fixed on his face. You were waiting for him to read it out loud, unaware that the stupid little strip of paper had just hit him harder than any bullet had in years.

Definitely witchcraft.

“What does it say?” you asked.

Simon folded the paper once and slipped it into his pocket.

“Classified.”

Your mouth fell open. “Simon!”

You leaned over the table, trying to steal it from him as he blocked your attempts.

“High level clearance only," he said.

“You cannot be serious.” You stared at him for half a second, then laughed, and Simon decided he would hang on to this fortune with his life.

-

-

There were only so many decaffeinated teas Simon could drink before they all started to taste like recycled petrol.

He’d dropped you off at work six hours ago, watched your little wave before you disappeared through the automatic doors, and had been on stakeout ever since. He’d moved positions four times, always choosing somewhere he could see the entrance of your building without making it obvious he was watching it.

You’d reassured him before going inside that you stayed close to the front desk most of the day. Every once in a while, when someone entered the building and the automatic doors slid open, he caught a glimpse of you through the gap. You’d be sitting at your desk, looking down at paperwork or typing something into your computer, doing whatever it was you did all day.

Looking beautiful and bringing him to his knees, apparently.

Simon took another sip of the tea he’d ordered to justify sitting in the same café for longer than necessary. It had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago, and it hadn’t been worth drinking before that. Still, the table gave him a clear view across the street, and the window reflected enough of the pavement to the side that he didn’t have to keep turning his head.

There had been nothing suspicious from the outside. He’d watched for repeat faces, familiar cars, unexpected stops, people who crossed the street for no reason, anyone who seemed too interested in the building or in you. Nothing had stood out.

Two of the places he’d set up from matched the angles in some of the photos. As he sat in them now, he realized whoever had taken them hadn’t needed much cover. The spots were ordinary enough to disappear into, one bench near a bus stop and one small table outside a café, and today neither had held anyone worth remembering.

His phone buzzed against the table. Simon picked it up on the second ring, eyes still on the building across the street. “Boss,” he said.

“Simon,” Price answered, and the flatness in his voice told him plenty before the man said anything else. “You’re supposed to be using your leave. What the fuck is this?”

Simon leaned back slightly in his chair, watching a man in a brown coat pass the entrance without slowing. “Making use of it.”

There was a rough exhale on the other end of the line. Price didn’t sound surprised, which was probably worse. “You know, when most men take leave, they sleep, drink, or find somewhere warm enough to forget they’re employed.”

“Not in the cards for me.”

“So you decide on civilian surveillance for your time off.” Price went quiet for a moment, and Simon could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Did you send me her details because you wanted help, or to just keep me in the loop?”

Simon’s jaw shifted behind the mask. “Did you find anything?”

“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” Price said. The paper shuffle in the background told Simon he had notes in front of him. “She seems like a regular civie. No record, no suspicious hospital visits, nothing violent attached to her name, not even a bloody parking ticket.”

“Sounds about right,” Simon said.

“That’s not a bad thing,” Price replied. “It means whatever this is, it’s likely not coming from something obvious on her end. No court disputes, no active complaints that I can see, no restraining orders filed by or against her.”

Simon watched the front doors open again. A courier stepped inside with a parcel under one arm, and for two seconds the angle gave him a clear view of your desk. You were there, head tilted down, hair falling near your face while you worked.

Price continued, “Do you know of any past relationships? Anything recently ended on bad terms, or anyone who might have reason to fixate?”

Simon’s hand tightened around the phone before he could stop it. He didn’t want to think about you in a relationship with anyone, past or otherwise. He especially didn’t want to think about someone getting close enough to know your routines and using them to exploit you.

If that was the case, if some bitter past love was responsible for making you afraid to leave your own flat, then the poor bastard was going to learn very quickly that nightmares are real.

“Not that I know of,” Simon said. His voice came out even, but it cost him all the control he could conjure up. “She hasn’t mentioned anyone.”

He wasn't convincing, the man picked up on it. Simon could tell by the few seconds of silence left on the other end of the call. 

“Careful,” Price said finally.

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “With?”

“With whatever tone that was.” Price’s voice stayed calm, but there was no softness in it. “You’re already too close to this. Don’t get stupid because someone may or may not have dated her before you knew she existed.”

“You offering a point?”

“I’m making one.” Price sighed again, quieter this time. “I’m not saying leave it alone. If someone is leaving photos at her door, I understand why you’re not. But if you want to handle this properly, you need to separate yourself from her.”

Simon didn’t answer. He hated that Price was right, mostly because it didn’t change what he was going to do.

Across the street, the receptionist walked away from the front desk, and for a brief moment, he could see you more clearly through the glass. You leaned back in your chair and rubbed at your temple, then dropped your hand when someone came into view. You smiled at them a second later, and Simon felt that familiar pull in his chest.

“Can you run the people she works with?” Simon asked.

Price went quiet again, but this time it felt less like a warning and more like a consideration. “That’s a wider net.”

“Run it anyway.”

“Simon.”

““Photos were taken near her work.” Simon said, keeping his voice low. “If he’s watching from outside, he could be close enough to walk in without anyone questioning it.”

He could hear the shift in Price, the moment the annoyance started giving way to the captain beneath it. “Fine,” Price said at last. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Simon’s gaze stayed fixed on the entrance.

“And Ghost?”

Simon didn’t answer, but he listened.

Price’s voice lowered. “Don’t do anything we’ll have to clean up.”

Simon ended the call.

-

By the last few minutes of your shift, he was done pretending to be casual about it. He brought the bike to the front of the building and parked where he could see the doors clearly and waited for you. Then he leaned back against it with his arms folded, every inch of him meant to look like a problem.

If anyone was watching, he wanted them to see him. He wanted the message clear enough for people on the pavement, people in the windows, and even the damn alley cats if they felt brave enough to have a go at you. You weren’t alone, and Simon had no interest in making that subtle.

The day had been quiet from his point of view. That was what he thought, at least, until the automatic doors opened and you came out.

He saw the bag first, gripped too tightly over your shoulder. Then your face. Your eyes were glassy, your mouth pressed together, and your whole body looked like you were trying very hard to keep yourself from falling apart.

Simon pushed off the bike and met you halfway. You hadn’t broken yet, but the cracks were getting bigger, harder to ignore. You were holding yourself together as best you could. Seeing you like that did something ugly to him, something sharp enough that he had to lock his jaw before it came out wrong.

“What happened,” he said.

You looked up at him, and two tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. You wiped them away quickly, almost angrily, like you were annoyed with yourself. Then you reached into your bag and pulled out another godforsaken orange envelope.

Simon wanted to light it on fire, but instead he took it from your hands too quickly with more force than he meant.

“Have you opened it?” he asked, his voice rougher than it should’ve been. “Why didn’t you call me the second you found it?”

Shock crossed your face first. Then, slowly, underneath the fear and exhaustion, anger sparked to life. Not at whoever had sent the thing, but at him.

Simon caught it immediately, and guilt hit hard behind his ribs. You were scared, you were trying not to cry in public, and he’d snapped at you like you’d done something wrong.

“Sorry,” he said, forcing the words out before you could pull any further away from him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just...I need you to talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself as the evening breeze picked up. The air had cooled since morning, and he noticed the way you tucked your chin down, trying to make yourself smaller.

“My boss gave it to me about thirty minutes ago,” you said. Your voice stayed quiet, but at least you were talking. “She said it came through the company mail two days ago. She left it on my desk at first, but since I was out, she kept it in her office until I came back.”

Simon looked down at the envelope, then back at you. His grip tightened again, but this time he kept the anger reeled in.

“She gave it to me on her way out,” you continued. “There aren’t any pictures this time, but there’s something else...”

Before Simon opened it, he had to look away from your face for half a second. The guilt from snapping at you was still there, sitting heavy in his gut. Christ, you didn’t deserve that. Not from him, not after everything else.

He took off his jacket without a word and draped it over your shoulders. It wasn’t enough of an apology, but it was the only one he could manage without making you stand there while he tried to explain himself.

You didn’t say anything either. You only pulled the jacket closer around your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric near your chest.

Then Simon ripped the envelope open.

There were no photos inside. Just one piece of paper, blank on one side, with uneven handwriting on the other.

You can’t hide forever.

Simon stared at the words for a long moment. He read them once, then again. The meaning was clear enough.

Simon folded the note back into the envelope, the paper crinkled under his fingers. For one ugly second, he pictured his hands around the throat of whoever had written it.

You were trying so hard not to cry. Your face was turned slightly away, your jaw tight, your eyes glassy and fixed on some spot over his shoulder like if you didn’t look at him directly, the tears might stay where they were.

Simon stepped closer before he could talk himself out of it. He reached for you slowly enough that you could pull back if you wanted to, but you didn’t. His hands came to your face, careful despite the anger still burning through him, and he tilted your chin up until you had no choice but to look at him.

Your eyes met his, wet and frightened and trying to be brave anyway.

Simon brushed his thumbs beneath them, catching the tears before they could make it far. The touch was too gentle for the way he felt inside, but you didn’t need his anger right now. You needed something steady, and he would find steady if he had to tear it out of himself piece by piece.

“Don’t cry, pretty eyes,” he said.

Apparently, you had no interest in following orders. More silent tears slipped down your cheeks, and Simon wiped those away too, slower this time.

“I’m not,” you said, even though your voice gave you away.

“Course you’re not,” he murmured.

The corner of your mouth twitched like you almost wanted to laugh and hated that you couldn’t manage it. Simon took that tiny shift for what it was, then stepped back.

“Here,” he said, reaching back for the spare helmet on the bike. “Put this on.”

You took it from him, your hands were still unsteady, but you managed to get it over your head on your own. Simon let you do it because you looked like you needed at least one thing to be in your control.

He didn’t let you handle the strap.

Once the helmet was on, he stepped in again and reached under your chin, fingers finding the clasp with practiced ease. You stood still while he secured it.

When he finished, Simon took the base of the helmet in one hand and tipped it just enough that you had to look at him. The visor hid part of your face, but not enough. He could still see the fear sitting there, the hurt, the exhaustion the fear.

“Don’t let him win,” Simon said.

You swallowed. He saw it in the small movement of your throat, saw the way your shoulders lifted with the breath you took afterward.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He caught your hand and led you to the motorcycle the same way he had that morning. This time, you didn’t hesitate as much. Your fingers tightened around his, and when he climbed on first, you followed with less awkwardness than before.

You still needed a second to settle behind him. Simon gave it to you, then reached down and guided your arm around his chest when your hand hovered like you weren’t sure whether you were allowed to touch him again.

Your other arm came around him on its own. You leaned in close, and rested against his back like the fight had finally drained out of you.

Simon closed his eyes for half a second inside the helmet. He wanted to turn around and pull you against him properly. He wanted to put you somewhere no one could reach, no one could watch, no one could scare you anymore.

Instead, he started the bike.

“Are we going home?” you asked, loud enough for him to hear over the engine.

“Not yet,” Simon said.

You shifted behind him, helmet brushing against his shoulder. “Where are we going?”

He reached back, catching the edge of your skirt near your thigh the same way he had that morning. He tugged it down carefully, keeping it pinned. Then his thumb began to move in slow circles over the bare skin just above his grip. It was small enough to pretend it was nothing, but he knew better.

“It’s time to take your mind off this,” he said.

You let out a shaky breath against his back. It wasn’t a laugh exactly, but it was closer than the tears, and that was enough for now.

Simon pulled away from the curb with you holding tight around him. The bike moved into the street, engine cutting through the damp evening air, and he took the first turn away from your usual route home. Behind him, your grip tightened again.

He didn’t know yet where he was taking you. Somewhere public, somewhere warm, somewhere with enough noise to remind you that the world was bigger than orange envelopes.

-

-

After four days of what could only be called practical hibernation, your work started getting suspicious. You'd ignored enough calls, answered enough emails with vague apologies, and stretched the word unwell as far as it could go before people started asking questions you didn't want to answer.

Simon knew you had to go back. He didn't like it, but he knew it. There was only so long a person could hide in their flat before the hiding started doing damage of its own, and he'd watched that realization settle over you sometime the night before.

Now he stood in the doorway of your bathroom while you got ready in front of the mirror. Makeup and hair tools covered the sink, little tubes and brushes scattered everywhere. You were leaning close to the mirror, carefully putting on the last of some lip color.

He had no idea what half of it was. Gloss, lipstick, balm, something with a tiny wand, something like a pencil, all of it looked the same to him. Whatever you were doing, though, it was doing something to him, and Simon kept his arms crossed because he needed somewhere to put his hands.

"It'll be okay," he said.

Your eyes slid to his in the mirror. You didn't answer right away, and he could tell you were trying to decide whether to actually believe him or whether to pretend you did.

He could see how nervous you were. Christ, you'd already redone something around your eyes twice, muttering under your breath the second time before finally giving up and accepting it. Your hands shook just enough to make you frustrated with yourself, and even though you'd managed some sleep with him there, the dark circles under your eyes hadn't given up.

"I know," you said eventually. You lowered the lip color and looked at yourself in the mirror like you were trying to recognize the person staring back. "It's just... I guess it's been nice being here, even if the reason is awful. But I can't live like this. I have to go back to the real world at some point."

Simon looked at you in the mirror and didn't say what came to mind. He could get used to this. Not the awful situation that landed him here, but the rest of it. It would be a dangerous thing to have it, a gift he didn't deserve, and Simon knew better than to reach for things like that. They had a habit of disappearing.

You capped whatever you'd been using and started clearing a little space near the sink. "Thank you for taking me. I can send you the address if that's easier."

Simon cleared his throat. "Yeah. Send it to me."

The last thing he was going to do was tell you he'd figured out where you worked months ago. No need to scare you off right now, especially when you were already holding yourself together with too much caffeine and a fixation with reality tv.

In his defense, it had not been intentional. You'd come home from work one evening talking on the phone, tired enough that you weren't keeping your voice down, and you'd mentioned the name without thinking. A few days later, the company tote bag you carried groceries in had confirmed it.

He did not stalk, and it wasn't crossing a line. He was observant by trade, and there wasn't much he could do about the fact that details stuck with him whether he wanted them to or not.

Still, as he watched you pick up your phone to send him an address he already knew, Simon felt his jaw tighten behind the mask. Fuck. There was no version of that explanation that sounded normal out loud.

About half an hour later, both of you were walking into the underground garage. It had rained hard the night before, and water still rushed down the curbs under the building. Simon offered you his hand when you reached a flooded gutter, and you took it without making a thing of it.

Your fingers were cold.

"I'm surprised you have a ride," you said, stepping carefully over the water while he kept hold of your hand. You sounded far too light and chipper for the hour, but Simon could hear the nerves underneath it.

"Are you?"

"Most people I know just take the Tube," you said. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and glanced toward the rows of parked cars ahead. "It's terrible at this time, though. We’re all practically sardines in a can."

Simon bit back a laugh. It had been years since he'd taken the Tube with any regularity, and from what he remembered, you were right on target. Crowded platforms, bodies pressed too close, no room to move if something went wrong. Not a chance in hell he was putting you there right now.

He kept walking beside you, scanning the garage just in case. The air smelled like wet concrete and petrol, and the lights buzzed faintly above rows of cars. Nothing stood out, but he monitored anyway.

Just before rounding the corner to his assigned spot, Simon stopped. You stopped too, looking up at him with a quick frown. He looked you up and down, this was something he never needed to think about before.

"What?" you asked, glancing down at yourself. "Is there something wrong with my outfit?"

"No," he said, then had to clear his throat because he'd answered too quickly. His eyes moved over you before he could stop them, taking in the skirt, the coat, the shoes you'd chosen for work, and the effort you'd put in. "You look nice."

Your face changed immediately, surprise cutting through the nerves for half a second. Then your eyes darted past him, toward the garage.

"What?" you said again, sharper this time. "Oh my God, is someone here?"

"No," Simon said quickly. He turned his head and scanned the area again because now you had looked, and he wasn't going to leave it unchecked. "No one's here. I should've told you before we came down, that's all."

"Told me what?" you asked.

Simon looked back at you. "Wasn't thinking about it. It's fine."

Your suspicion didn't ease. "That is maybe the least comforting thing you could've said."

He turned the corner without answering, and he knew the exact second you saw it. Your footsteps slowed behind him, then stopped completely.

"Oh, no way," you said.

Simon stopped beside the black motorcycle parked near the wall. It sat low and dark under the garage lights, still beaded with a little moisture from the damp air. He turned back toward you and saw you standing several feet away, staring at it like he'd just asked you to climb into a tank.

"Noooo way," you said, shaking your head.

Simon lifted both hands slightly, not quite surrendering, more like approaching a nervous animal. "Your job isn't that far. I'll make sure you're safe."

"You didn't say motorcycle." Your voice had gone higher, your eyes fixed on the bike. "You said you'd take me."

"I am taking you."

"You made it sound like a car thing!"

"Didn't say car."

You looked at him like you were debating whether it was too late to walk back upstairs. "I've never been on one. And the ground is still slick from last night, and I've heard scary stories, and I know people ride these all the time, but I've never... I mean, I haven't even..." You stopped, frustrated with yourself, then dragged in a breath that didn't seem to help. "Simon, I'm not scared of every bloody thing, but this is different."

"It's either this or no work," he said. His voice stayed even because yours wasn't. "Taking the Tube isn't safe for you right now."

Your bottom lip disappeared between your teeth. He saw it happen and felt his focus narrow in on it.

"Simon," you said, softer now.

He moved closer before you could talk yourself into panicking properly. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, firm enough to steady you, not enough to trap. You looked up at him with glassy eyes, trying so hard not to fall apart over one more thing.

"Trust me, baby," he said. "I've got you."

The words slipped out before he could stop it. Simon felt it land between you, he didn't take it back.

Your breath left you slowly. Under his hands, your shoulders sank a little, tension easing by degrees until you finally nodded.

Christ, you were going to be the death of him.

Simon let go before he could do something stupid in the middle of the garage. He turned to the bike, grabbed his helmet, then took the spare from the shelf above his spot. When he turned back, you were still standing there, nervous but staying put.

"Put your hair back," he said.

You obeyed without arguing, brushing your hair behind your shoulders and gathering it out of the way. Simon stepped close and lowered the helmet over your head carefully, making sure it sat right before reaching for the strap.

You went very still when his fingers moved beneath your chin. Simon noticed that too.

He tilted your head up with a light touch, just enough to see what he was doing. Your throat shifted when you swallowed, and the angle exposed the lines of your neck above your collar. Your perfume reached him through the mask, faint but close, and it hit him harder than it had any right to.

Simon took longer than he needed to with the strap. There was no justifiable reason to check the clasp three times or smooth the loose end down with his thumb, but he did it anyway because he was still just a man under all the rest of it.

You looked up at him through the helmet, face mostly hidden now, but he could still read you. You were still so nervous.

"There," he said, stepping back before he let his hand linger longer. "Not too tight?"

You shook your head. "No. It's okay."

Simon put on his own helmet, then swung one leg over the bike. He settled into place and looked back, gesturing for you to come closer.

You didn't move right away. You stood there with the helmet on, hands hovering near your sides, and he could tell even without seeing your face that you were thinking too much.

Simon leaned over and caught your hand, and gave you just enough guidance that your feet started moving before your fear could protest.

"There you go," he said. "Just like that."

You stepped onto the peg and settled behind him, awkward but careful. Simon kept his gloved hand over yours to keep you steady, then brought it forward around his chest before you could hesitate again.

You understood what he wanted after that. Your other arm came around him too, and then you were pressed against his back with both arms wrapped around his chest. He felt you everywhere. Your chest against his back, your thighs close behind his, your hands unsure at first before they settled against him. You were soft against him. Warm even through layers. Alive and breathing against his back, close enough that every nervous inhale reached him.

Simon's fingers tightened briefly around the handlebar. He had to remind himself to think like a soldier and not like a man who wanted to hear you say his name again.

He started the engine. The bike came alive beneath and your arms tightened around him at once.

"How long have you been riding?" you shouted, loud enough to be heard over the engine.

Simon looked ahead, and beneath the helmet, his mouth pulled into a brief smile. "About a week."

"What? Are you serious?"

"Relax, baby," he said, letting the amusement show this time. "I'm kidding."

You made a sound that was half outrage and half nervous laughter. Your helmet bumped lightly against his shoulder as you shifted behind him, and Simon forced himself to focus on the exit instead of the way you clung to him.

Before he pulled out, he reached back with one hand. You went still immediately, but he only caught the loose fabric of your skirt near your thigh and tugged it down carefully so the wind wouldn't lift it once they were moving.

Simon didn't let himself look back. He checked the mirrors, checked the garage entrance, checked the shadows between parked cars and the reflection in a nearby window. Nothing moved that shouldn't have.

Your arms tightened around him again when the bike rolled forward. Then he drove them out of the garage and into the wet gloomy morning.

-