✨mattie🧡

Your voice cracks as the dust kicks up at her back, and he settles his hand between your shoulder blades, thumb working circles just under the edge of your scapula.

“Let her go.” She’s shrieking with laughter, cowboy boots tipping toe to toe through the crowd, another little girl hot on her heels, both of them bee-lining to a… cow.

American rodeo is bloody weird.

You lean into him. Sigh. Turn your face into his chest as he folds you into his side. There’s no protest, hesitation, no second thoughts, you go easy.

It’s like a dream. One he knows he’s going to wake up from because it can’t possibly be this easy, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Riley would’ve grown up here.” You give someone a polite smile as they pass, silver lines of sympathy in their eyes. You’re known here, the two of you, and being in it with you has painted the picture for him. This would have been Tess. Tess and Riley. Walking the grounds together, visiting friends, loading and unloading horses in trailers, oiling saddles and braiding manes. “She should grow up here.” Regret twists your tongue and the last word is thick. “She would have, if I had been better.”

“Daisy…”

“I just… I’m not her. It didn’t feel right, trying to insert myself in a place where I don’t belong, and I can’t imagine her doing any of this, getting hurt, you know?” People move in every direction, fans, vendors, competitors, cowboys, cowgirls, kids, families. You maneuver around all of it with grace, pulling him in your wake. For someone who doesn’t belong here, you fit pretty well. He can see you here, you and Riley, a whole chapter of your life never to be written now. “Not like I had the time anyway. Or the money.” You come to a stop on the outside of a ring, big metal fencing looped around where a woman sits comfortably on an idle horse.

“You’ve done your best.” The horse moves, but the rider doesn’t. She’s still, somewhat slouched, but if he looks closer, he can see the muscles in her thighs flexing, dots and dashes pulsing like morse code, each one eliciting a movement beneath her.

He bites his tongue at the mention of money. Battle for another day. He’s not keen on invoking other arguments, not right now. It was a struggle to be here, a win he managed by cheating.

“Let me come with you,” he murmurs against the corner of your mouth as if he could force the words inside, change your mind. “Let me be there for you, so you can be there for Riley.”

“I don’t know…” the words die on a gasp as he pushes a finger inside you, your velvet walls snug. Too snug.

“Christ you’re tight baby. Gonna have to stretch you out f’me.”

“O-oh.” Your hips rock, looking for the heel of his hand, but he flexes his wrist, pulls it away, deprives you.

“Let me come with you.” He kisses you again, cups the back of your head with his hand to keep you close. “Let me come to the rodeo, and I’ll make you come.” You whine, shifting around to find a rhythm around where his finger is stationary, not giving you an inch.

“You’re not- it’s not fair.”

No one said he had to fight fair.

“She didn’t get to grow up here like Tess maybe would have wanted her too, but that doesn’t mean she’s not happy.” You shake your head in disagreement but he stops you, hands on your shoulders. “She is happy, Daisy. You’ve done great baby. Would it have been different for her? Yeah. But that doesn’t mean what you’ve done isn’t just as good.”

“She is happy,” you whisper to your feet, and he skims the skin at the collar of your skirt.

“And healthy, and safe. She’s doin’ just fine without this.” You nod.

“Maybe you’re right.” He doesn’t bother telling you he’s right about most things when it comes to you, even the ones you vehemently disagree on. Instead, he settles for a kiss to your forehead and a sigh.

“C’mon. Let’s go see what this cow’s all about.”

Your driveway is long, and dirt. Bumpy. It’s a wonder anyone can sleep through the mile and half long length, let alone two people, but here you are. You and Riley, eyes closed, your head tipped back, Riley half leaned over in her booster seat, dead to world. You don’t even wake when he pulls your door open, lashes only beginning to flutter as he rubs your thigh, pats you lightly on your hip. “We’re home sweetheart.”

“Already?” You blink groggily, undoing your seatbelt to step out, unsteady and tilted to one side. You don’t go far, because he's there, his hands never left you.

Will never.

“Easy.”

“Shit.” You glance at Riley and wince. “Shit.”

“I’ll get her.” You rub your temples, drained. It was a long day, and you’re exhausted, as always. It’s your default setting. It drives him insane.

“No, that’s okay, I can-”

“I’ll get her.” He's firmer and the ripple effect of a swallow works it way upward until your expression turns to acceptance, almost resignation. You huff.

“Fine.” She stirs when he unbuckles the belt and he tips her forward, sliding arms beneath her knees to ease her carefully from the backseat.

“We home?” You rub her back.

“We’re home ladybug.” Soft puffs of air tickle his neck as he brings her inside, following you to her room where he lays her on her bed.

“I’ll wait downstairs.” He tells you as you slide her boots off. You hum something under your breath that sounds like an okay, but it’s a low melody, your delicate, stressful, beautiful dance, the one you struggle with so much. You’ve only let him have small clips of this, only let him in so much, and he needs more. So much more.

“Simon,” the floorboards creak at his pause, his heart skipping at the tender, sweet glow in your eyes. “Thank you.”

“No, oh god, no. Please.”

Beth crumples, careening towards the floor with a wail, a tiny baby Joseph in the carrier next to her, blinking up at his mother. Simon drops to his knees beside them both, pulls Beth into his arms as she sobs, shakes like she's breaking apart. There are words exchanged, something he mutters over his shoulder at Tommy’s doctor, ordering them to leave.

“He was on his way home,” Beth moans, “he was just- he was on his way home.” He doesn’t have the stomach to think about it, his brother getting in the car after work to go home, nearly there before being slammed into by a truck, crushed by the force of it, body broken Killed. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on it, the pain, the fear Tommy must have felt. The devastation knowing he’d never see his wife again. He wouldn’t get to see his son grow up. He can’t get distracted. Not when what Tommy’s left behind needs him so badly now.

The door creaks. He twists to tell whoever it is to make themselves scarce, but it’s John, and his expression is grim. Haunted. “What it is?”

“Need you to come with me.” Dread swirls in his blood, and rises on autopilot, following his friend dutifully down the hallway before stopping in front of a room. He frowns, following as John steps inside without a word. Broad shoulders block his view for a moment, but when they move, his heart stops.

It's you. Prone in a hospital bed, unmoving. Eyes closed, hands flat at your sides, frozen in time.

Gone.

“What is this?” He can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t even talk, spitting out the three words like they’re rocks, too heavy to be enunciated. “John.” This doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up, it’s improbable, impossible, and his head is spinning. His friend’s breath is heavy, laden with sadness.

“I’m sorry Simon.” Loud beeps ricochet between his ears as the floor tilts. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. His heart is frozen in his chest and it’s killing him, filling his lungs, turning them to ice. The beeping gets louder, the shrill ringing bouncing off the inside of his skull-

“Bleedin’ christ.” The watch on his bedside table nearly cracks under the pressure of his fist closing around it. “Fuck.”

It was a nightmare.

Real life horrors mixed with dreams, that’s all.

Just a nightmare.

You’re at the nurses station.

Ankles crossed in a chair, smiling-

with a baby in your arms.

It stops him dead in his tracks, leaves him shell shocked, idyllic dreams rising like smoke in his mind.

For a second, that's not a stranger's baby nestled against your chest.

It's his.

You holding his baby, kissing his baby, his baby giggling in your arms. You, pregnant with his baby, round belly under your scrubs, tits heavy with milk. Undeniable proof that you’re his.

“Hey Doctor Riley.” Key clears her throat with an amused look. She knows. He knows she knows, knows she's always seen right through him.

“Whose baby is that?” His voice is gruff, sharper than he intended, and your warm smile turns quizzical.

“Her mom is surgery and there’s no one else, like no partner or family to be with her. It’s a little busy in labor-land so they asked if she could come up here for a bit.” He strokes the chubby curve of her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, wedding ring flashing in the fluorescent light.

“Big girl.” He rarely sees babies like this. Strong, healthy with good muscle tone and strong lungs. Alive. So vibrantly alive.

“Yeah she’s a chunker. Nine pounds.” You hum, rocking her when she squirms until the little furrow of her brow smooths away. The unsettled dread from this morning’s nightmare is still heavy in his stomach, hardly quelled even though he’s standing in front of you.

“You alright?” You frown at his question.

“Yes?” It’s not good enough, and his fingers travel from the baby’s cheek to your ring finger. He should be satisfied, walk away and go about his business, but he can’t move, even when he tries to force it. He wants to drag you up into his arms, hold you, feel you, reassure himself. “Is everything okay?”

“I…” I needed to see you. I needed to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re healthy, that you’re here. I couldn’t sleep. I dreamt you were dead. Isa rounds the corner, stopping short and lighting up at the sight of the baby.

“Oh my goodness look at that baby! Let me see her.” Any chance he had to pull more out of you vanishes, and he gives you a slow nod before shaking his shoulders, taking off for his office with another word.

“Simon?” It’s late. Almost seven, end of a busy day that passed in a blink of an eye and you’re a sight for sore ones, standing in the door way of his office, back pack hanging off your shoulder.

“Hey.” Your smile is shy, even as the door closes and you make your way across the room, baby steps turned to big ones as you lean against the side of his desk. Bolder. Braver, each day.

“Are you alright? Earlier you seemed… I don’t know. And the day got so busy I didn’t get a chance to talk to you.” You don't usually offer this to him, the softness, the sweet. You bury it, hide it. It kicks something loose in him, but he keeps his expression neutral. Firm. How you need it.

“I had a rough morning, but everything’s okay.” Your posture relaxes a fraction.

“Okay. Good.” The silence is heavy. Has been, ever since the desk. You've stopped snapping and spitting and clawing at this gap he's trying to close, less likely to throw him off, sending him crashing into the dirt. You still bare your teeth, he’s not stupid enough to call it all a win yet, but small victories like this still mean something. You like to surprise him though. “I was wondering if you’d take me home?” He holds himself in check, smothers his surprise. Barely.

“Yeah?” You rock on your heels, arms crossed, unsure but trying. Trying for him.

“Mhm. I just figured… you know, we haven’t yet this week. Probably should.” That's all he needs. The laptop shuts and he grabs his coat.

If that was all it was, he could accept the consequences.

If his heart was the only one left bleeding from wounds so deep and irreperable that they left the best surgeons in the world stumped, he could accept his fate.

If he was the only one left feeling this hurt, he could manage, could grin and bear it as he’s done with every pain in his life.

But it wasn’t just him anymore, was it? He’d chosen to let you into his life, had chosen to step past the threshold of your trust when you’d swung the door open and invited him in with arms wide open, all but rolling out the welcome mat for him.

And now? He was no longer the sole person left reeling from his actions, from this deep wound in his chest that wouldn’t, couldn’t stop bleeding.

For now there was you, sat across from him with hot tears streaming down your heated cheeks as they had been for the better part of an hour now, the fire in your eyes blazing as bright and fierce as he imagines his own expression might have once mirrored, a carbon copy of the flames he once felt aided him in being so detached form his work, from his depravity, the same ones that now lick at his wounds with a poisoned tongue.

Each time Simon glances out the windows of your flat, he’s reminded of how still the night air is outside, how calm of an evening it was when he stepped into the place he’d begun calling home, so long as the two hearts he considered as extensions of his own were inside as well, beating in unison.

Inside however, it’s been a whirlwind of a storm, a calamity of turbulence bordering on catastrophic, a mess he himself has created and knows not how to repair, how to move on from without losing hold of everything he so desperately wishes to cling to.

Were he a fly on the wall, he might find it almost comical, serendipitous of sorts, how your shaking hands are still holding on to the aged and worn fabric of his once cherished balaclava, a second skin he would once have never been caught dead without.

Every so often when your eyes seem to have cried all the tears they can, they flicker back down to the pale mask, the same one that became seared in your memory the night Rosie came to fruition, the same night an enticing stranger from the pub came inside you and changed the direction of your life forever, and your sobbing begins anew all over again.

Simon thanks his lucky stars the baby has been sleeping longer through the nights as of late, as she has yet to stir in her room down the hall, allowing her father to deal with the consequence of his actions as he attempts to keep her mum from falling apart further.

“Love, I-”

“I don’t understand.” You whisper, nearly choking on another sob as you sniffle and wipe your nose with your shirt sleeve, eyes never glancing up to meet his own pained ones. “I just don’t understand, Simon.”

“Birdie.” He answers, squatting down in front of you, the anguish evident in his voice as he debates whether or not to reach out for you, needing the feeling of you near for his own sake, but not wanting to frighten you.

“I don’t understand, Simon. How? How?! How is this possible? Ha-have you known this whole time?”

“No.” Simon rebukes the idea outright, clearing his throat as his emotions threaten to choke up the seasoned veteran as well. “No. Love, I’m as shocked as you are. I- I’m havin’ trouble wrappin’ my mind ‘round this, as well. I swear to ya.”

“How has this never come up before? Never once did you think to mention the time you finished inside of a girl nine months before Rosie was born? You never did the math, Si?” You question him, finally lifting your tired, reddened eyes to meet his gaze, the sight sending a pang through Simon’s chest.

“Honestly? I’d nearly forgotten ‘bout that night, love. This is the first time I’ve thought ‘bout it since it happened. Thought you’d said you were on the pill.” He hates saying such a thing out loud, not when the mere suggestion means that the culminaiton of your love, living and breathing as she sleeps one room over, might not be here today. But he truly hadn’t spent much more thought thinking about the beautiful girl he’d brought home that night, not wanting to grow attached to something he knew he’d never allow himself to have.

“I did. I was Simon, I was on birth control. And I took a goddamn morning after pill on top of that, but obviously it didn’t work.” You snap back at him, sending a glare his way before you’re letting out a shaky breath, shaking your head to yourself as you glance again at the damned mask in your hands. “I spent months looking for you, Simon. Months. I went back to that pub, begged them to help me find you somehow. They told me you’d only paid in cash, there were no cards to trace, that it was the first and last time they’d ever seen you in that place. And that was it, a dead end. I- I couldn’t remember where you lived, I was so wasted. I was at a total loss.”

And it was true. Simon had never risked going back to that pub again since that night, not wanting to risk running into the pretty bird who’d made his heart feel something he didn’t want to feel again. His heart aches, knowing the trouble you’d gone through, trying in vain to find the man who’d knocked you up and disappeared without a trace.

“Love, I’m so sorry. If I’d known-”

“I spent all those months alone, Simon.” You cut him off, meeting his eyes once more as you square your shoulders, a new sort of vindication taking over your expression as you sit up straighter, dropping his mask at his feet. “I went to every appointment alone. I went into labour three weeks early because she was so big, apparently thanks to you, alone. I gave birth to our daughter, alone. I accepted that I was going to have to do this all by myself.”

Simon lets you go on, nodding along to your every word, knowing that he deserves to hear it, that everything you’re saying is true. You did go through everything with no one but yourself to rely on, to count on, to keep you afloat through such an uncertain time.

He longs to tells you that he would change the past if he could, that he would do so in a heartbeat, would reign devastation and ruin upon anyone if it meant he could right this wrong, but he knows that there is no point, his words cannot change what has happened, cannot change the fact that this is the situation he’s in now, as unimaginable as it may be.

How he wishes he’d been there from the start, longs to mourn for a time he so easily could have been apart of had he not been a coward who hid. There is an especially sharp twang that shoots through his despondent heart when you mention how alone you were throughout the beginning, a time in your life he now can’t help but to completely reimagine had he not been a fool and been there.

What if he’d simply just given you his bloody number? Would he have been the first person you’d rang when that plus sign popped up on the test? Would he have held you as you cried, frightened and uncertain of your future, but at least with a shoulder to cry upon and arms to hold you through it all?

Would he have come to those doctors appointments with you, his heart skipping a beat when the doppler smoothed across your belly and found that small, steady heartbeat living inside of you? Would he have fought tears as you clutched his hand for dear life through every contraction and push until finally the best sound in the world rang throughout the delivery room, Rosie’s cry hitting his ears for the first time?

His chest aches irreparably knowing he so easily could have been there for all of it. He could have been there massaging your aching feet and laughing each time he felt the baby kick underneath his hands. He could have put the cot together for you and hung the mobile and built the rocker and told you would everything would be alright because if nothing else you had each other.

But Simon knows as well as anyone that he cannot change the past, no matter how desperately he may wish to do so. The truth is set in stone, and he wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to bash his head in with it.

“And you’re trying to tell me, that after all that time, when I walked up to that damned fence that day, that everyone on that crew told me to talk to none other than you? That you were the only soul who was willing to help me?”

“Birdie, I-”

“I can’t believe this, Simon. There’s just no way. There’s no way!” You exclaim, rising to your feet as the emotions begin to boil inside of you again, your cheeks reddening further as disbelief takes over, fact seeming stranger than fiction right now. “How could this be possible? What are the odds? What are the fucking odds that it was you? That it’s been you all along? I can’t- I don’t- This doesn’t-”

You’re starting to hyperventilate now, Simon can see how the panic is trying to dig its claws into you and take over as reality sets in, as the adrenaline comes crashing and everything becomes all too real to comprehend. You might be upset with him, but he knows what he has to do, at least to calm you down some.

Simon comes to stand as well, stepping closer to you until there’s no space left and wraps his strong arms around you, giving you nowhere to go but to remain within his orbit, breathing in his scent and feeling his heart beat beneath your ear, a soothing hand coming to rub between your shoulder blades as you fight to keep your breathing steady.

“I know, love. I know.” He murmurs into your hair, craning his neck down to press a kiss against your temple, momentarily pleased that you’re not fighting to escape his hold, that he can still provide you with a modicum of comfort when you need it most. “It seems impossible but- stranger things have happened, I suppose.”

“How can this be possible, Si?” You whisper meekly into the fabric of his shirt, the vibrations resonating throughout his chest as he ever so slightly begins to rock you in place, his hands never ceasing their ministrations against your skin. “How?”

“I’ve only got one guess.” He replies, giving the slightest shrug as you push back against his chest to look at up at him, waterlogged eyes blinking through the blur to make him out clearly. “It was meant to be.”

You can’t help but to scoff as you allow your forehead to fall forward against his chest, the rolling of your eyes undoubtably but unseen to him as he decides to go on.

“M’serious. Rosie was meant to happen, sure. But you and me? Us? It was meant to happen, birdie. One way or another. We were supposed to happen.” He reiterates, lifting both hands to cradle your cheeks, slowly bringing your face back to meet his as eh leans his forehead against yours.

“You lied to me.” You whisper as softly as you can, a stray tear slipping past your lash line and meeting his thumb where is lays against your warmed cheek. “Simon, you’ve been lying to me. For months now.”

“I know. I know I have. I won’t deny it.” He confesses, stroking the apples of your cheeks as your peer up at him, desperate for someone tomake sense of all this but unsure whether you want it form him any longer, the perfect picture defitnion of inner conflict and turmoil stood before him. “But I can explain, love. Please, let me explain.”

He worries that this is it, that if you choose not to believe him, decide not to hear him out and allow him to try and explain, as would be your right, seeing as how this entire fiasco seems far too insane to be reality, that this could be it. This could be the moment Simon loses you, loses everything he never knew he wanted but could never imagine living without.

He couldn’t possibly fathom a life without you anymore, without Rosie, without these firecrackers in the shape of a woman and a baby who have turned his life upside down in a rollercoaster of emotions that he never bought a ticket for but never wants to get off of.

He needs you to hear him out, needs for you to give him a chance, just one chance to explain the undeniably fucked up inner workings of his brain, the mechanisms with which he operates that might not make sense to anyone but his own traumatized mind, if only to offer you a glimpse into why he’s done the things he’s done.

He knows how delicate this is, how precious of a chance he holds in his hands when you offer him the meekest of nods, granting him yet another kindness he will never know how to properly repay you for in his mortal lifetime.

You allow him to lead the both of you towards the couch where he settles in next to you, never letting go of your hands as his thumbs rub aginst your much softer skin, as though he could swipe this whole mess away as deftly as he reaches up to wipe one of your tears away.

Simon Riley from a year ago, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

This emotionally constipated man who’s been taught to shove his feelings down and simply grin and bear it from a young age would shudder at the thought of laying everything out in the open, of being so vulnerable in front of a pretty bird, his pretty bird

You might as well be an insurgent holding a gun to his temple with bullets he loaded himself, he feels so nervous, the severity of this situation not lost on him. Whatever words are going to come out of his mouth could alter the trajectory of his remaining days for better or worse, with no one but himself to place blame upon.

But now? Simon who’s been through thick and thin with you, has planted seeds of hope and watched them grow into love and trust and bliss and happiness in a way he never knew his life could bloom into, this Simon knows what’s on the line, knows what is at stake, and knows this is a fight worth fighting for, worth dying for.

This love, this hope, this … thing that you’ve built between the two of you, the three of you, is too strong, too immense in its gravity to ever exist in the past tense.

It could only ever be something that was going to happen, and once it happened, once your two worlds collided and became one, once a living, breathing, tangible piece of evidence was born from the undeniable passion existing between the two of you, that was it.

There could never exist another universe, an alternate timeline, another world where Simon has this, and allows it to slip between his fingers, to become a thing of the past, something that was.

Something that was his and his alone, only to be ruined by him alone.

But the same hands that could so easily tear everything apart, equally held the potential to build it back up again, didn’t they? Couldn’t they even be strong enough to hold it all together before it fell apart in the first place? Douse the fire from within before it burns everything beyond recognition?

“We get dirty, and the world stays clean.” He utters before clearing his throat, the words catching as he swallows and takes a steadying breath, giving your hands a squeeze and he looks up into your waterlogged eyes. “I’ve had to live by those words for… longer than I can remember, birdie. My entire career, my whole life really has been about choosing between the lesser of two evils. Doing the dirty work that no one else would when it was necessary.”

“I don’t need to tell ya how fucked up I am, you’ve seen more than ‘nough glimpses of it to know I’m not a good man, least not when we met. But love, when I saw ya that day,” Simon clears his throat again, the emotions trying to get the better of him when he feels you give his fingers your own reassuring squeeze back. “I jus’- I knew there was something there. Didn’t know wha’ it was, because I swear to ya birdie I didn’t remember that night. But I just saw you, and something told me life wasn’t going to be the same. That I had to do something to- to have ya. To keep ya. At least until you decided you didn’t want anythin’ to do with me but- that wasn’t wha’ happened. You smiled at me and- it was over for me right then and there, love.”

He can see your expression softening with his every word, notices your sniffles lessening and notes that your tears have stopped cascading down your cheeks. He knows you though, can tell that your guard is still up, despite slowly lowering it enough to hear him out.

“And so yes, I lied. It wasn’t- I-” he cuts himself off with a shake of the head, glancing around the room as though his eyes might land on the script he needs right now, a cue card telling him exactly what he’s meant to say in such a situation. This was far from easy for him, to not only rationalize his actions but to speak them aloud and try to justify them to you, it was a foreign concept. All he could do was simply keep talking.

“Birdie, lying in order to keep you was a means to and end, the lesser of two evils. No, I’d never met the owners of the nursery ‘til I was all but bribin’ ‘em for a spot for Rosie. Had to convince them I’d get the job done weeks early to secure her that spot. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat because it was what you girls needed. I had to lie to get it, but I got it done. I was only thinkin’ of the end product.”

He watches you take a deep breath, your shoulders losing a mere modicum of that tension they’ve been holding onto all evening, your jaw loosening as you shift in your spot, your thigh now touching his.

“Knew it was wrong. But I was to used to it, love. Doin’ the dirty work to get shit done. Next thing I knew they were presuming that I was Rosie’s father and you were my wife and I jus’- I didn’t correct ‘em. Didn’t want to. Not really. Part o’ me knew how fucked up it was to pretend that you two were my family when I’d only known you a week but- part o’ me hoped if I said yes that eventually it would become true. Wouldn’t be an issue so long as it became true.”

“But it’s not them I regret lyin’ to. If it benefits Rosie, I’ll lie to anyone, doesn’t matter who, not for a second. It’s you, love, that I regret lyin’ to. I- I knew it was wrong, but I kept thinkin’ if I just had ‘nough time, everythin’ I was fibbin’ ‘bout would happen anyways- if I got dirty and you stayed clean then-”

“Simon.” You speak for the first time since his impromptu monologue began, reaching a hand up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing against scars along his tattered skin. “Breathe.”

He takes your reminder to heart and inhales deeply, steadying himself once more before coming to reach his own hand up to hold yours in place, leaning his face further into your touch, feeling now more undeserving of your tenderness than ever, while also needing it more desperately than he ever has.

“Righ’. I jus’- I hated seein’ you worry over money love, hated seein’ you stress ‘bout anythin’. Didn’t like it especially when I knew I could help. So yes, I went behind your back and started payin’ Rosie’s daycare bills without tellin’ you. And I won’t tell you I regret it love, because I don’t, not really. What I do regret is not talkin’ to you but- I haven’t known how to go ‘bout this the right way, I suppose.”

“That’s one thing you’ve got right.” You mutter, expression softening further at the chuckle he can’t help but to let out, self deprecating or not.

“I can only imagine how this all looks from your end, love. Wouldn’t blame ya for whatever you’re thinkin’ ‘bout me, ‘bout our future. I know I’ve lied and hid things from ya, and for that I’m sorry. But this was never about me wanting to take the choices and decisions away from your love. The opposite, actually. I wanted to be able to give you the chance to choose. To decide whether or not you wanted to go back to work yet without the pressure of money deciding for you, to pick the nursery you wanted without worryin’ ‘bout fees or bills. I know I went ‘bout it all wrong, but I’ve only ever wanted to give you the choice to decide for yourself love.”

“Simon.” You whisper with the slightest shake of your head and your thumb continues to smooth over his cheek bone, eyes beginning to fill with tears again.

“I’ve never known a love like this before, birdie. Have never had something like this before, someone like you. I did the only thing I knew how to do and that was to fight for you, lie for you, get dirty and give you and Rosie the life you deserve. I know that good things don’t stay easy, things that are worth something are worth figthin’ for, and I’ll beg on my hands and knees every day and night if you let me make it up to you, love. Let me show you that I’ll never lie again, not to you. Never again.”

“I just- I don’t know what to think right now.” You admit with perfect honesty, meeting his eye with an air of utter exhaustion hanging over you. “I need some time to- to process all this, you know?”

He nods in agreement, understanding that this has been quite the whirlwind of a few hours for you both, but you especially, discovering that your partner has been lying to you, but most of all, finding out that Simon has been Rosie’s father all this time.

“Let me sleep on this, yeah? I just- I need time.” You reiterate, pulling your hand back into your lap and averting your gaze from his.

“Course. I can- I can sleep out ‘ere, if you’d like.” He offers up, ignoring the twist in his arteries at such an idea of sleeping away from you.

“Might be a good idea for tonight.” You reply, standing and walking towards your shared bedroom without glancing back at him, each of your steps appearing heavier than the last until you’re out of his sight.

With a long sigh Simon stretches further into the couch cushions, having never found them as uncomfortable as they are right now. His fingers are itching for a smoke, a habit he hasn’t indulged in for months since he met you, what used to be his go to stress relief apart from punching something until his knuckles bled.

He isn’t sure how many minutes or hours go by as he lays back and stares at the ceiling, replaying every word he said aloud over and over in his head, hoping to whatever God may be listening that it was enough, that he will be enough to keep you, to convince you that he isn’t a man with bad intentions, just a bad past. A man who loves you more than he’s ever loved anything and doesn’t know what to do with these feelings of his that seem larger than life.

He knows it must be approaching the early morning hours however, when the telltale cries start softly from the direction of Rosie’s room. Instinct has him sitting up, ready to tip toe towards her cot and bring her to you, though he finds himself pausing, unsure of how to go abotu this now. Rather than safe in your flat, he feels as though he’s standing in the middle of a tight wire walk, dangling over the precipice one too many storeys high above the ground, winds howling from all directions and nothing but you as the flickering light guiding him across the line to safety. But is he allowed to seek out your light right now?

He hears your footsteps creep over into Rosie’s room, hears when her cries soften down to sleepy murmurs as he imagines you’ve picked her up, cradling her to your bosom. He can’t help himself when he stands from the couch and inches closer to her doorway, peeking in to the room to watch you rock her gently to and fro, a soft humming coming from your lips.

He’s seen Rosie every day for months now, knows every beauty mark and wisp of hair and fat roll and freckle. He knows how to make her laugh, how she prefers her bottles, how to rock her back to sleep, how to swaddle her just right. But seeing her now, he can’t help the emotions threatening to spill over his lash line as he gazes at her in your arms.

That’s his baby. She always has been, some measly DNA wasn’t going to change that fact. But he can’t help but see her in a different light now, knowing that she truly is the amalgamation of the two of you, the physical proof of your connection to one another, his little girl. He has a daughter, a real life, in the flesh, living and breathing daughter. He has no one to thank but you for this most precious gift he never once thought he would want, let alone have. He really does owe everything to you.

But just as he feels as though his heart beats forever in sync with yours, you are just as in tune with him.

“Come on in, Si.” You whisper into the still, quiet of her room, nothing more than a soft nightlight in the corner lighting the small space.

He’s taken aback from a split second, certain that he’d been cunning enough to do unnoticed, especially as your eyes haven’t once flickered in his direction. But it appears you know him better than he knows himself.

He carefully steps towards you two, each step intentional until he’s stood directly in front of you, both your gazes locked on the babe in your arms. Unconsciously, his arms come up to cradle yours as you both hold her in your embrace.

“Let’s bring her back to bed with us, huh?” You whisper to him, his eyes quickly glancing up to meet yours in the dark of the room, though he swears the love has never been so clear to see in them.

“Really?” He whispers back, worried that he sounds like the scared little boy he feels like, wanting nothing more than to believe that you’ll have him, that you’ll take him back and forgive him for every fucked up thing that’s wrong with him and let him prove to you that he’ll do right by you.

“Really.” You say back to him, stepping closer still until he can reach down to rest his forehead against yours, the tears no longer being held back as they silently fall down his cheeks. “The bed doesn’t feel right without you.”

You set Rosie back down in her cot for just a moment, despite her grumbles at being out of her parents arms, just in time for Simon to fall to his knees on the carpeted floor and lean into your embrace, his head pressed against your abdomen as his shoulders shake with silent sobs.

“It’s you and me, Simon. It’s us ‘til the end.” You say to him, running your fingers through his hair as you wrap your arms around his shoulders best as you can.

You know that everything isn’t resolved just yet. There will be future conversations and discussions to be had, more truths to be uncovered, layers to be peeled back and boundaries to be set. You aren’t about to let him off that easy, but you also know a good thing when you see one. And if Simon still can’t see what a good man he has in fact turned out to be, then you’ll enjoy the view for the both of you, clear the fog from his eyes until he realizes he’s been there all along.

“But if you ever lie to me again, Simon Riley,” you add, grabbing his face with both hands to make sure he’s looking you in the eyes. “Then I’m naming our next kid Johnny.”

“Fuckin’ hell, birdie. Haven’t we been through ‘nough suffering already?”

Have I ever mentioned how much writing angst pains me physically? Especially when I know there’s only one more chapter left of this series?

That’s the only way to explain what’s happening.

Your husband has burrowed beneath your skin and settled there, moved in and took over like it was so easy, like you didn’t put up a fight.

It’s infuriating.

The cracks in your control became canyons, too wide to be stitched back together, too big to be crossed, and he’s holding each side in one hand, pulling them farther and farther apart.

He’s ripping you open.

And you’ve been okay with it.

“Tess.”

“I’m serious.” She slides the pen across the well worn kitchen table, and you both watch as it rolls to a stop. “You have to.”

“This is bad juju. You’re like… speaking this into existence or something.” You can’t even look at the document, papers with little colorful tabs indicating where you should sign on each page.

“Nothing is going to happen, but…”

“But nothing.” You slump in the chair. Your thighs are dead, muscles wrung dry. The two of you rode for seven hours today before she dropped this bomb, detonated your peace. It was supposed to be a nice day. Now it’s anxiety inducing.

“Daisy. We want to get everything settled, just in case.” Liams boots thud through the entry way, Riley asleep in his arms. He nods at you seriously, eyes dark and heavy. The stress from Riley’s birth, the nicu, it’s settled permanently on his face, etched into lines that will never be taken away.

The selfishness of your position hits you squarely in the chest.

Liam’s mom and dad are not good people. They’re awful. They’re cold and cruel and have the morals of a trash can.

You never understood how parents could treat their children the way they treated Liam, and you know why this is so important, why it has to be done.

You grab the pen, loop your signature and initials across each and every line, dating as you go, and Tess sighs when you’re finished, slipping the stack back into a manilla envelope.

“Okay.” She claps, and then smiles brightly. “Tacos for dinner?”

“So what’s the problem?” Ava holds her hands up, tips her head back with dramatic, hushed wail. “This hot rich doctor wants to take care of me, oh my god it’s awful.”

“Ava, shut up.” Liv gives you a sympathetic smile. “I get it. It’s a lot out of nowhere.”

“No, Liv. What’s a lot out of nowhere is you getting Eiffel-towered in the middle of the-”

“Ava!” You hiss, and she cackles.

“You guys are so boring. You’ve got a man who, judging by the sound of it, is willing to do anything and everything for you, and Liv’s getting DP. I don’t get it. You should be thrilled.” Olivia is shaking, half from laughter and half from what you assume is fury. “Meanwhile, I’m not getting anything but a stern lecture and a pat on the head.” You smirk.

“Not working out the way you hoped? I thought you always said-”

“Redcoats.” Shit.

You don’t have to look to know he’s there. You can feel him. In a room, in a hallway, across the parking garage, the hospital.

Your ghost.

Your husband.

Still, you turn around. Smile politely. Wave to him, John and Doctor Garrick, who gives you a nod, eyes sweeping over Olivia, touching each point of her body like an inspection.

Simon smiles back. It’s barely there, but you recognize them now, the very small lilt of the left corner, mouth subtly tipping upward. These smiles are different from the others, the ones where his eyes crinkle, his mouth fully curves.

You like them both. They're treasures.

John smiles at you and Olivia, and then pins Ava with a look. It’s full of ice, and censure, and her swallow is so loud they can probably hear it clear across the cafeteria.

“Anyway,” she croaks after looking down, gnawing on the corner of her fingernail. "Count your blessings.”

Molly follows dutifully behind Riley as she chatters over her shoulder to you. It’s stream of consciousness, and you get a few words in here and there, but she dominates the conversation. You don’t mind at all.

“- and will Simon come?” Huh?

“To what ladybug?” Blue snorts. Shaming you for not paying attention, most likely.

“To the rodeo!” Your mouth dries into dust.

“Oh uh. Well, he’s really busy.” Just explain it away.

“Yeah but he’s our friend now.”

“He is, but he’s a doctor, remember? So he’s got a lot going on.” Blue bumps her head into your back and you stumble over your feet. Rude.

“But he said he would.” You freeze.

“What?” The wind picks up, spinning dry grass into circles before carrying it away, and you crouch down on folded knees, ass to heels in front of her.

“When I asked him he said he would.” She kicks at a rock, suddenly unsure. Shy.

“When did he say that?” Stay calm.

“Last week I think.” Simon has been to the house four times in the last two weeks, four dinners exactly, and you’ve seen him every day you've been at work.

And not a single time did he mention this.

Not a single time.

Anger heats in the base of your spine.

“I’m not inserting myself into your life, Daisy, I’m already in your life.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That the rodeo is comin’ up and we go every year.” You feel sick. Hot and cold, you flush with heat before it all turns to ice.

“Riley… okay, so Simon is our friend but he’s not going to go to things like the rodeo or other stuff with us, okay? It’s just you and me, right?” You’re suddenly very desperate. Desperate to squash this growing affection she has for him, desperate to cling to her, to close ranks.

“I just thought he’d wanna come.” She says sullenly, and you breathe through your nose slowly, trying to settle your frantic emotions. There’s sadness in her eyes, and that’s all it takes for you to change course, your tactic.

“I’ll double check and see if he’s busy.” You won’t do anything of the sort, but it’s easier than telling her he can’t come because you won’t allow it.

It’s too confusing for her.

For you.

She gives you a smile, satisfied at your answer, and wraps her enthusiastic little arms around your neck, Molly’s lead still in her hand. “Okay!”

You don’t knock.

You should, it’s rude not to, but you’re on the warpath, volatile cocktail of emotions mixing together to make a molotov, and nothing is going to stop you.

He looks up immediately when the door swings open and you step through, irritation immediately shifting to concern. “Daisy?" Taking the corner around his desk, he's across the room in three strides, coming to you. Straight to you. There’s no pause before he’s holding your face in his hands, big palms cradling your cheeks, and the worry you find in his eyes is sharp and almost scared at the same time. Your stomach swoops. “What is it? What’s wrong?” You try to force the words free, the ones you rehearsed, but they get stuck. “Hey, whatever it is, it’ll be okay. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s okay Daisy, tell me what happened.” You remember his hands, his fingers, carefully probing where Blue’s halter clipped you, palpating, inspecting. “Any problems with your vision? Headache? Dizziness? Did you lose consciousness?” He wanted so badly to fix it, you see that now, and it only twists you into knots.

The contact is too much. It’s like a bit in your mouth, reins in his hands. You should avoid it, need to avoid it, him, all of this, and he knows it. He knows what it does to you, he knows every time he touches you, you turn to petals, soft fragile things that can be crushed underfoot. He knows he only needs to touch you, hold you in that way that's both gentle yet firm, and you'll crack for him. You'll fall apart.

You pull out of his grasp, the gentle slide of his thumb rubbing back and forth. “Why didn’t you tell me you talked to Riley about the rodeo?” The honest concern shifts as his eyes narrow and he presses his lips together.

“It didn’t come up.” Your fingers involuntarily clench into fists. You know this game, and he’s too good at it, too good at catching you unaware, too good at forcing you to put your gloves up instead of being able to swing first.

It makes you crazy.

He makes you crazy.

“That’s-” you pinch your brow. You don’t even know where to start, and he wouldn’t answer anyway. All he ever does is leave you with more questions than answers. Why. Why Why. Why didn’t you tell me? Why does it feel like you know me so well, but I don’t know you? Why are you in my head, tearing me apart, tripping me up? Why is this happening? What is really going on? “No. It doesn’t matter, you’re not going.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Told her I would.” So assumed and nonchalant, like there was never an option. No choices. No control.

You’re spinning out, and he’s watching. Your anger bubbles into something hotter, darker. “And I’ll tell her you’re busy. Something came up, and you’re sorry you can’t make it.” He leans back on his desk, assumes the position, thighs outlined in his scrub pants, hint of something heavy against his left leg.

“She asked me y’know. To come.”

“I know, she told me.” You snap, but he stays placid. Cool and calm. You hate it. “She shouldn’t have.”

“Said she wanted me to go because it makes you sad and she saw you crying last year.” Your heart jumps into your throat. Failed. You're supposed to be strong for Riley, but you’re not. You lost control. “She thought it would make you happy.”

“And you agreed to go without even talking to me?” Your voice is an octave higher than its usual pitch, throat half closed off. It’s an alarm, ringing in the back of your mind. You’re slipping. You’re losing it.

You want to scream at him, and it’s all boiling over, spinning out of control.

“You can’t just do that. That’s not what this is. This isn’t real and you can’t tell her things, make her promises-”

“I didn’t promise her.” He interrupts but you steamroll, hitch in your breath. There’s so much pressure in your lungs, it’s like you’re being suffocated.

“She has enough going on, we have enough going on, I don’t want her confused-”

“She’s not confused. Daisy, listen to me-” His eyes are searching yours now, laser focused, and you step backwards. Looking for air. Space. Anything to help you get out of this black hole that’s about to explode, the one he seems to be picking apart and cataloguing, like he's got your entire life, the universe, on a slide under a microscope.

“And disappointed. She’s going to be so disappointed now! She thinks you’re great and she doesn’t know this isn’t real, and now I have to be the bad guy and- and-” He lunges. For someone so big he’s faster than you’d expect, and you squeak when he takes you by your arms, instinctively twisting, trying to get free. It’s not aggressive, or threatening, or too forceful. He’s holding you just right, and you’re the one who’s turning violent. “Let go.”

“This isn’t real?” His voice is low, serious. “What did I say? What have I been saying?” Your brain breaks. You have to get away from him, from this. You cannot do this.

“Get. Off. Me.”

“No.” He walks you backward until your ass hits his desk and you gasp. “I know you’re confused, baby.” You shove at his chest, but it might as well be shoving against a boulder for all that he moves, and you wriggle in his grasp. “And I know you want to scream at me right now. You want to explode.”

“Stop.” The double edged sword slices you deep. Rage and tears mix together, trying to take over, while you scramble for some sort of stopgap, some shred of control.

“I said I’m gonna take care of you. That being married is not just for appearances, that you’re not gonna be alone anymore.”

“Shut up.” It’s half hearted, and he smiles.

“Do you want to know more? Do you want to know how much I care about you, how much I think about you? Do you want to know what it means when I say it's real?” Your heart skips and you you stare at him, stunned. Pieces of puzzles unfolding and fitting together so seamlessly, but they still don’t make sense, there's a key missing. It's terrifying, and unfinished. “You’re not ready, I know. But I think, maybe,” his lips graze the shell of your ear and you tense, sucking in a breath at a new wave, something other than rage, or tears. Something more like wanting. Something this man has been able to reawaken unlike all others, sucking poison from a wound. “All this fight, all this fire, needs an outlet. One that doesn’t involve you tryin’ to tear me to pieces.” He kisses the hinge of your jaw, your cheek, your lips, and sense rapidly slips out through your fingers. The wanting has turned to magma, freshly erupted from the volcano in your chest, and it’s filling you up, taking over. You press your thighs together, looking for something to quell it.

Mistake.

He zeroes in. “When was the last time someone touched you Daisy? Made you come?” His voice is different. Husky. Your stomach clenches. “Is that what you need? Instead of fighting, do you want to come?”

“N-no.” Yes. He kisses you again, this time with tongue, and you moan shamelessly when fingernails drag across your belly under your scrub top. You briefly, barely remember that it’s the end of the day. You got off an hour early, at least.

“I think you do,” he murmurs against your mouth, “but I don’t think you want it sweet. Not yet.” He’s drawing patterns across your skin, dipping just into the waist of your pants, up under your breasts, and you whine. It’s unbecoming. Shameful. But you’ve long lost your mind. “Did you lock the door when you came in, Daisy? Or is someone about to walk in here and see me eating your pussy?” Holy fuck. He spins you, it happens so fast you gasp, your hands placed on his desk, bent over at the waist. “Keep your hands on the desk.” He has your scrub pants untied and down before you can blink, hands on your cheeks, pushing them up and open, nose skimming along the inside of your thigh. “You’re wet baby. Christ, you’re a fuckin’ dream. My dream.” You have nothing to say, no words to put together, and you make a strangled sound when his thumb finds your clit. “How long has it been?”

“I- I- years.” You squeak, and he chuckles.

“Should we see if this thing still works?” He licks, nips, and your teeth find your forearm, trying to stave off your noises as you clench, empty and still wanting. Waiting. “Yeah, think it does.” He grunts as a finger just barely pushes inside you, and dangerous emotion swells at the breach. “Poor thing, no one to take care of it for so long. That’s okay. I’m here now. I’m gonna give you everything,” his finger moves deeper, and it already feels like too much. The pleasure is lifting the weight of your pain to the surface, all of it coming to a head, rage melting away, tears left in the wake. “Gonna take care of everything, you an’ this sweet little pussy.”

“Simon…” Your forehead thunks onto the desk, and then his mouth is on you.

“I know baby, I know. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you. It’s so much more than this. It’s the parachute, the waiting arms, open and ready to catch if you could only take the fall. You rise and rise, tears wetting your cheeks, a small sob rolling out of you like a wave. You lose yourself in it, in him, and he eats you like a last meal, one he’d never be able to finish because it’s over far too soon.

You come almost immediately. Not even thirty seconds in. You explode into stardust and it’s a violent thing, has your hips bucking, your muscles burning as you ride it out, wringing it dry. You don’t stop, can’t, and he talks you through it, encouraging, sweet. Good girl, my brave girl, did so well, so proud of you, I’ve got you, I’m here-

You turn to jello. He kisses the crux of your thigh, the curve of your ass, the small of your back, and you register it all in a haze, fog rolling in across your mind, sight blurry at the edges. And worst, or best, of all, your anger, your tears, the fight-

It’s gone.

He loops an arm around your waist, holding you steady while he drags your underwear and pants back up your legs, turning you back around to face him with the strings in his fingers.

“I can do that.” You don’t sound like yourself. You sound like crushed petals.

“I know.” Still, he doesn’t let go. He ties them into a bow, ensuring they’re tight enough. You let him lead you like an unsteady newborn fawn over to one of the chairs, trying to speak, to say anything, but it comes out as a feeble croak, and your fingers tighten in the neck of his scrub top. His mouth brushes your temple. “It’s okay. Sit.” You don’t have a choice, you can’t stand anyway, and your boneless, nearly lifeless form sinks down into the overly plush cushions, head lolling onto the backrest's pillow. You’re drained.

He kisses your forehead. Kind. Sweet. Patient. “Close your eyes, rest.” You should say no, tell him you have to go home, get to Riley, but he reads your mind. “It’s early still, got another hour ’til seven. I’ll take you home after I review these charts.”  Again, you should refuse, but your eyes are so heavy they’re hard to keep open, and you’ve been dreaming of sleep like this, slipping away like this, warm, comfortable, sated. Just for a few minutes.

The last thing you see is a pair of blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, full of something that looks a lot like-

-

The morning had started out like every other morning, Simon getting up early and pressing short kisses to your face before going on his morning run.

That’s how it always had been, ever since you met then married him. Nothing ever changed with this part of the day and you found comfort in that one thing that remained the same.

You mumble and shift, pressing your face in the covers, your hand coming up to push him away.

Simon chuckles and presses one last kiss to your neck and mumbles an 'love you'. You mumble it back and he heads out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Downstairs, his dog Riley was asleep in the living room and Simon crouches to slowly pat the canine.

This is how every morning was. It was never different, never anything unexpected. Simon doesn't bother eating before stepping out of the house. The chill of the air passes and he doesn't care. His eyes scan the street, making sure nothing is unusual or out of place before he locks the door and double checks it before stretching and running off.

And the whole time, a plumber van across the street sits in a driveway and inside, three men watch and share glances. Right on schedule.

One raises a brow. "The man is like clockwork."

The one in the drivers seat nods. "Makes our job easier."

The third takes a sip from his water and grunts. "So lets go in and grab her. Quick."

The van pulls out from the driveway and parks right on the edge where driveway met road, right in front of the Riley residence.

Months. The men have been watching you and Simon for months, charting times, practicing different routes. Watching and waiting for the perfect moment. And that moment was now.

Two of the men got out and checked their watches. They had 20 minutes until Ghost got back. So the job had to be done in less than 10.

The mission began. They were swift and calculated, picking the lock in less than 30 seconds. In the living room, Riley woke and before a bark could escape him, the canine was drugged and muffled. They didn't bother checking any rooms downstairs, they went straight for the stairs. And the second door was were you laid.

The door swung open hard causing you to flinch in your sleep. "Si?"

No answer. Instead, the blanket was ripped off and a sack was thrown over your head. You screamed.

"Simon! Si!"

The screams were only met with a rough chuckle and your heart nearly stopped.

"Your husband isn't here love, hold still."

The voice was raspy and rough and you thrashed in their arms. It was more than one man, clearly. You heard the other mentioning checking other rooms.

In that same moment, you felt yourself being lifted from the bed and your thrash only became more violent. Your thoughts ran wild.

Where the fuck was Riley? It was Simon's idea to get a dog. 'For your protection' he'd always insist. You had found it silly deep down, trusting Simon to just be there but now, you were in full support of it and the dog was nowhere to be seen or heard.

As you jerked wildly, your hands blindly slapped and struck the man before finding his neck. You squeezed hard, your nails digging, no, piercing into his skin. In a slight panic, the mans grip loosens and he drops you.

You don't think twice before ripping the bag off your head and screaming before dashing out of the room and heading down the stairs. The other man was scouring the other rooms for whatever and he saw you. You don't even dare look back as you ran down the stairs. And for the first time, you realized how many stairs your home really had.

“Get her!”

The man closest to you reached out to grab you but you were faster. Bounding down the steps two at a time, you could feel a sliver of hope in your heart, seeing the front door was close.

Footsteps from the masked men thudded behind you and it wasn’t until you were at the bottom of the stairs, one of them reached for you again, this time, his hand ghosting your neck. He went for the necklace around your throat and yanked it.

It didn’t slow you down much but it burned. You knew what necklace he broke. The one Simon gave you the night of your wedding. The one that belonged to his mother.

Turning back, you collided with one the masked men who let out a sick laugh.

"Fucking hell, bag her!"

The situation is hopeless. You begin to cry, your body trembling with fear.

“I have nothing you want.” you pleaded through choked sobs. “I know nothing, I have nothing, please leave me alone. I won’t tell anyone I saw you, please.”

The two figures glanced at once another, almost considering your words before they shared a laugh.

“Your husband thinks he’s so clever.” The taller one said. “Hiding you away so no one can find you.”

You sobbed. “Please leave me alone!"

“Ghost took something from us so we’re taking you.” the other laughed. “It’s only fair.”

The taller one picked you up and carried you over his shoulder. You tried your best to fight it, pounding your fists hard against his back but it was futile.

As you were carried through the home, your mind flashed back to the one tactic your husband taught you so long ago, 'just in case'. Delay and distract. But with the sack over your head, you felt like you were at a loss.

At the last second, your hand reached out and by pure luck, you managed to grip the frame of the door, your captors halting.

“W-wait.” you said, thinking back to the knife Simon kept in the bedroom. “Let me change first. I need clean clothes. And a bra.”

It fell silent, as if the two were seriously considering until the one holding you scoffed.

“No time, let’s go.”

Your hand was forcibly removed from the frame and you screamed. "No, NO! Please!"

“Shut her up!” the other said.

The one carrying you huffed and manhandled you roughly, switching positions. He carried you bridal style but in a way your hands where held in place and your covered head was smothered against his chest. The two ran out with you, barely remembering to close the door all the way. The driver waited impatiently, the van door opening.

You felt yourself being hauled and shoved into a vehicle and the sound of a door shutting echoed in your head. A new voice hissed, "What the fuck took you guys so long?"

The man beside you scoffed. "The bitch put up a fight."

"A very good one." the other chuckles. The men laugh and you fell your hands being brought together with a zip tie and legs being tied as well.

The van peeled down the road quickly, leaving the house and the neighborhood behind. Your sobs tuned into broken weeping and the men didn't even notice and if they did, they didn't care. The radio was turned on and the men said nothing.

All you could do was cry. For yourself. And for Simon. Your Simon. He was most likely still jogging, no idea that his wife had been plucked from right under his nose. And as yo felt your heart shatter for him, for what he'll soon realize, you wept in fear you might never see him again.

-

When Simon reached the home, he stretched one last time before reaching in his zipped pocket for the key. He was always quick with getting in the house but just as he touched the handle, the door swung open.

Immediately, the man was on edge. He knew he had made sure everything was shut and locked before he left. Glancing around the neighborhood, he scanned every car and window, looking for something out of place before patting himself for his small pocket knife. It was in the bedroom. Fuck.

Pushing the door open with his foot, he entered the house silently, ears straining for something, anything.

“Riley.” he spoke, calling for the dog.

No response.

He moved slowly across the living room before calling for the dog again, this time a bit louder.

Again, no response.

Heart pounding, he searched the dining room and slowly made his way to the kitchen before pausing.

The guard dog was lying on the floor, unconscious.

Simon stills. No.

He tears through the first floor of your home, heart pounding. He feels like he can't breathe. This time, Simon yells your name but no answer.

After he nearly destroys the garage, the kitchen, the pantry, the downstairs bathroom, he runs upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Upstairs, he pushed the bedroom door open before entering. “Sweetheart if you’re hiding, please come out. You know I hate that.” His voice was weak and cracked on the last word

When silence met him, he reached into the top drawer of the dresser and tore through the room, panic coursing through his mind.

He thoroughly checked the second floor once more, his calm demeanor slipping though frantic, wide cracks.

Where are you?

Simon stopped in the hall and glanced around, looking for anything that would give him anything. But there was nothing except for the messed up bed and your phone still plugged.

Maybe you were in the backyard?

With hope, Simon went down the stairs, two at a time and barely even registered the crunch sound his foot made when he reached the ground floor and was halfway through the home before he stopped.

Backtracking, he slowly looked down at the ground and there it was.

Your necklace, the one he gifted you was on the floor, the gold chain broken. The pendant with it was crushed beneath the weight of Simon’s foot and as he stared at it, he could feel his world crashing down.

He could feel his legs weakening before giving out beneath him. Dizziness flooded his body as Simon’s chest heaved.

You were taken.

-

it took a long time for the darkness to recede; he floated, blind and deaf in an unending void but just as he couldn’t find light, he couldn’t find panic either. suspended in the nothingness, his body was too far to reach.

he longs for that oblivion now.

he swallows dry, the inner lining of his throat little more than sand and grit; long dried out before he even regained awareness that it existed. that he existed. his head lolls back, too heavy on his neck, and he loses the stars. he’s never wished to be strung up before, never missed the slow dislocation of his shoulders as he hung from his wrists, but he’d give anything to have something to lean his head against; for some facsimile of rest.

but there’s nothing. just him and the hook cast through the broken cage of his ribs.

him and the thirst.

thirst. hunger. such innocuous words. they don’t hold a candle to the gnawing, venomous greed in simon’s stomach, the razor blades tearing up his throat with every convulsing wretch of a breath. his body is angry, angry and starved and he can do nothing as it turns its teeth inwards.

he didn’t think it would be like this. didn’t know he would feel his body wither and die around him while his mind grows sharper almost in spite; a punishment for letting the carnivorous wail in his blood go unanswered. like he has any choice.

he’s seen the turn happen; watched the slow, agonising change in sparks and miller and boak and washington. knew he was saved ‘til last, the most stubborn of roba’s unwilling playthings, so he’d know what he was in for. so he would be afraid.

simon refused. refused roba the pleasure of his fear. not when he’s already taken everything else from him.

he didn’t make a sound when he gripped his hair and chin, wrenching his head back to bare the line of his throat. he didn’t beg for mercy when he felt the insidious kiss of fangs against his skin, when they sank into body like it was owed them, when he felt the heat of his blood being pulled out and something other left behind.

and he didn’t let a single tear fall when bloodied fingers forced themselves into his mouth, tar-like in how it coated his throat until he couldn’t breathe, invading his body like it had a mind of its own.

simon didn’t cry for his stolen humanity.

he screamed.

he screamed and he writhed as his blood turned to fire, as the inner lining of skin melted, becoming poisonous and corrupting everything it touched. he clawed at the ground and the pain of his nails tearing from their beds was a mercy compared to the perverse thickness in his lungs, each breath waterlogged as puss raced through his capillaries; rotting inside his chest before they were even allowed to die.

his teeth twisted, rejecting his swelling gums, and he barely had the wherewithal to spit them out before he choked; an acrid stench left behind as the white enamel turned yellow, turned green, turned black, and caved in on itself, decaying before his eyes.

his face scraped against the floor, wet swathes of torn skin left behind, scoured by the unforgiving concrete. his cheekbone cracked and splintered, putrefaction rushing to fill the fissures, and if he’d had any control over his seizing limbs, he would’ve scratched the eyes out of his very skull so they’d stop buzzing; each vein and ridge of his iris sheering away from itself, shredding the thin barrier to smear in a thick sludge down his cheeks. what a waste to hold back his tears; he’d give anything to wash the slime from his matted lashes.

but the worst of it? even in his agony, over his screams and the deafening race of his mutating heart, simon could still hear roba’s voice. his satisfaction fat and dripping from his lips as he gloated, his possessive fingers leaving shallow graves in his skin as his body deformed to try and get away.

there was no getting away.

“you’re mine now, english.”

his voice never left him, not until the blood vessels pounding in his ears finally burst. he never stopped trying to tease the fear from behind his teeth, his black tongue spitting twisted promises that he wasn’t done with him yet, that he wouldn’t abandon him like he did the others. that he knew he was special.

simon choked on his own viscera and it didn’t taste half as sour as roba’s word that the venom burning through his veins, the perversion defiling him from the inside out... it had the fascinating effect of leaving his blood for last.

after days of agony, days of screaming and seizures and rot as his body struggled to die, simon woke to new eyes and a heart that no longer beat in his chest.

he woke a newborn vampire.

and before he could even remember what terror was, he knew what roba promised him was the truth; his blood was still functionally human.

simon can't stop shivering. it’s yet another betrayal of his body; each involuntary jerk rocking him on the meat hook strung through his ribs, the wet squelch of his organs catching, tearing, spilling- just for something unseen, something wrong, to take them in hand and twist them back into place. it’s nauseating, the slow stitch of his guts beneath foreign fingers, the presence of something inside him no amount of digging will ever get out.

it sends another wretch crawling up his throat and he forces his head to roll, to give his eyes the escape he’s all but given up on.

he swears he can see the slow turn of distant stars, the warbling current of light as it bends through time and space just to be stolen by this hell on earth; its illumination and warmth wasted on this lecherous blight upon the human race. on him and his dripping blood, never to heat him through again.

in a distant corner of his mind, in a place he can almost convince himself is still his own, he appreciates the irony of it- the butcher hanging from the meat hook. he's been on the other side of it so many times, he can almost picture the slow fade of the pigment in his skin as they bleed him like the pigs hung in the slaughterhouse; his body too stubborn to realise it’s already a carcass.

in that same, safe part of his mind, he lets himself call roba lazy that he'd repeat himself like this.

simon the human had already swung from this self same hook. he'd felt the burning pain of his body's own weight tearing him apart; the hook cutting deeper every time one of the salivating enforcers pulled at his feet or sent him spinning, laughing at his involuntary screams with hunger in their eyes as he swung like bait.

he flexes his fingers behind him, twitching as the razor wire encircling his wrists catch on a nerve. thick, taunting drips echo out as they hit the giant glass tray placed under his feet; a glorified trough for the king to dip his crystal cup into.

he shivers again. his organs split again like so much offal, unused to the sheer cold of his unbeating heart and the sluggish blood calcifying inside his veins. the blood roba’s slowly letting, drop by covetous drop.

it pools in the notch of his pelvis, spilling down his chilled legs to drip from his toes, his nails grey in their dead beds. it’s shockingly bright, glowing under the starlight, and it’s just another cruelty that he can’t reach a single drop of it.

it doesn’t matter what he does, how he squirms on the hook or fights the razor wire around his wrists hoping to nick an artery, he can’t fight gravity and it just pools, wasted at his feet for roba to glut himself on.

simon had one moment, one spark of hope when he realised the wire wasn’t the only sharp thing on his body anymore.

his new fangs crowded his mouth, grown through bone and new warped ligaments, his teeth forced out of place as his jaw cracked and widened. they weren’t the sleek, retractable things roba flashed at him with every sickening grin; they were fat, weighing down his head and making saliva pool in the pockets of his cheeks. but they were sharp; sharp enough to cut his tongue when simon ran it over the animalistic intrusions.

sharp enough to make him bleed.

he chased the precious beads that bloomed on his tongue like fireworks, like stardust; the violent hunger in his veins instantly quieting as he swallowed with a ragged moan. it was better than any drink, any food he’d ever forced down that the memory of them turned to dust in his mind. it rolled thick over his tongue, clotted the starved wounds in his throat, and it was all he could do to keep himself from chewing off his tongue as he chased more.

but simon made a mistake.

he lost himself in the euphoric bliss of his own blood.

and he forgot who was watching.

a shudder runs through him, independent of his frigid shivering, at the memory of roba’s fingers digging into his face, hooking his teeth through his cheeks as he forced his mouth open.

he doesn’t try to bite with his new fangs anymore. there’s no point; every time he tries for more, tries to discreetly cut his tongue or shred his lips for just a taste, his sire notices and solves it the most efficient way there is.

taking a set of pliers to his newly regrown fangs and ripping them straight from his gums.

simon’s body is so sensitive in rebirth, the pain hits like it’s new every time; a braying scream clawing from his throat where he would’ve once sat in stubborn silence. but worse than the pain, worse than the betrayal of his body’s ability to handle pain, is before he can swallow any of the blood trickling from his ruined gums, roba scores his own finger and shoves that same filthy blood straight into the gaping holes left behind; stealing any chance of even a drop rolling down his parched throat and forcing them to heal before he gets within spitting distance of relief. healing them just so simon has to go through the agony of regrowing his fangs over and over and over until they litter the ground beneath him like wilted petals.

some part of him manages to wonder if they’ll join roba’s rosery; a bastardised mimicry of worship he’s been forced to watch swing over his restrained body too many times to count, prayer beads replaced by length after length of stolen fangs, drilled to a hollow and strung along a length of twined, multicoloured hair.

he’d taken to trying to count them when his torture was simple enough to keep numbers straight, marking his place by colour differentials and length. sometimes he tried to string stories together for them; played with the idea that the nicotine-stained set knew the owner of gold-filled cavity, if the short near-blunt pair matched the height of the one who grew them.

he didn’t make stories for the smaller fangs.

no stories flit through his mind as simon stares up the stars, half-remembered constellations and folklore so far from him he can hardly grasp them. he doesn’t see the same stars a younger simon riley strained to catch between thick clouds in the hopes that he might wish on one.

his mind is empty for all but the terrible thirst.

it tears at his insides, ripping through layer after layer of his organs desperate for something to digest. his teeth ache with it until it feels like his jaw wants to reject itself; to rend the joints and force the rest of his teeth from his rotting gums.

simon feels his body slowly dying all over again only this time, there is no sweet oblivion waiting for him, no dizzy fall into the abyss, and he knows no such kindness will come for him.

his head falls limp once more, his reemerging fangs breaking through bone slow enough to make him feel it split and gape. a shadow darkens his lower body and he watches with burning eyes as roba dips his goblet into the tray, submerging half his hand like the waste means nothing to him. he coils it through, collecting an indulgent mouthful of his blood and leaving the rest to fall like rain from his drenched hand.

roba tips the cup to him in a mocking toast, drinking deep and sloppy, blood spilling over his lips to run down his chin, and all simon feels is envy.

he doesn't want to kill roba out of anger or vengeance or a pitiful attempt at escape. his rage left him when he opened his eyes and saw the movement of starlight like the rush of blood in the winding paths of veins buried beneath skin.

no.

he would kill him for a single, solitary drop of his own blood to slake the awful thirst that’s keeping him alive just long enough to feel himself rot inside his skin.

simon riley died choking on his teeth and screams.

Water soaked your clothes, plastered hair to your face, and the chill bit through your jacket. You shivered—not just from the cold, but from the proximity of him. Ghost stood a few feet away, mask still on, eyes sharp and scanning, every movement controlled and deliberate.

“Careful,” he muttered, his voice low, almost swallowed by the rain. He stepped closer to guide you around a puddle, his hand brushing yours ever so slightly. The contact made your stomach tighten.

The alley narrowed, forcing you closer together. You could feel the heat radiating off his body even through drenched fabric. Every movement of his shoulder, every adjustment of his mask, seemed deliberate—watchful. He didn’t say much, but his presence was overwhelming, almost magnetic.

You’ve been with Task Force 141 for a year now. Twelve months of missions, briefings, and long nights where adrenaline and tension weren’t just part of the job but also became part of your rhythm with Ghost. At first, he was untouchable, silent, almost a ghost in every sense of the word. You admired him from a distance, respected the way he moved through danger like it was second nature, but never imagined you’d actually be noticed.

Over the months, small things started changing. He’d hand you extra rations without a word, making sure you were covered on night patrols. Sometimes, during long stakeouts, he’d sit just a little closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours, a subtle warmth that left your heart racing. Quiet shared glances in tense moments became almost a language between you.

The alley narrowed, forcing you closer together. You could feel the heat radiating off his body even through drenched fabric. Every movement of his shoulder, every adjustment of his mask, seemed deliberate—watchful. He didn’t say much, but his presence was overwhelming, almost magnetic.

At one point, he reached to steady you as you slipped on the slick ground. His gloved fingers pressed against your arm, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. Your pulse spiked, and you caught yourself staring into the darkened void of his eyes behind the mask.

“Almost there,” he murmured, guiding you toward a doorway for shelter. His hand lingered on your arm, gloved fingers pressing just enough to anchor you but not let go, the heat of him seeping through the soaked fabric. You couldn’t stop your eyes from meeting his, catching the briefest flash of something behind the mask: a storm barely restrained, raw intensity that made your stomach twist.

Suddenly, a clatter echoed from a side passage. Both of you froze. Ghost’s hand shot to the wall, and he signaled silently. You followed instinctively, ducking into a recessed doorway for cover. Every sound—the rain, your breathing, the shifting of your soaked clothes—was amplified in the narrow space.

He stayed close, eyes scanning the alley before giving a small nod. You returned the gesture and tightened your grip on your weapon. Neither of you spoke; words weren’t necessary.

Finally, the immediate danger passed. Ghost stepped into the doorway first, adjusting his mask as if to erase the moment entirely. You followed, keeping pace, focusing on the mission—but even amid the adrenaline and rain, there was an unspoken awareness: his presence was steady, protective, and unshakably there.

The shack was a small, dim room at the back of an abandoned building, dry, quiet, and finally free from the relentless rain outside. Ghosts scans the entire place to make sure no one else was there. You sank against the wall, boots dripping, trying to catch your breath. The adrenaline of the alley was fading, replaced by exhaustion and the ache in your leg where you’d slipped.

Ghost appeared moments later, moving silently as ever. He paused a few feet away, hooded eyes scanning you briefly, then landing on the tense set of your shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, careful.

You hesitated, then shook your head slightly. “I… I cut my leg when I slipped in the alley,” you admitted, lifting your soaked pants just enough to show a jagged tear across your thigh.

His eyes narrowed beneath the mask. Without a word, he stepped closer, crouching in front of you. His gloved hands hovered over the wound for just a moment before you felt the steady pressure as he cleaned it, removing debris with precise, controlled motions as he reached for his canister to dump water on the cut.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice rough but quiet.

The touch of his hands, the closeness in the small room, made your pulse pick up. He didn’t move any faster than necessary, but each brush of his fingers against your skin or clothing lingered just long enough to make your stomach tighten. His eyes flicked to yours once, almost imperceptibly, before returning to the task, focused but intense. He grabs a bandage from his pack.

When he finally wrapped the bandage securely, his hands lingered for a moment longer, adjusting the fabric as though ensuring you were truly safe. You forced yourself to inhale steadily, trying to calm the unexpected heat rising in your chest.

He straightened, stepping back, his expression unreadable. “Better?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you whispered as you stared up at him in silence, him returning your gaze.

Just then the silence is interrupted, the sudden beep of your radio cut through the silence. Both of you jumped slightly.

“Status check! Where are you two? Report!”

Ghost straightens instantly, reaching for his radio to respond. Giving the location an informing them of an injury.

When the line went silent again, Ghost’s eyes flicked to yours before scanning the room. Without a word, he gestured for you to follow. The rain still slicked the alley, forcing you close, and every brush of his arm or shoulder sent a quiet jolt through you. He moved ahead with silent precision, and you kept pace, alert, aware of the beating hearts between you even as the mission pressed on.

=====================================