Kail Rose

You came into his life mercilessly—in the best possible way. Simon had been through more than enough unforgiving shit to believe in any higher power, but if he did, then there wouldn’t be a single doubt in his heart that God himself had sent you. You fit into him like you’d been put on earth for that purpose. Everything he’d been through suddenly wasn’t nearly as bad, so long as he could have you in his life.   

You understood him without speaking, you comforted him without prodding, and you loved him without hurting. 

The night terrors didn’t startle you—you still slept by his side and poured him water when he couldn’t even form coherent sentences, too shaken by his memories to think straight. The scars that adorned every inch of his skin had become a familiar map you traced with feather-light touches every night to put him to sleep. Whenever you spoke about him, there was always a trace of pride in your voice he’d never heard from anyone else. 

Maybe Simon Riley didn’t do hugs or kisses or cuddles, but you did. 

You sought his touch like your life depended on it. While you didn’t shy away from mundane, fleeting moments—squeezing his arm, running a hand through his hair, planting soft kisses on his cheek—what you really craved was to be held.

It took him embarrassingly long to notice the link between your shift in attitude and how long it’d been since his arms had been wrapped around you. It would’ve been easier if you’d used your words, until it became clear to him even you weren’t aware of it. 

It was gradual, but not subtle. One moment, you’d be curled on the sofa, book on your lap and humming something absentmindedly. You’d smile at him, or compliment him, or give him that look so full of love it made his brain short-circuit. Then you’d be irritable, annoyed the slightest of noise, and would stop whatever you were doing.

Today, you gave him a small wave before returning your focus to the book who’d stolen you from him for the past three days—something about dragons, something about riders. He had no idea, but he’d gotten you the second one already, just in case. 

He kissed the top of your head, drawing a satisfied hum from you. 

“M’getting’ a drink with Johnny,” he said, tapping the page of your book so you’d pay attention to him. “Won’t be long.”

You barely registered his words as you waved at him the way he’d wave at a cashier. He rolled his eyes, a gesture he never knew could carry affection, and grabbed his keys from the counter. 

The second he walked through the doorway, he heard the clock ticking in his head. He heard it while he sipped on his first pint of Boddies. He heard it while Johnny talked about his football team like the Celtic had any chance at winning anything outside the confines of Scotland. He heard it while he waited by the pump at the petrol station, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete. He heard it while he fumbled with his keys at the door, well aware of how long he’d been gone. 

It wasn’t until he stepped into the flat that the clocked stopped ticking, and in its place rang an alarm. A loud, jarring one in the shape of your abandoned book on the coffee table and the sound of the shower running. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he roamed through the flat, slowly removing his layers. 

He knew how to play the game—one you weren’t even aware of. 

He left his coat on the rack, next to your own. His shoes were left by the door, otherwise you would’ve cut off his legs. His face-mask had been thrown in the bin the second he walked into the bedroom. He left his phone on the nightstand and lowered himself on the bed, just by the edge. 

By the time you walked out of the bathroom—hair dripping wet, Simon’s shirt sticking to your body in ways that made him wish he hadn’t gone out with Johnny, shorts so short they barely covered anything—he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin rested on one of his palms. 

You were upset. 

He could see it on your furrowed brows and slow, deep breaths. He could see it on the way you walked up to him without saying a word, silently looking down at him with those eyes of yours. He could see it on the pout on your lips. 

He didn’t give you the time to speak. He reached and intertwined his fingers with yours. You smelled like that bodywash that drove him crazy—the one you’d used since you first met. The shirt smelled like him, which threw him off guard only for a second before he pulled you onto his lap. 

You straddled him with ease, a clear sign of how many times you’d done this. His lap had become your preferred spot—reading, kissing, talking. He let go of your hand only to move his palms to the small of your back. You wrapped your legs around his middle and let your forehead crash against the curve of his neck, taking in his scent. 

The alarm in his head went quiet. 

He ran a slow hand up and down your spine, letting the moment simmer in comfortable silence for a beat longer. You wrapped your arms around him—one over his shoulder, the other under his arm. Your hold wasn’t tight, but it felt desperate. You nuzzled the curve of his neck, and Simon felt almost pathetic for the groan you drew from him. 

The same arms that had held military-grade weapons now wrapped around your frame with utmost care. He pressed you against his chest tighter as he placed a slow kiss on your temple, your skin warm against his lips. 

Like a plant that’d finally been watered, you perked up at the gesture. You sighed softly before placing a slow kiss on his neck, finally lifting your head. 

He grunted at the sudden warmth that spread through his body, closing his eyes momentarily. “Careful there.”

You giggled, arms now wrapped around his neck. He took in the sight—your now bright eyes, your frown gone, and your smile wide. You placed a kiss to the corner of his lips, and it was then that Simon knew your tank was nearly full. 

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft, exposed flesh. He closed the distance between the two of you, lips crashing against your own. You tasted like toothpaste, he probably still tasted like beer—it didn’t matter. You let out a surprised groan against his lips, which lit a fire in his chest. 

You pulled away smiling. With your arms still wrapped around his neck, you leaned back, trusting Simon to keep you from falling over. He couldn’t help but smile back at you, almost involuntarily. His hold didn’t falter—he’d never let you fall.

“How’s the book?” he rasped, eyes still locked onto your lips with something that resembled hunger. 

You huffed. “Couldn’t finish it. Suddenly didn’t feel like reading anymore, dunno why.”

He chuckled, full of amusement. Maybe you hadn’t figured it out, but he knew why. But he wouldn’t say it, because if you’d been put on this earth for him, then he’d also been put on this earth for you. And Simon Riley would hold you in his arms for the rest of his life if you’d let him.