hyperactively me

You flip the sign on the front door to OPEN and unlock the deadbolt, stepping back just in time for the early sun to glare through the wide windows and coat the dusty floorboards in gold. The town is still slow at this hour—just a couple of trucks rolling past on Main Street, a few joggers already red in the face from the heat. It’s not even 8 a.m.

You switch on the coffee machine, wipe the counter for the third time this morning, and glance out toward the mountains. Pale blue sky, no clouds.

You used to live in the city—horns, sirens, crowded sidewalks. There, the chaos was loud and obvious. Here, in this quiet mountain town, everything is different. You’d barely unpacked before the neighbors started explaining what to do “when—not if—the fires come.”

Now it’s your first fire season, and everything feels brittle, breakable. It makes you miss the city in strange ways. There, you knew what to be afraid of. Crime had patterns. Sirens had direction. But here, the danger is woven into the land. It's stunning and quiet, unpredictable.

You're broken from your thoughts as the bell over the door jingles, and you glance up. He’s here again. The firefighter.

A visiting firefighter, they said. Here for peak season, rotating through a statewide program. You’ve never caught his name, and he’s never offered it.

He comes in like clockwork every morning, boots scraping softly on the worn floor. He doesn’t say much. Just blinks at you, maybe gives you a slight tilt of his head.

“Morning,” you say, already reaching for the pack of cigarettes he always buys.

He nods. “Thanks.”

He lingers for a moment near the window, gaze sweeping across the empty street, then upward toward the tree-covered ridge in the distance. You don’t know what he’s looking for, but he watches it, waiting for something to rise out of the treeline.

You watch him as he watches the horizon. Sunlight slides over him—through the dusty glass, through the slant of his shoulders, through the rough edge of his jaw. And for a second, you forget how to breathe normally.

Everything about him draws your eye. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the weather-beaten look of someone who’s spent more time outside than in. He’s tan, but not in a beachy way—more like his skin is permanently sun-seared, browned by smoke and wind.

There’s a density to the way he stands—like his body knows how to brace for impact. His navy-blue fire department T-shirt pulls slightly at the shoulders, tucked into well-worn pants that are dusted with ash and dirt no matter how clean they start the day.

And then there’s the way he smells. Woodsmoke, faint sweat, a hint of cedar. You’re not even sure how you noticed that, but now you do every time he steps through the door.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. A harmless thing. He barely talks to you. You don’t even know his name.

You see there’s a tension in his shoulders that never really leaves, like he’s bracing for an alarm that will go off at any moment. His jaw flexes once, then stills. You wonder if the cigarettes help, or if they’re just a habit. Actually, it’s kind of ironic that a firefighter smokes cigarettes.

He turns back to you, eyes briefly meeting you under the brim of his cap.

His jaw ticks as he rifles through his wallet.

“Forecast said wind’s picking up,” he says, voice low, rough with sleep or smoke or both. He slaps down a few crisp dollars.

You nod slowly, mystified at his voice. That’s the most he’s said in a week. You take the bills without looking down, your eyes still on him. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Could tell this morning.”

He hums in acknowledgement and slips the cigarettes into his pocket, fingers moving absently, like he’s already somewhere else. His eyes drift back to the mountains, and you wonder if he ever really looks away from them.

You clear your throat. “You guys expecting something?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose, slow. Then, “Not yet. But the ground’s dry. No snowmelt this year. And this wind,” he glances at the windows, watching them shiver in their panes, “it's strong.”

You follow his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of every creak in the wood, every gust slipping beneath the door.

He tilts his head toward the back of the shop, where the stairs to your apartment sit tucked beside a rack of discount paperbacks. “You got a go-bag?”

You blink. “A what?”

His brow rises just enough for you to notice. “Bag by the door. Essentials. Papers. Water. One pair of shoes you can run in.”

His gaze is intense, threatening to smite you on the spot for even asking such a question.

“Oh,” you say. You haven’t even unpacked half your moving boxes. “No. Not yet.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpens. Like you’ve confirmed something he already suspected.

“You should,” he says firmly. “Tonight.”

There’s a finality in the way he says it that makes you straighten up a little. You don’t know this man. But for some reason, his words land heavy. You nod before you can second-guess yourself.

He gives you one more look, long and unreadable. Then he turns toward the door, boots thudding softly across the wood. You watch the back of him—the strong line of his shoulders, the way his hand engulfs the door handle. The bell above the frame gives a soft jingle as he steps into the morning, the bright haze catching in his hair, turning it the color of gold.

You glance out the window toward the mountains—still blue, still untouched. But the wind pushes harder now, angling dust against the curb, rattling a loose sign across the street.

You reach for a pen and the back of a receipt. Essentials. Papers. Water. Shoes you can run in.

. . .

The bell over the door rings for the third time that morning.

You ring up another customer—Mr. Leahy, a retired school teacher, with mud-caked boots and a weathered ball cap. He’s chewing on a toothpick, mumbling about how they called off the prescribed burn over in Dry Hollow.

“Too windy,” he mutters, tossing cash onto the counter. “Said the margin was too tight.” He says it like it’s just weather. Like it doesn’t make your stomach twist.

You hum in response, but your gaze drifts out the window, watching the brittle trees sway in loose, lazy arcs.

Mr. Leahy leans closer, lowering his voice. “Planned burns don’t get canceled unless it’s serious. Means they’re worried something might get out of hand.”

You nod, though the knot in your stomach tightens. “So… what happens then?”

He shrugs. “You watch. You wait. And you hope you’re ready when it comes.”

Mr. Leahy shakes his head, shuffling toward the door. “Keep your go-bag packed, kid. This season’s already off to a bad start.”

The bell jingles behind him as he leaves, and the quiet settles back into the store.

. . .

You finally do it after dinner.

The dishes are still in the sink, soaking in gray water flecked with tomato pulp and basil. The sun hasn’t quite gone down, but the light through the window feels burnt-out and metallic. You keep glancing at it like it might change colors.

You open the hall closet, push aside the mismatched scarves and tangled umbrellas, and pull out the old hiking backpack you haven’t touched since you moved here. Dust clings to the top. You brush it off with the sleeve of your sweatshirt and sit on the floor, cross-legged like a kid, the bag between your knees.

You put your name and number on a piece of paper and shove it in the front pocket. You grab a few other essentials, shoving them inside your backpack with as much force you could possibly muster.

Finally, you zip it shut and leave it by the door.

. . .

It’s Saturday morning, and the air feels heavy, thicker than yesterday. The wind still rattles the loose shingles on your roof as you step outside, heading toward the new café on Main Street for a change of scene.

The sun is higher now, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks and the worn steps of the old library. The air smells sharp, pine mixed with dust. It’s comforting, in a way. Reminds you of the holiday season.

You turn the corner near the school, halfway to the café, when you see him. At first, you don’t recognize him. He’s not in his usual dark fire station issued-t-shirt and boots—just a pair of black athletic shorts and a sweat-dampened gray tank top, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. He’s crouched by the side of the building, tying a resistance band to a railing.

His skin gleams with sweat, golden in the sun. His shoulders are broader than you realized. Defined, tense with effort. There’s a deep red mark along his collarbone from where a strap must’ve pressed into him earlier, and for some reason, it makes your chest go tight.

He’s focused, completely dialed in, looping the band around one hand and bracing himself against the railing as he pulls against it, slow and deliberate. No music. No grunting. Just the occasional steady exhale through his nose. Purposeful. Measured.

You slow down, surprised to see him.

He looks up and catches your gaze.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with something hard to name. Then he gives you a faint nod—the same one you get every morning in the store, but somehow more intimate now, like you’ve both been caught outside your roles.

“Hey,” you say, voice a little higher than you mean it to be.

He straightens, pulling the band free and letting it fall slack into his hand. “Hey,” he echoes, a little breathless. His voice is rougher now, lower from the exertion.

Your eyes flicker around, like you’re not flustered by the sight of him half-drenched in sweat, chest heaving slightly, hair sticking to his forehead in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. “Didn’t know you worked out here.”

He shrugs, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt, which just briefly lifts enough to show the carved lines of his stomach. You immediately look away.

“Quieter than the station,” he says. “Easier to think.”

You nod, but you’re not thinking. Not really.

“Did you pack a go bag?” he asks, eyes sharp, waiting.

“Yeah, I did. Same day you told me.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

You shift, suddenly aware of the heat rising to your cheeks, the faint thrum pulsing in your veins. Good girl? 

The words hit a little harder than you expect. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s a tease buried beneath the seriousness. Like he’s testing you, seeing if you catch it.

You glance up, catching the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, just enough to make you wonder if he means it in a way that’s less about the go bag—and more about you.

You bite your lip, trying to wish away the heat creeping up your neck. “Well, I like to impress,” you say, voice a touch lighter than usual.

His eyes flash with something—amusement, maybe. Or challenge. He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like the words slipped out without much thought. But there’s a slow, deliberate ease in the way he leans back against the railing, that just-barely-there smirk still lingering.

“Impress, huh?” His voice is casual, low—like he’s playing it off. But also like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and maybe he’s enjoying the effect more than he lets on.

You catch the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way they hold your gaze a fraction longer than necessary, but then he blinks and shifts his focus away, like he’s suddenly too busy to indulge the moment.

“Coffee?” you offer, trying to bridge the quiet, and keep the edge of your own nerves in check.

The bridal suite buzzed with activity and last minute arrangements as maids flitted about. Your dress, an exquisite creation, hung waiting for you. As you step into it, the fabric cool and smooth against your skin, you feel a rush of anticipation. The dress fit perfectly, accentuating your figure and making you feel like a princess in a fairy tale dream come true. 

Your friends and mother gathered around, offering their congratulations and sharing in your joy. Girlish laughter and chatter filled the room, your heart overflowing with joy at the shared happiness permeating the room. Your mother adjusts your veil, her eyes misty with tears of happiness. “You look beautiful,” she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. “The Duke is a very lucky man.”

In the meantime, Simon stood in his study, trying to calm his nerves. He was dress immaculately in a tailored suit, his usually stoic demeanor softened by the nerves of the day. A butler, who had helped him get dressed and ready, took on an affectionate, familial tone with him. 

“Nervous?”

Simon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “More than I ever thought possible,” he admits. “But also incredibly happy.” 

As the hour approaches, the guests begin to gather in the grand hall of the estate, the space transforming into a vision of elegance and celebration. Flowers adorn every surface, their fragrance filling the air. The sunlight streams through tall, wide windows, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the hall.

It was time for the bride to make her way down the aisle.

As you made your way to the entrance of the hall, your heart pounded in your chest. Your father was waiting for you behind the doors to the entrance, giving you a teary smile as you took his arm.

As the doors opened, a hush fell over the crowd, all eyes turning to you. You took a deep breath and stepped forward, your gaze immediately finding Simon at the end of the aisle. His eyes widened as he saw you, a look of pure love and awe on his face. You smile broadly in response, keeping eye contact with him the whole time.

With each step you took, your nerves began to settle, replaced by a sense of rightness and peace. This was where you were meant to be, with Simon, your husband and true love. When you reach him, your father gives you one last squeeze before Simon takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. You could see the pure emotion in his eyes.

The ceremony began, the words from the officiant flowing over you like a beautiful dream.

Simon never once let go of your gloved hands the whole time the officiant was speaking, and he never once tore his gaze from you. You were beautiful. Actually, beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe you; you were perfect. 

You never once let go of Simon’s hands, staring up at him with nothing but pure, unbridled joy. He was so handsome, so beautiful standing in front of you, your heart nearly burst. You squeeze his hands a few times, eliciting small smiles from him. 

You exchange your vows, your voices steady and clear, each promise spoken made with unwavering certainty. “I promise to love you, honor you, and stand by you,” Simon says, his voice echoing and proud. “For as long as we both shall live.”

“And I promise to love you, support you, and share in all your joys and sorrows,” you reply, your heart full. “For as long as we both shall live.”

When the words are spoken, and the officiant declares you husband and wife, Simon turns to you, his movements slow and deliberate. His hands are gentle as they lift to your face, his fingertips brushing over your jawline before finding the edge of your veil. The fabric trembles slightly in his hands, and you realize he’s just as overwhelmed as you are.

He raises the veil, lifting it over your head with the utmost care, as if the act itself were sacred. The delicate lace catches the light for a brief moment before it settles behind you, leaving you bare before him.

His breath catches, and for a moment, he simply looks at you. His eyes search your face, his gaze drinking in every detail—the curve of your lips, the softness of your cheeks, the glimmer of your eyes.

Then, with a tenderness that melted every last wall around your heart, he cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs brushed lightly over your cheeks, his touch reverent and steady. He leaned in slowly, his eyes locked with yours until the very last second.

The kiss was everything you had dreamed of—soft and warm, a perfect melding of your two souls who had journeyed through storms to find their calm. His lips moved against yours with gentle certainty, lingering as if to imprint the memory into his soul.

Applause and cheers erupted from the guests, but all you could hear was the beating of your heart and the softness of Simon’s lips against your own. It’s like firecrackers go off in your chest, the feeling purely and utterly indescribable as he kisses you. The kiss was filled with love, promise, and a sense of belonging that you had never felt so profoundly. 

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless and dazed, Simon rests his forehead against yours, a smile growing on his face. 

“Look at you,” he heaves, chuckling. 

Heat creeps up your cheeks, your own smile widening. “Look at us,” you whisper back, the joy in your voice undeniable.

The guests began to cheer and clap louder, their excitement only spurring you on. Simon keeps hold of your hand as you both turn to face the crowd, the final words blessing your union as husband and wife ringing in your ears. Together, you walk down the aisle, surrounded by friends and family, their congratulations and well-wishes filling your senses.

As you step outside the grand hall, you’re greeted by a cascade of flower petals raining down from above. The warm sunlight bathes you both, casting a golden glow on this perfect day. The carriage, adorned with flowers and ribbons, waits to take you to the reception. Simon helps you inside, your hands never parting.

The reception is a spectacular affair, held in the gardens of the estate. The tables are set with fine china and crystal, the air filled with the scent of flowers, and the sound of laughter. You and Simon are seated at the head table, overlooking the sea of guests who have come to celebrate your union. There were heartfelt toasts from loved ones, joyous laughter, and endless dancing. 

You shared your first dance as newlywed to a soft, melodic waltz. Simon took your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. He led you to the center of the floor, his gaze never leaving yours. Simon’s other hand found its place on the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your free hand rested on his shoulder, and for a moment, you both stood there, savoring the significance of the moment. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, bathed in the soft glow of the lights and the warmth of each other’s presence.

With a slight nod, Simon guided you into the dance. You moved together with a natural grace, your steps perfectly synchronized. Each movement across the floor was fluid and elegant. Simon’s eyes never left yours, his expression a mixture of love, awe, and contentment. He held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, and in that moment, you felt like you truly were. Every twirl and dip was executed with perfect timing, and you still wondered how he got so good at dancing. 

You could feel the gentle rise and fall of Simon’s chest with each breath he took. His scent, a mixture of sandalwood and something uniquely him, enveloped you, grounding you in the moment. His touch was firm yet tender, a constant reminder of his strength and his love.

As the night went on, you and Simon stole moments alone, savoring the newfound intimacy that came with being married. In a quiet corner of the garden, under a canopy of twinkling candlelight, Simon pulled you into his arms again. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” he said, his voice low and tender. 

You reached up, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. “You’ve made all my dreams come true, Simon,” you replied, your heart brimming with love. 

He leaned down, kissing you gently, the promise of a beautiful future shining in his eyes. The night air was cool, the stars bright above you, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

Eventually, the festivities began to wind down, and it was time for you and Simon to depart. Guests bid you good luck and farewell as you were led to the carriage waiting to take you both away. 

You climbed into the carriage, Simon’s arm securely around you. As it pulled away, you looked back at the estate, feeling a mixture of nostalgia and excitement for the future. Simon kissed your temple, drawing you close. You snuggle into his side, embracing the warmth radiating from his body. 

Suddenly, he lifts your gloved hand up to his face. He twists it in his grip, inspecting your hand as though it was something he could not understand and was desperately trying to figure out. Then, without a word, he brings his own hand up, his fingers splaying outwards as he carefully aligns them with yours. He studies the juxtaposition of your hands, his expression unreadable yet filled with a sense of wonder and amusement. His fingers are thick, large, calloused… you wonder how they would feel in— 

“Wh- what are you do—?” you start. 

“Shh.”

You shut your mouth and swallow thickly as his eyes come up to meet yours once again. You feel as though they pierce through your very soul. He returns his attention back to your hand, now flipping your hand so your palm faces his face.

Then, with the gentlest pressure, he starts to press his thumb into the palm of your hand. As his thumb massages your skin, a tingling sensation spreads through your hand, causing a rush of warmth to flood into your cheeks. You feel a flutter in your chest as his touch sends shivers down your spine. Each deliberate movement of his thumb against your skin feels both electrifying and intimate, causing your head to spin. Lost in the moment, you find yourself unable to tear your gaze away from his intense eyes, their depths drawing you in like a magnet.

Then, just when you think you couldn't be more captivated by his touch, he surprises you once again. With a swift, unexpected motion, he guides your fingers up to his lips. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch, mesmerized, as his teeth catch the fabric of the fingertips of your glove.

You think you’re about to faint. 

A strangled gasp falls past your lips as he bites down ever so gently and pulls the satin off with his teeth. He lets it dangle from his mouth for a moment, his gaze never leaving yours, as if challenging you to keep eye contact with him.

You’re breathing hard now, soft pants slipping from your lips that makes Simon’s heart pound and his cock throb in his pants. 

With a flicker of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, he finally releases the glove from his teeth, allowing it to fall to the ground in a soft whisper of fabric.

Then, without hesitation, he brings your bare hand back to his lips, his touch gentle yet firm as he presses a barely perceptible kiss to the palm of your hand. The feather-light sensation sends a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume all reason.

He then folds your hand, displaying your knuckles. He runs his lips over the ridges of your knuckles, letting his tongue slip out to trace the contours with tantalizing precision. Each delicate touch sends a jolt through you, left breathless and wanting, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggle to make sense of the primal desire that burns hotter with every passing second. 

Without warning, Simon slips his hand around your wrist and yanks you forward, causing you to fall on top of his chest. You squeak as you land on top of him, your body perfectly molding against his. His arms fasten around you in a protective embrace, holding you close as if you were the most precious thing in the world. 

With a gentle touch, he lifts your chin, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw with feather-light precision. His touch sends shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume all reason.

“Si- Simon—" you whisper weakly, trying your best to keep yourself together. “We— this… in the carriage?” 

“Mhm,” is all he says, seemingly amused at how riled up you’re getting from his touch. If you’re this flustered just from that, he can’t wait to see how much further unraveled you’ll be when—

“Kiss me again.” 

Your voice trembles with both desire and anticipation, and Simon's eyes darken gleefully. Without wasting a second, he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is both tender and searingly intense.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves along the path, but you barely notice. All that matters is the feel of Simon's lips on yours, the way his tongue shoves its way inside your mouth, the feeling of his hands all over you. 

Simon's hands roam up and down your back, pulling you even closer, as if trying to merge your bodies into one. You can feel the hard surface of his chiseled chest against your own, his heart beating wildly in sync with yours. Your fingers find their way into his hair, gripping tightly as the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent and fervent. He starts to slide his hands up your thigh, squeezing the plump flesh, and you're positively aching for him.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless, thoroughly whipped from the intensity of your kiss. 

Simon’s eyes bore into yours, filled with a love so profound it makes your heart thump wildly. 

"Tonight," he says, his voice a solemn whisper, "I will make you mine in every way."

Your breath catches at the promise in Simon’s words. The weight of his vow settles between you, thick and heavy with anticipation. He smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips that sends another shiver through you.

The carriage ride to his— your— estate is both torturously slow and blissfully short. Every moment stretched and savored, yet filled with an urgency that made you ache for what was to come. As you approached the estate, your heart pounded in your chest with the same fervor as the night you first realized you loved Simon.

He sat beside you, his fingers intertwined with yours, the heat of his palm grounding you. His thumb traced idle patterns over your knuckles—a silent conversation, a quiet assurance that he was as impatient as you, though he bore it with a composure that made you flush. He caught your gaze more than once, his lips twitching into that maddening smile that promised a thousand things he wasn’t saying aloud.

When the estate came into view, its tall spires and ivy-covered walls lit with the golden glow of twilight, your breath hitched. The grandeur of the place was breathtaking, but it wasn’t the imposing beauty of the building that stole your breath—it was the thought of it being your home. Your sanctuary. Your beginning with Simon.

The carriage came to a halt, and before the footman could move, Simon was already out, turning to help you down. His hands were steady and warm, wrapping around your waist as he guided you with the kind of care that made your chest ache. He lingered a second too long, his hands firm but gentle, before setting you on the ground.

"You’re home," he said softly, his voice low and rich, sending a thrill right through you.

- - -

The two of you lounged in the gardens behind the estate, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. It painted the sky in hues of amber and blush, the soft light catching in Simon’s hair as he leaned back against the trunk of a sprawling oak tree. He looked utterly at ease, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his boots discarded in the grass.

You sat between his legs, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around you. The scent of jasmine and freshly cut grass filled the air, mingling with the faint saltiness of the breeze rolling in from the distant river. Simon’s chin rested on the crown of your head, and you felt his chest rise and fall steadily against your back.

"Do you ever think about how far we’ve come?" you asked, your voice soft, almost a whisper, as if speaking louder would shatter the peace of the moment.

"All the time," he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair. "Especially when I have you like this. Reminds me how lucky I am."

You turned your head slightly to look up at him, arching a brow. "You? Lucky? I think it’s the other way around."

Simon chuckled, the deep, rich sound vibrating through you. He tightened his hold on you, pulling you closer. "No, it’s definitely me. You could have had anyone."

You laughed, the sound light and carefree. "No. It was just...you. The way you see the world. The way you see me," you teased, tilting your head back to meet his gaze fully.

Simon’s smile softened, his eyes searching yours as if he were trying to memorize you all over again. He reached up, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, his touch as gentle as ever. You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to his palm before lacing your fingers with his.

The two of you sat in silence for a while after that, watching as the sun dipped lower, the sky transitioning to shades of lavender and indigo. The first stars began to appear, faint but steady, twinkling above like tiny promises.

Simon’s fingers played idly with yours, his voice breaking the quiet. "Do you think we’ll ever grow tired of this? Just…being together like this?"

You shook your head, a soft smile curving your lips. "Never," you said firmly. "This is everything. You are everything."

Simon’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your temple. "Good," he said, his voice low and content. "Because I don’t ever plan on letting go."

He shifted slightly, his arms loosening before he leaned forward, scooping you effortlessly into his lap. The movement drew a squeal of surprise from you, quickly followed by laughter.

“Simon!” you exclaimed, swatting lightly at his chest. “You could warn a person before manhandling them like that.”

He chuckled, his hands resting securely on your hips to keep you steady. “I could,” he replied with an easy grin, “but where’s the fun in that?”

You twisted to look up at him, an exaggerated glare on your face. “One of these days, I’m going to get you back for all your mischief, you know.”

Simon’s dark eyes sparkled with amusement as he tilted his head, pretending to consider your words. “Hmm, I suppose I’ll just have to remain on high alert at all times then. Though I have to say, I’m not terribly afraid of your vengeance.”

“Not afraid?” you scoffed, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “You should be!”

“Hm, i’s hard to be intimidated when you’re sitting in my lap like this," Simon teased, leaning in until his nose brushed against yours.

Your cheeks flushed, and you pushed at his chest with a laugh. “You’re impossible!”

“And yet, here you are, willingly sitting in my lap,” he said, his voice smug as he leaned back, pulling you with him.

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement.

Simon’s grin softened into something more tender as he rested his chin on your shoulder, his hands sliding to hold yours.

As the two of you fell into an easy rhythm of teasing and quiet moments, the garden around you seemed to hold its breath, basking in the warmth of your shared laughter and affection.

“How on earth did those two end up together?”  “By the look of it, the Duke should be proposing any day now.” “I think I deserve to be Duchess more than she does.”

“You know,” you say slowly as you twirl gracefully, “you’re making quite the spectacle of yourself, Simon. People are starting to talk.”

He chuckles, his grip tightening around your waist. “Let them talk.”

He has to bite his tongue to restrain himself from continuing with, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m yours, you’re mine, and I’m not about to let anyone forget it. 

You smile, feeling a rush of affection and amusement. “You really don’t care, do you?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice. 

He shakes his head, a serious expression on his face. “Not in the slightest. As long as I have you, nothing else matters.” 

You laugh softly, leaning into him. “You’re incorrigible, Simon.” 

God, the way you make his name sound so pretty. He might faint. 

After the dance, Simon pulls you away from the crowd and onto a balcony, the soft hum of the party fading into the background. With the way his hands feel on you, you can’t seem to care that you’re unsupervised and alone with a man.

The cool night air is a welcome respite from the warmth of the ballroom. You shiver slightly, hugging yourself to keep warm. Immediately, Simon shrugs off his coat and drapes it over your shoulders to ward off the chill. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, grateful for his thoughtfulness.

He nods, his eyes lingering on your face. He loves the way your makeup highlights your features, the way you style your hair. He loves the way you stand up for yourself, the way you speak your mind without a care in the world. He loves the way you look so small compared to him, the way your dress accentuates your frame perfectly. He loves how passionate you are about the things you love, the way you make him feel. And— 

"You know," he begins, his voice low and intimate, "there was a time when I thought I would never be capable of feeling this way about anyone, let alone you."

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. "Oh? And what way might that be, Simon?”

He smiles, a genuine, tender expression that warms you to your very core. "In love," he admits softly. "Completely and utterly in love."

For a moment, you're stunned into silence, your heart pounding in your chest. The sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability in his voice—it's everything you had hoped for, yet never dared to believe.

"You— you love me?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He nods solemnly, taking your hand in his. 

"With all my heart, every fiber of my being,” he replies, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "I know I've hurt you in the past, and I can never truly erase those mistakes. But I promise you, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you'll let me."

Tears prick at your eyes, and you blink them away, squeezing his hand tightly. "Oh, Simon," you breathe, "I never thought I'd hear you say those words. But now that I have, I love you too. Despite everything, I love you."

A radiant smile you’ve never seen from Simon spreads across his face, and he leans closer, his eyes searching yours for any hint of hesitation. Finding none, he whispers lowly, "May I kiss you?"

Your breath catches, heart racing at the proximity of his face to yours. You can see every lineament, every tiny wrinkle, every light freckle that dots his face. You notice the details of his scars, the way his nose is slightly crooked. He squeezes your hand, bringing you back. 

“You... you mustn’t,” you stammer, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s highly improper.”

Who are you kidding? You want this as much as he wants it. 

Simon doesn’t immediately release your hand. Instead, he turns it over and places a soft kiss on the inside of your covered wrist.

“You might cause a scandal,” you say weakly, your resolve thinning with each passing second. 

Simon chuckles, low and quiet. “A scandal, you say? Perhaps it’s time I gave the ton something truly scandalous to talk about.”

You swallow thickly, heat rushing up your neck. “And what, pray tell, do you have in mind?”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Marry me.”

The world seems to stop as his words sink in. You pull back slightly to look into his eyes, searching for any hint of jest, but all you find is sincerity and love.

“Simon,” you breathe, your heart pounding. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” he replies, his gaze unwavering. “I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you every single day. So, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

A whirlwind of emotions sweeps through you—joy, love, and a hint of disbelief. You’ve always known that your relationship with Simon was special, but to hear him propose, to see the depth of his feelings laid bare, is almost overwhelming.

“Yes,” you say, your voice filled with emotion. “Yes, I will marry you.”

The words have barely left your lips before Simon's expression transforms, an unrestrained joy lighting up his face. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulls you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you entirely.

“May I kiss you?” 

You finally nod slightly, your eyes fluttering closed as anticipation builds. Simon cups your face gently with both of his rough, calloused hands, his touch hot and reassuring. He hesitates for just a heartbeat, savoring the moment, before he closes the distance between you. His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, then more assured as he feels you respond.

The kiss is tender at first, tentative, as if he's savoring every moment. You can feel the depth of his feelings in the way he kisses you, the way his hands cradle your face as if you are something precious and irreplaceable. It’s filled with the promise of all the unspoken words and emotions that have been building between you. It’s a kiss that feels like redemption, second chances, and the beginning of a future that you both long for.

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as you deepen the kiss. He groans ever so quietly as you pull at him. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, a quickened rhythm that mirrors your own. Time seems to stand still as you lose yourself in the sensation, every worry and doubt melting away.

When you finally pull back, both of you breathless and slightly dazed, Simon rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed. "I've dreamed of this moment," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “For so long.”

You smile, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. 

"You're mine," he murmurs softly, his voice filled with wonder and certainty. "And I'm yours."

"Always," you reply, your heart swelling with happiness.

As you stand there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together. And that is more than enough.

You had thought him to be all proud and tough, icy and distant. This is not to say that he isn’t all sunshine and smiles, but he’s polite, softer, more gentle. All of these qualities, though, and he only seems to save them for you. With anyone else, he is just as stern and serious as he was when you first met him. It’s slightly amusing to see, and it warms your heart in a way you’ve never felt before. Yet, as the days pass, you begin to see another side of Simon. His thoughtful gestures and quiet kindness surprise you, revealing a depth of character you had not expected. You realized that he paid attention to minute details, noticing the little things that make you smile and remembering your preferences and dislikes. 

One afternoon, he surprises you with a picnic at your favorite spot by the lake in the park, having remembered an offhand comment you made weeks ago about how much you love the peacefulness there. As you sit together on the blanket, the gentle rippling of the water soothing you, you find yourself opening up to him in ways you hadn't anticipated.

"Simon," you begin, hesitating for a moment before continuing, "I've noticed how much effort you're putting into gaining my trust. It's... unexpected."

He looks at you, his expression earnest. "I meant every word of what I said. I want to make things right between us.”

You nod, feeling a warmth spread through you at his words. "I can see that now. And I appreciate it."

Much to your surprise, you find yourself looking forward to your time with Simon more and more. You had only really started doing these small outings with him as a way to mend a relationship, and nothing more. But, now that you’ve gotten to know him, you can’t deny the growing fondness in your heart. 

Simon, too, seems to cherish these outings more than he lets on. You see it in the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, in the gentle timbre of his voice when he speaks to you, and in the subtle touches that linger just a bit longer than necessary. 

He sends you flowers twice a week, leaves a book on your doorstep on Sunday mornings, and on Thursdays you receive jewels for upcoming soirees. 

At balls, he is practically glued to your side, your dance card always claimed by him. It’s become the talk of the ton: the cold-hearted Duke falling for the spirited lady he once scorned. The whispers and speculation only seems to spur Simon on, as if the very notion of your growing bond was a delicious secret. If any bachelor even so tried to ask you to dance, Simon would cast daggers in their direction. He acted as if you were already married, unwilling to let anyone else near you. You always pretended not to notice, but you noticed every detail. 

At the park, he often finds ways to make you laugh, his demeanor softening into something akin to warmth. One particularly sunny afternoon, you suggest a game of croquet. 

Simon opened his mouth to shoot down your idea, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to play for the sole reason that he knows he would lose against you. Who has time to play croquet, anyway? 

“You call that a swing, Mister Riley?” you tease, watching as Simon's ball veers wildly off course.

He chuckles, his eyes full of amusement. "Perhaps my skills lie elsewhere, my lady. Though, I must say, your form is impeccable."

You preen at the compliment. "Well, someone has to maintain some semblance of skill in this game," you chuckle.

Simon often invites you over to his estate for long walks, showing you around the vast gardens and the serene grounds he’s so proud of. Each visit reveals a new aspect of his life and his personality, drawing you ever closer. 

One late afternoon, as the sun begins to set and paints the sky in hues of orange and pink, Simon leads you to a secluded part of the estate—a quaint, hidden garden filled with blooming flowers and a gently gurgling fountain at its center.

“I come here to think,” he says softly, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. 

You’re touched by the gesture, understanding how much it means for him to open up a private part of his life to you. “It’s beautiful here, Mister Riley. Thank you for showing it to me.”

He smiles, a genuine, heartfelt expression that makes your heart flutter. “You’re welcome. I want you to feel at home here.”

You cock your head at that, when he says home. He stares at you for a moment, studying your expression. He then breaks contact, turning to face the fountain. 

"After my time in the military, I found it hard to adjust to this life," he confesses, his gaze fixed on the trickling fountain. "I put up walls, thinking it would protect me. But all it did was push people away."

You glance at him, your heart softening at the raw honesty in his words. "We all have our defenses, Mister Riley. But it's never too late to break them down, to really get to know people. It’s one of the best parts of life.” 

He looks at you, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "You've taught me that. More than anyone ever has."

Your heart sings at his words, and all you want to do is squeeze him tight. 

"I need to say something else,” he continues, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "I've been wrong about so many things. About you. I want to be a better man, for you."

Your heart skips a beat at his words. You see the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine desire to change. “Mister Riley,” you say softly, reaching out to take his hand, "I can see that you're trying. And it's not about being perfect. It's about being honest, about being real. I appreciate that."

He smiles, a rare, genuine smile that lights up his face. "Thank you. That means more to me than you know."

He reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. "I know I've made mistakes in the past, and I can never truly erase them. But I hope that, in time, you might come to see me not just as the duke who wronged you, but as a man who deeply cares for you."

Your heart flutters at his words, and you squeeze his hand gently. "I think I already do, Mister Riley.”

“Simon. Call me Simon.” 

Your mouth is ever so slightly agape, and you lick your lips, heart racing. “Simon," you repeat, savoring the intimacy of using his first name. The sound of it feels right on your lips, a bridge between your hearts.

Simon’s heart constricts in his chest the moment his name rolls off your tongue, and he wants nothing more than to kiss you right now. He wants to be yours, forever.

“This garden is yours as much as it is mine. A place where you can come whenever you need peace, or just to think.”

"Thank you, Simon. That means a lot to me," you say, touched by his gesture. "And I hope you know that I'm here for you too. We're both learning and growing, and I'm glad we're doing it together."

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the garden, you and Simon sit in comfortable silence, hands intertwined. The tranquil setting reflects the newfound serenity in your hearts. The walls that once stood between you are crumbling, replaced by trust, understanding, and something that feels like the beginnings of love.

I pray that you will permit me to trespass upon your time and patience to convey the deepest sentiments of my being. As I sit here, quill in hand, I find myself overwhelmed by the enormity of my sins against you, and I scarcely know where to begin. 

It is with utmost shame and remorse that I recall my conduct towards you since our initial introduction. I have behaved with a rudeness and presumption that are wholly unbecoming of a gentleman, let alone a Duke. I shudder to think of the disdain and hurt I must have caused you with my unkind words and actions. I am acutely aware that my behavior has been unjustifiable, and I am filled with profound regret for every instance in which I have disrespected your dignity and disregarded your autonomy.

I have wrong you grievously, and the realization of my behavior now pierces me with a pain sharper than any sword. I was blind, wholly consumed by my own pride and misplaced sense of superiority. Again, my conduct has been nothing short of deplorable. 

I am unworthy of redemption, this I know. My actions have left indelible scars, and no mere words can ever hope to erase them. Yet, here I am, on my hands and knees, begging for a chance to atone for my sins. I am a man undone, crumbling under the weight of my own guilt.

I have been tormented by the memory of my cruelty and your undeserved suffering. My heart is a tempest, my soul a wasteland, lacking peace until I can make amends. I can no longer bear the weight of my guilt without seeking your forgiveness. 

Please, my lady, grant me the opportunity to atone for my transgressions. I beg of you, allow me the chance to right my wrongs. Allow me to demonstrate my remorse and my earnest desire to make things right. Your forgiveness would be a balm to my troubled heart and a chance to mend the rift I have so thoughtlessly created. I offer you my sincerest apologies as a flawed and fallible man, one who has come to realize the true value of your character and the depth of his own failings. 

If it takes a lifetime, I shall devote myself to proving my repentance, to showing you that I can be a better man, one worthy of the grace and dignity you so effortlessly embody. Your forgiveness is not something I deserve, but it is something I yearn for with every fiber of my being.

I am, and shall remain, your most humble and contrite servant,

Simon Riley, the Duke

You both have mutual contempt for one another.

Simon sighs out loud, admitting to himself that he was rude and presumptuous in his every interaction with you leading up to this point. It wasn’t fair to you for him to be so condescending, especially upon your initial introduction. He had overstepped his bounds time and time again, disregarding your autonomy and treating you despicably. The more he thinks about it, the more guilt he feels consuming his soul. It's a behavior unbecoming of a man of his station, let alone a Duke.

He recalls the sensation of holding you in his arms, guiding you through the steps of the dance. Your face appears, beautiful and doe-eyed. The memory of your touch, the way your hand had fit so perfectly in his as you danced together, haunts him. Confusion gnaws at his heart, mingling with a sense of longing that he struggles to understand.

He had never been one to dwell on matters of the heart, always preferring the clarity of duty and discipline. But ever since that night, he finds himself haunted by thoughts of you, unable to shake the memory of your fiery spirit and unwavering resolve. He knew that he should resist the pull of his emotions, that he should keep his distance and maintain the facade of indifference that had served him so well in the past.

Simon paces restlessly across the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the moonlight. He can't help but question the nature of his feelings. Why does he feel this undeniable pull towards you, despite the animosity that had characterized your every interaction in the past?

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustration building within him. It's absurd, uncalled for, he tells himself. He has no place in your world, no right to entertain thoughts of romance or longing. He's an ex-soldier turned Duke, duty-bound and disciplined, while you are a lady of society, born and bred. 

And yet, despite the vast divide that separates you and him, Simon can’t help but yearn for something more. He finds himself drawn to your spirit, captivated by your character. He stops by the window and glances outside, watching rivulets of raindrops trickle down the glass. 

He knows that he should put an end to these foolish thoughts, that he should focus on matters of state and leave behind any notion of romantic entanglements. And yet, try as he might, he can't shake the image of you from his mind.

As Simon grapples with his conflicting emotions, restlessness settles over him like a thick fog. He can't just forget the way you had stirred something within him, awakening feelings he had thought dormant. It's a disconcerting realization, one that leaves him feeling vulnerable and exposed in a way he has never experienced before.

What are you doing to him?

With a heavy sigh, Simon sinks into the nearest chair, his thoughts swirling. He knew he had to mend his relationship with you, apologize to you, beg for your forgiveness until he could no longer stand under the weight of his guilt. But how could he even begin to approach you after the way he had treated you all this time? The dance at the ball was not enough to make up the damage he has done. He refuses to let his pride stand in the way of mending this. 

If he truly wants to make amends and seek redemption in your eyes, he must take action, no matter how daunting the prospect may be.

Lost in his thoughts, Simon’s gaze falls upon the box of stationery resting on his desk. With a start, Simon rises from his chair and strides purposefully towards his writing desk. He picks up his quill, the inkwell glistening in the candlelight, and begins to write. 

At first, the right words are difficult to come by. Each stroke of the quill feels heavy with the weight of his remorse, yet he presses on, determined to convey the depths of his regret. Slowly but surely, the words begin to flow, a heartfelt apology taking shape on the paper before him. 

He writes apologies of his wrongdoing, acknowledging the hurt he has caused and expressing his sincere desire to make amends. He doesn’t hold back, baring his very soul in a way he never thought he could. Every word is written with care, every sentence crafted with the hope of earning your forgiveness. 

Content with what he wrote, he seals the letter with wax and his crest. This letter may be a small gesture, but it is a step towards reconciliation. 

With the letter in hand, Simon stands, making his way through the corridors of his grand estate. Finally reaching the foyer, Simon pauses before the heavy oak door, his hand trembling slightly as he clutches the letter tightly. Outside, the rain continues to patter against the window panes. 

Summoning his courage, Simon steps out into the night, the cool raindrops soaking him to the core as he rides his steed to your residence. His heart rattles in his chest as your residence comes into view, undeterred by his goal. 

As he approaches your doorstep, Simon hesitates for moment; but he knows that he cannot turn back now, that he must face this head on. 

With a deep breath, Simon raises his hand and raps upon the door, the sound resonating into the halls of your home. For a moment, there is only silence, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder.

Then, the doors swing open, revealing a servant. 

“It’s urgent,” is all Simon says. 

With a polite nod, the servant gestures for Simon to enter, his expression a mix of curiosity and bewilderment at the Duke's unexpected visit at such an ungodly hour. Simon steps inside, the warmth of the foyer enveloping him like a comforting embrace after the chill of the rain.

As he removes his dripping coat and hands it to the waiting servant, Simon's heart pounds in his chest, his nerves frayed. His jaw set with determination, Simon follows the servant to the drawing room.

“Please, Your Grace, wait here.” 

Simon nods, then takes a seat on the couch. He doesn’t really care that he’s getting it wet; his mind is consumed by thoughts of you. Each passing moment feels like an eternity as he waits for your presence, his heart racing. 

Finally, the door opens, and you step into the room, just dressed in a nightgown and robe. Your eyes widen in surprise at the sight of a soaking wet Duke seated before you. The moment you step into the room, Simon shoots up from his seat, giving you a quick bow. 

“Your Grace,” you say, utterly confused. “Uh, to what do I owe the… pleasure of this unexpected visit? And in the middle of the night?

Simon’s gaze never leaves yours as he approaches you with measured steps. 

“You’re soaking wet,” is all you can manage to say when he is only a few paces away from you. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and you can see his dress shirt plastered to his defined chest underneath his jacket. Your eyes flit back up to his face. 

Simon halts in his approach. “Please, forgive the intrusion at this late hour, but I’ve come to speak with you, if you’ll allow me,” he begins, his voice gentle yet earnest. 

You regard him with suspicion and guarded interest, unsure of what to make of his unexpected visit. With a nod, you invite him to take a seat, your demeanor polite but guarded. Simon accepts your offer, settling himself into the chair opposite yours, the letter still clutched tightly in his hand. 

“I’ve… I’ve come to apologize,” he begins, his words measured and deliberate. “For the unkindness I have shown you, for the harsh words spoken in haste, for my arrogance and presumption. I… I realize now that I was mistaken, that I had no right to treat you with such disrespect and animosity. Please, my lady, please forgive me.” 

He extends the letter to you, the parchment slightly damp from the rain, the wax seal bearing his crest glistening in the soft light of the room. You take the letter cautiously, your fingers brushing against his freezing fingers as you do so.

Slowly, you unfold the letter, the sound of the parchment crackling in the silence of the room. Simon watches you intently, his breath caught in his throat as he waits for your response.

With each word you read, you feel a shift within you—a softening of the walls around your heart, a willingness to believe that Simon is truly apologetic. His words are, from what you can tell, sincere; each sentence bears the weight of his remorse. As you reach the end of the letter, you look up to find Simon watching you with bated breath, his expression a mix of hope and trepidation.

For a long moment, you say nothing, the silence stretching between you like a taut rope. You study him, searching his face for any hint of insincerity, but all you find is remorse shining in his eyes. Despite yourself, a flicker of something akin to hope stirs within you—the smallest glimmer of possibility that perhaps Mister Riley is not the cold-hearted Duke you believe him to be. And then, finally, you speak, your voice soft but steady.

"I accept your apology, Mister Riley,” you say, your words measured. "But, know that forgiveness is not easily earned, nor is trust quickly regained. I will give you a chance to prove yourself, but know that I will not tolerate any further disrespect or mistreatment.”

Simon's eyes widen in disbelief, gratitude shining in their depths. "Thank you," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I will do everything in my power to make things right, to earn your trust and respect.”

With a nod, you hand the letter back to him. The journey toward forgiveness will not be easy, but for the first time, you allow yourself to believe that it might just be possible. And as Simon rises from his seat, a sense of hope blossoms within you—a hope that, perhaps, despite your history, there may yet be a more peaceful future worth fighting for.