Hannah Lou

You almost missed the shift entirely.

One second, the pub was warm and loud and crowded with the usual off-duty noise. Johnny was halfway through some ridiculous story. Gaz was laughing into his drink. Price looked like he was pretending not to listen while very obviously listening. You were tucked into the corner of the booth with Simon at your side, one of his heavy thighs pressed against yours under the table, his hand resting near his glass, calm as stone.

Then he changed.

Not dramatically.

Simon never did anything dramatically.

He just went still in a way that felt different.

His gaze lifted past the table, past Johnny’s gesturing hands, toward the bar. His expression didn’t alter much. It rarely did. But you’d spent enough time around him to know the difference between relaxed silence and sharpened attention.

This was sharpened.

You followed his line of sight and found a man leaning against the bar, staring.

Not glancing.

Staring.

The kind of look that dragged, that lingered too long, that felt less like interest and more like possession trying itself on for size.

You looked away first, unsettled, and leaned closer to Simon without really thinking about it.

His eyes dropped to you immediately.

“You alright?” he asked, low enough that the others couldn’t hear.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Man at the bar’s been looking over here,” you murmured.

Simon’s jaw shifted once. Tiny. Controlled.

“I know.”

That should’ve comforted you.

Oddly, it did.

Because there was nothing uncertain in Simon once he’d noticed something. He observed. Assessed. Stored it away.

The problem was that the man didn’t stop.

Even after you turned away.

Even after Simon looked right back at him with that flat, unreadable stare that made most sane people reconsider their choices.

The creep still didn’t stop.

Johnny noticed next, because Johnny noticed everything when it came to the people he cared about.

He glanced between you and the bar, grin fading. “Got a fan, do you?”

You rolled your eyes like it didn’t bother you as much as it did. “Apparently.”

Gaz turned slightly in his seat. “Want me to say something?”

Before you could answer, Simon did.

“No.”

Just that.

Quiet. Final.

Johnny’s brows lifted. Gaz leaned back. Price took a sip of whisky and said nothing at all, which told you he trusted Simon had already decided how this was going to go.

You should’ve known then that whatever happened next was already being arranged in Simon’s head.

The man made his move twenty minutes later.

You’d slipped away from the booth to get another drink because Johnny had offered and then gotten distracted arguing with Gaz about something stupid. Simon had let you go with a hand briefly brushing the small of your back, his touch light but deliberate. You could still feel it as you waited at the crowded bar, shifting to make room for a server balancing a tray.

Then the creep stepped into the space beside you.

Too close.

“You’ve been here with the military lot all night, yeah?” he asked.

You didn’t look at him. “Mhm.”

“That your boyfriend?”

You hated that question. Hated the implication tucked inside it. As if the answer determined whether he’d respect your space. As if your no on its own wouldn’t be enough.

You kept your voice short. “Does it matter?”

He chuckled like you’d flirted instead of shut him down. “Might.”

You finally turned your head and gave him a cold look. He was taller than average, broad in the way men often thought was enough to be intimidating, shirt sleeves rolled to show off forearms that probably impressed exactly the kind of people he liked impressing. He smiled like he thought you were playing hard to get.

You instantly disliked his face.

“I’m not interested,” you said.

“Didn’t say you had to be.”

“No, but I am saying it.”

He leaned in a fraction.

That was his first real mistake.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You’ve barely looked at me.”

“And I’m not going to start now.”

His grin thinned.

You were already stepping back, ready to return to the table and the solid, sane gravity of Simon, when the man’s hand closed lightly around your wrist.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to claim.

Enough.

Every nerve in your body iced over.

You didn’t even get the chance to yank free before the hand disappeared.

Not because the creep let go.

Because Simon removed it.

One second the man was touching you, and the next Simon was there, having crossed the distance so silently and so quickly you hadn’t seen him move. His hand was around the creep’s wrist, fingers locked in a grip so controlled it looked almost casual.

Almost.

The man blinked, startled.

Simon stood between you and him without fully blocking your view, close enough that you could see the hard line of his shoulders beneath his dark shirt. He wasn’t loud. Wasn’t aggressive in the sloppy, chest-beating way some men got when they wanted a scene.

He was worse.

He was calm.

“Don’t touch her,” Simon said.

The creep tried to laugh it off, face already tightening because he was clearly realizing Simon’s grip was not negotiable. “Easy, mate. Was just talking.”

Simon’s head tilted slightly. “Didn’t ask.”

The creep tugged once, instinctive, testing.

Simon didn’t budge.

Neither did his expression.

Your pulse was banging in your throat now, but not because you were afraid of Simon. Because you knew that look. You knew how dangerous he became when he went this still.

The man must’ve seen something in Simon’s face then, something that finally registered as wrong, because the bravado in his smile began to slip.

“You’re hurting me.”

Simon’s voice stayed level. “Good.”

The single word hit the air like a blade.

No raised volume. No theatrics.

Just fact.

Behind you, the pub noise hadn’t fully stopped, but it had dimmed in the way crowds dim when trouble becomes interesting. You caught movement in your peripheral vision. Johnny and Gaz had stood. Price remained seated, but he was watching now over the rim of his glass, all quiet authority and no interference.

Simon let go only to shove the man’s hand away from your space like it was something dirty.

Then he looked at you.

Not long. Just enough.

“You alright?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Go sit down.”

You hesitated, because every instinct told you not to leave him mid-confrontation, but there was something in his tone. Not sharp. Protective. Certain. He already had this in hand.

Still, you stayed right where you were.

Simon’s eyes flicked back to you, and you could almost hear the small internal recalculation.

He knew you weren’t going anywhere.

Fine.

He returned his attention to the man and took one small step closer.

That was all.

One step.

It forced the creep back against the bar rail.

Simon didn’t touch him again. Didn’t need to.

Up close, Simon had a way of swallowing all available space. He made men look at him and suddenly understand scale differently.

“You don’t look at her again,” Simon said. “You don’t come near her. You don’t speak to her.”

The creep found a sliver of courage, probably because an audience was half-watching now. “Bit controlling, isn’t it?”

Simon’s stare didn’t change.

“This isn’t about control.”

A pause.

“It’s about consequences.”

The words landed so softly you almost didn’t catch them.

The man did.

You saw it in the tiny hitch of his throat.

“Who the hell d’you think you are?” he asked, but it came out thinner than he wanted.

Simon leaned in just enough that the man had to hear him and you barely could.

But you did hear.

And the cold that spread through you had nothing to do with fear.

“You don’t need my name,” Simon said. “You just need to remember my face.”

The creep’s color dipped.

Because that was the thing about Simon when he let Ghost show through.

It wasn’t swagger. It wasn’t public violence or some sloppy display of testosterone.

It was precision.

It was the unbearable certainty that if he decided you were a threat, the situation had already moved past your understanding of it.

Simon stepped back then, just enough to let the man breathe again, which somehow felt crueler than if he hadn’t.

“Walk away,” he said.

The man looked at you once, as if maybe he could salvage some dignity there.

Simon noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He shifted his stance by barely an inch and suddenly the creep couldn’t even see you properly anymore.

That was the final straw.

The man muttered something under his breath and shoved off from the bar, disappearing fast into the crowd toward the exit.

You stared after him, adrenaline still crackling unpleasantly under your skin.

Simon turned fully to you then.

The whole shape of him changed.

Not all at once, but enough.

The lethal stillness eased. His shoulders lowered a fraction. His gaze scanned your face, your hands, the line of your posture like he was checking for damage no one else would know to look for.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked again, quieter now.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”

His eyes dropped to your wrist.

The one the man had grabbed.

Simon’s jaw ticked. “Let me see.”

You held it out automatically. There wasn’t much to see. A little pink where fingers had pressed. Hardly anything. But Simon took your hand like it mattered anyway, his massive palm wrapping carefully around your wrist as he examined it.

His touch was unbelievably gentle.

That nearly undid you more than the confrontation had.

“It’s fine,” you said softly.

“Shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I know.”

His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse. The touch was brief, but it grounded you instantly.

Johnny appeared at your other side, expression gone uncharacteristically serious. “You want us to bounce him from the street too? Because I’m free all evening.”

Gaz snorted, but there was no humor in it. “Very free.”

Price joined you a second later, setting his empty glass down on the bar. “Problem handled?”

Simon didn’t look away from you. “Yeah.”

Price’s gaze flicked to your face, assessing, then to your wrist in Simon’s hold. His mouth flattened. “You want to head out?”

The offer was for you.

You looked at Simon.

He looked back.

There was no pressure there. No insistence that you go home, no attempt to decide for you. But there was a tension in him that said he’d leave this second if that’s what you wanted. He’d take you home, lock every door, and sit awake all night if he had to.

You surprised yourself by shaking your head. “No. I don’t want him ruining the night.”

Johnny pointed at you. “That’s the spirit.”

“Terrible line delivery,” Gaz informed him.

“Didn’t ask.”

Price sighed like a tired father and jerked his head toward the booth. “Back to the table before one of you makes it worse.”

Johnny and Gaz drifted off, muttering at each other. Price lingered only long enough to give Simon a look that clearly meant keep an eye out, not that Simon needed the instruction.

Then it was just you and Simon again by the bar.

He still hadn’t let go of your wrist.

Not tightly.

Just enough that the connection remained.

You looked up at him. “You were very scary just then.”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “Scared you?”

“No.”

That answer came quickly. Easily.

His gaze searched yours, making sure.

You gave his fingers a small squeeze with your free hand. “You scared him.”

“Good,” Simon said again, but this time it was different. Lower. Rougher. Less cold and more protective in a way that made warmth uncurl in your chest.

You smiled a little. “Very Ghost of you.”

One corner of his mouth moved.

Barely.

Then he lifted your wrist and pressed his lips to the inside of it, right over the spot that had gone pink under another man’s hand.

The kiss was soft.

Possessive in the gentlest possible way.

Like an erasure.

Like a promise.

When he lowered your hand, his voice dropped even further. “No one touches what’s mine and walks away thinking it was a good idea.”

Heat rushed through you so fast it nearly made you dizzy.

Your brows lifted. “What’s yours?”

Simon’s eyes locked on yours.

You.

He didn’t say it.

He didn’t need to.

Because it was there in everything. In the way he angled his body around you as he led you back toward the booth. In the way his hand settled at your lower back, broad and warm and certain. In the way the rest of the table took one look at your joined return and immediately gave Simon the space to set you into the seat furthest from the aisle.

Johnny slid you your drink with a suspiciously soft expression. Gaz pretended not to notice Simon checking the room twice before sitting down. Price said absolutely nothing, which in its own way said plenty.

Simon sat close. Closer than before.

His thigh pressed against yours again. His hand remained on your knee under the table, heavy and grounding.

You leaned toward him, voice low. “You know, you could’ve just punched him.”

Simon looked at you, almost offended by the suggestion.

“Too easy,” he said.

That made you laugh, startled and real, and some of the last tension bled out of your body.

His thumb stroked once over your knee.

The pub noise swelled back around you. Johnny restarted his story. Gaz heckled him on principle. Price ordered another round because of course he did.

And Simon stayed exactly where he was.

Watching.

Holding.

Calculated in all the ways that mattered.

Every now and then, his eyes flicked to the door.

Just checking.

Just making sure.

You slid your hand over his under the table and laced your fingers through his.

His gaze dropped briefly to where your hands joined.

Then back to your face.

Something in him softened with such restraint that anyone else might’ve missed it.

You didn’t.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

Simon’s hand tightened once around yours.