like a dog with a bird at your door

You look at him flatly. “Thanks for that.”

“Aye, well,” he shrugs, settling back into the sofa like he’s just done you a service, “just savin’ ye the heartbreak.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s a flicker of amusement there.

“You sure it wasn’t you, Johnny?” you ask, dangling the heart in the space between you, it crinkles between your fingers. “I’ve caught you rifling through my locker before.”

He straightens a touch, offended. “That was one time.”

“It was twice.”

“And I wasnae riflin’,” he fires back immediately, incriminating himself. “I was conductin’ a tactical acquisition.”

Kyle snorts.

“Oh, a ‘tactical acquisition’?” you echo. “Of what exactly?”

“The good protein bars,” he says without hesitation, pointing at you. “The chocolate ones. Ye stash ’em at the back like they’re contraband.”

“Well, they’re mine, so...”

“Aye, and I was sufferin’. Man cannae survive on beige rations alone.” He gestures vaguely toward the heart. “And if I were leavin’ ye a Valentine, it wouldnae be this tragic wee thing. Have some respect.”

You tilt your head and wait a beat. “So… you’re sayin’ it wasn’t you, then?” you press teasingly.

He scoffs. “Christ, hen. If I were makin’ a move, ye’d know about it.”

You chuckle at him as you spin around, walking toward the electric kettle on the counter.

That’s when Simon stands. He doesn’t make a show of it. No chair scraping back, no words leave his lips. He just rises, slowly.

Kyle notices first, his grin faltering as he crosses the room to you.

You feel him before you see him, the subtle shift in the air as he steps into your space. Close, but not touching. Close enough that you suddenly become very aware of the paper heart still in your hand. You turn your head as he comes up beside you, tilting your chin to meet his steady gaze — big brown eyes always trying to hide beneath taut fabric.

He briefly throws his chin over his shoulder, eyes landing on Johnny. “‘If you were makin’ a move’,” he repeats evenly.

Johnny lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Hypothetically, LT.”

Simon hums a response, an unamused thing before his attention shifts back to you.

“Who put it there?” he asks as gently as his body will allow.

You shrug. “I’ve no idea.”

His eyes drop to the heart, to your fingers pinched around it, then back to your face. He’s assessing in that way he can’t turn off. It makes your stomach flip.

He reaches for it, and you let him take it without a fuss.

He turns it over like he expects to find a signature or a note to go along with it. When he finds nothing, he folds it carefully down the middle, dragging his thumb nail along to crease as if to set it.

“You entertainin’ applications now?” he asks, his voice controlled and low enough that it doesn’t carry to the other boys who are desperately trying to eavesdrop.

Your pulse jumps, but you match his volume, keeping the conversation just between the two of you. “To be my Valentine?”

“Mm.”

“Should I be?” The corner of your mouth twitches upward.

His thumb brushes your knuckles as he hands the folded heart back, it’s warm, you feel the scratch of a callous. The brief touch lingers on your skin, you have to keep yourself from looking down at the place it just was.

“Thinkin’ you know better than that, yeah?” He says, the words come from his chest, rough and sure. They settle low in your belly and spread like an ember that just caught the blow of a breath.

Simon’s stood this close to you before. Closer, even. So close that you remember the weight of him, the way his body crowds you against the bed, the way he says your name when it’s just the two of you. Close enough that you know exactly how solid his chest feels beneath your palms and exactly how his voice sounds when it drops even lower than this, lips pressed against your ear.

You tilt your head and step a fraction closer, your arm pressing softly to his now.

“And here I was thinkin’ you liked competition,” you murmur, the corner of your mouth lifting even as that fire begins to lick at your ribs.

His jaw pulses at the hinges once, then twice.

“I don’t,” he reminds you.

You let your gaze drift to the folded heart and back up to his eyes. “Well, good thing I’m not easily impressed then.” You hold it out between your index and middle.

He shifts on his feet, takes the paper back and it disappears into a ball in his hand.

“I know,” he agrees, turning his body into yours, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room. You can see his balaclava twitch with his mouth.

He reaches one hand up like he’s adjusting something that isn’t there, his fingers brushing lightly under your chin. Not enough to tilt your head fully, just enough to make you hold his gaze.

“You bein’ jealous, Si?” you murmur, a grin spreading across your face.

Something very akin to jealousy darkens across his eyes but he doesn’t confirm nor deny. He ignores your teasing question in favor of repeating his earlier one, voice low and steady. “You know better than that, mm?” His thumb pushes against your chin, pinching it between his knuckles.

You can feel a heat crawling across your chest, your breath hitching quietly. “I might,” you whisper, tongue sticky and dry now.

His grip tightens slightly before he drops his hand to his side. “You do,” he decides.

His shoulders square as he steps back, composure settling over him like armor sliding back into place. The room rushes in again — Johnny’s voice, Kyle’s laugh — but Simon doesn’t look at them.

He looks at you.

Just long enough to remind you exactly where you’ll be on this cold Valentine’s night:

In his bed.

With his name on your swollen lips. His skin beneath your nails.