Star

Oneshots

𖦹 Flinch 𖦹 Beautiful 𖦹 Period comfort 𖦹 A medic’s first kill 𖦹 No better than hate sex 𖦹 Whack! 𖦹 Cuddles 𖦹 Burns

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Series

ᯓ★ Single Father Simon

𖦹 Part I 𖦹 Part II 𖦹 Part III

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Blurbs

Third person

No mentions of y/n

Tags: Fluff/comfort

Word count: 657

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Clingy Simon

Simon had never been touch-starved in his life until her.

Now he acted like a man dying of dehydration every time she touched him.

He was sprawled across her lap on the couch, all broad shoulders and heavy muscle, one arm looped around her waist while she played with his hair. His eyes were closed behind those stupid old-man reading glasses he wore at home, lashes resting softly against scarred skin, expression completely peaceful for once. The television was running in the background, forgotten.

Her fingers scratched lightly against his scalp, and Simon actually melted.

A deep rumble left his chest as he pushed closer, burying his face against her stomach like a massive overgrown guard dog trying to crawl into her ribs.

she laughed softly. “You’re clingy tonight.”

“Mm.”

Not denial there.

She combed her fingers through the silver strands near his temples and watched his entire body loosen. This terrifying man — this giant, scarred soldier that made people nervous just by entering a room — practically purred for her affection.

He got shy about it. the second she tilted his face up in her hands, his ears started turning pink.

“Hi, handsome.” His eyes flicked away immediately. “Don’t start.”

Too late.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. One cheek. Then the scar along his jaw.

Simon made the softest, most embarrassed noise she’d ever heard from a grown man.

“Lovie—”

Another kiss. The corner of his mouth. His burn scar. The spot beneath his eye.

And now he was fully blushing, cheeks red beneath rough stubble while he stared at her like she’d just told him she hung the moon herself.

It was absurd.

This man had probably killed people with his bare hands before breakfast and now he looked seconds away from hiding his face in a pillow because she kissed him too much.

“Oh my God,” she whispered in delight. “You’re so cute.”

“am not.”

“You are.”

She grabbed his face and Squished

Simon blinked in shock as she compressed his cheeks between both hands, his lips smushed together while she grinned at him with genuine cuteness aggression.

“Look at your FACE.”

He was glaring now, except it completely lost all intimidation when his cheeks were being held hostage.

“Woman.”

“your scars are so pretty.” That stopped him cold. Every single time.

Simon went still beneath her hands while she traced the burn stretching along his neck and disappearing beneath his shirt collar. Most people looked away from it. She never did.

She touched it gently like it was something precious.

Something loved.

“I mean it,” she murmured. “I love this one.” His throat bobbed.

Then her fingers drifted lower, brushing the damaged skin along his side where the burn spread unevenly across his ribs.

Simon looked at her with that awful vulnerable expression he only ever wore in private. Like he still couldn’t understand why she looked at ruined parts of him with affection instead of pity.

“You’re strange,” he muttered quietly.

She leaned down until their foreheads touched.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m in love with you.”

And Simon — terrifying, hardened, emotionally constipated Simon Riley — actually got clingier afterward.

That night he lay practically on top of her in bed, one leg hooked between hers, face buried against her chest while she scratched her nails lightly over his scalp. His full body weight pressed into her like he needed constant reassurance she was still there.

Every few minutes he’d press sleepy kisses against her shoulder or collarbone. Possessive. Needy. Soft. She smiled into his hair.

“You know,” she whispered, “for someone so scary, you’re basically a golden retriever.”

Simon tightened his arms around her waist immediately.

They’re about to exit the house, Simon putting her coat on for her and she just turns, stares at him, then with a high pitched scream says “AAAH look at you, you’re so cute.” And squishes his cheeks together and looks up at him all smiling and giddy, making kissy faces at him.

Simon’s first person POV

Mentions of y/n

Tags: Heavy angst, hurt.

Word count: 1703

a/n: Medical inaccuracies, just go with it. Has been sitting in my drafts for a while, I haven’t proofread. Enjoy! 🫶🏻

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Burns

I spent the entire bloody flight thinking about her. That was it. Nothing else.

Not the mission. Not the bruises blooming purple under my ribs. Not the blood still crusted under my fingernails no matter how hard I scrubbed them in the airport bathroom. Just her.

In her oversized jumpers. Asleep with her mouth slightly open and one leg thrown over mine. laughing so hard she snorted and immediately looked offended at herself afterward while I nearly died trying not to laugh harder. I thought about her squealing when she saw me standing in the doorway two days early. Thought about her launching herself into my arms so hard I’d stumble backward into the fucking wall. Thought about the kisses she’d smear all over my face while whining about how unfair I was for not warning her.

I needed that.

Needed her.

The job takes pieces out of me every time I leave, and shw… Christ. She’s the only thing that ever puts them back correctly.

So when I unlocked the front door at two in the morning and the house was quiet and warm and smelled faintly like her vanilla candles, I actually smiled for the first time in weeks.

I dropped my duffel silently beside the couch and rolled my aching shoulders with a groan. Every muscle in my body felt rusted stiff from travel and combat and sleepless nights. I stripped my shirt off as I walked upstairs, already imagining sliding into bed behind her, dragging her half asleep against my chest while she mumbled nonsense into my throat.

“Baby?” I called softly.

Nothing.

I pushed open the bedroom door with a tired grin already forming.

But The bed was empty. My stomach dropped so fast it physically hurt.

The blankets were tangled like she’d left in a hurry. Her side of the bed cold. Lamp off. No phone charging on the nightstand. No sleepy little hum from her.

For one awful second, every terrible possibility hit me all at once. Intruder. Kidnapping. Break-in.

Then I heard water running. Bathroom. Right.

I actually laughed once under my breath from relief, dragging a hand down my face. “get a fucking grip.”

But the feeling didn’t leave. Because the water kept running, and I could hear it hitting the tile.

Too much of it.

And there was steam curling beneath the bathroom door so thick it looked almost unnatural.

Something cold slid down my spine.

“Y/n?” I knocked once.

No answer. My chest tightened immediately.

“Sweetheart?”

Still nothing.

I don’t remember deciding to open the door. I just remember suddenly being inside the bathroom and feeling my entire world cave in on itself.

Steam choked the room thick enough to blur my vision. The mirror was completely fogged over. Water still poured aggressively from the tap into a bathtub so full it spilled over the edge onto the floor.

And underneath the surface—

Her.

My girl.

My fucking girl.

Submerged completely under scalding water, unmoving.

For one impossible second my brain refused to understand what I was seeing. It looked wrong in the same way corpses look wrong—human shape without human life.

Then I saw her hair drifting under the water.

Saw the horrible unnatural stillness of her body.

And something inside me fucking snapped.

“Y/N!”

The scream that tore out of me didn’t even sound human.

I lunged for the tub so violently my knee smashed into the tile hard enough to crack something, but I barely felt it. My hands plunged into the water and agony ripped through me instantly. The water was fucking boiling—actual fucking boiling heat—and it burned so badly my reflexes tried to yank my arms back out immediately.

I ignored it.

I grabbed her under the shoulders and hauled her upward with a roar that shredded my throat raw.

Her body came limp against mine.

Limp. Dead weight.

No.

No no no no no—

“Oh fuck—Baby—BABY—”

Water poured from her hair and clothes as I dragged her out onto the floor, nearly slipping in my panic. Her skin was horrifyingly hot against my arms, flushed deep angry red across her chest and shoulders. Her lips had already started turning blue.

Her eyes were closed.She wasn’t breathing.

Everything after that became pure animal panic.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. My vision tunneled so hard I thought I’d pass out. One second I was kneeling over her and the next I was sobbing so violently I was choking on it.

“No no no no no please—please—”

My hands shook so hard I could barely position her head correctly. Training. CPR. Airway.

I knew this.

I knew this.

So why the fuck couldn’t I think?

I pressed my fingers against her neck.

Nothing.

No pulse.

My heart stopped. Actually fucking stopped.

“NO!”

I started compressions so hard the force rocked her body against the tile.

One, two three.

My voice kept cracking apart into screams.

“Come on, sweetheart—COME ON—“

Thirty compressions, then Breaths.

Again.

Again.

Again.

My tears kept dripping onto her face. My burned hands slipped against her wet skin. I could hear myself begging between compressions like some pathetic fucking prayer.

“Please don’t leave me—please don’t do this—please—”

I was already imagining life without her.

And it was unbearable.

The empty bed.Her clothes still hanging in the wardrobe. No more laughter in the kitchen. No more sleepy kisses. No more her.

I would survive it because men like me always survive the things that should kill them, but Christ—I would never fucking live again.

Then suddenly her body jerked violently beneath my hands.

Water exploded from her mouth.

She convulsed hard enough to nearly throw herself sideways as she sucked in a ragged, wet breath that sounded like drowning all over again.

I think I screamed her name. I’m not sure. I grabbed her face so fast my hands slipped against her cheeks.

“There you are— there you— fuck, y/n”

She started coughing violently, body curling instinctively as water poured from her mouth onto the tile. Every breath sounded wet and wrong. She gagged so hard she vomited more water across the floor before collapsing back against the tiles trembling violently.

Her eyes cracked open slightly.

Disoriented.

Terrified.

Then she looked at me.

And the second recognition hit her face, she started crying

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just these broken little gasping sobs like she already knew what she’d done to me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. The words hit me harder than a fucking bullet.

Like she regretted upsetting me more than nearly dying.

My chest filled with something so enormous and ugly I thought it might split my ribs apart. Fear. Rage. Grief. Love so violent it made me feel sick.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I choked out, voice breaking immediately afterward. “What the FUCK were you thinking?!”

She flinched hard.

That made me feel even worse, but the control of my emotions slipped from my grip the second I saw her underwater.

I looked down at her skin again and nausea slammed into me.

Angry red spreading across her arms, chest, thighs. Some places already blistering.

“Oh Christ…”

She whimpered when I touched her shoulder.

“It hurts…”

The medic in me took over again through the hysteria. Cool water.

Cool the burns.

I scrambled back to the tub and ripped the drain open before turning the shower on cold as fast as it would go.

The second I tried lifting her, she cried out—a raw, broken sound of pain so genuine it sliced straight through me.

“I know, baby, I know—”

She clung to me weakly as I lowered her into the cooling water.

Then she screamed. thrashing, begging, sobbing.

Just pure agony.

A sound ripped straight from somewhere primal.

Her whole body locked rigid instantly, hands clawing desperately at my arms as she sobbed and gasped for air.

“NO—NO—Simon—”

“I know,” I said desperately, kneeling beside the tub. “I know, sweetheart, I know—”

She started shaking violently from shock, tears pouring down her face as the cold water hit the burns. Her breathing turned rapid and panicked, eyes unfocused.

“Please don’t do this— SIMON— it hurts- IT HURTS“

I locked an arm around her to hold her down My own vision blurred so badly I could barely see her. I had held dying soldiers together with my bare hands before. Watched men bleed out screaming for their mothers. Seen bodies torn apart.

Nothing had ever hurt like this.

Because this was her.

My girl.

The sweetest thing I had ever touched.

And I had come home to find her dead in a bathtub.

I pressed my forehead onto hers, tears mixing with hers. “I’m so sorry baby— I know— I know I’m so so sorry.”

I grabbed my phone with trembling fingers and dialed emergency services so violently I nearly dropped it.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My girlfriend was in a tub filled with Hot water, she has burns all over her body, I gave her COR, she’s under cool water now.”

Star curled inward in the tub, crying weakly now, exhausted and shivering uncontrollably.

I dropped beside her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her neck.

“Stay awake,” I begged. “Baby, look at me. Look at me.”

Her swollen red eyes lifted toward mine slowly.

The guilt in them nearly fucking killed me.

“We’re on our way sir, please stay put.”

I threw phone away, cradling her face with both hands now.

“I didn’t mean to scare you…”

That broke something ugly loose inside me.

“Scare me?” I laughed harshly, completely hysterical now. “I thought you were dead baby— I thought—“

My voice cracked so violently the last word came out strangled.

“You were fucking dead.”

My head bowed as sobs ripped out of me. I wasn’t a man to cry easily. Maybe twice, in her arms, holding me.

This did the job.

She started crying harder instantly, like the reality was only just settling into her.

And suddenly I was angry.

Not at her.

Never at her.

At everything.

At every person who ever hurt her enough to make this seem like an option. At every scar on her body. At myself for leaving. At the fucking universe for putting this much pain inside someone so soft.

I grabbed her face once again carefully despite my burned hands.

“You do not get to leave me like that,” I whispered fiercely, sobbing openly now. “Do you understand me? You do not get to fucking disappear on me.”

She broke completely then.

Started apologizing over and over between sobs while clutching weakly at my wrists. The fight was out of her how. She was calmer under the water.

And all I could do was hold her under the cold spray and cry with her while the sirens finally screamed somewhere outside the house.

Third person POV

Mentions of y/n

Tags: Fluff

Word Count: 527

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Cuddles

Simon had been waiting for her for nearly ten minutes now, stretched across the bed with one arm behind his head and the other tapping restlessly against his stomach. The television played some nonsense neither of them had been paying attention to, the low murmur of voices drowned out by the sound of running water from the bathroom.

He kept glancing toward the door anyway.

The second he heard the sink shut off, he looked up fully, all attention sharpening at once.

“Y/n,” he called lazily, though there was something warm beneath it. “You alive in there?”

“Barely,” she mumbled around toothpaste.

He huffed a laugh under his breath.

A moment later the bathroom door opened, steam curling out behind her. She stood there in sleep shorts and one of his shirts, toothbrush hanging from her mouth while she squinted at him with sleepy annoyance.

Simon’s chest loosened instantly at the sight of her.

There she is.

His wife.

His whole bloody world wrapped up in messy hair and exhausted eyes.

She finished brushing her teeth while he watched openly, unashamed about it. Watched her rinse her mouth, wipe at the corner of her lips, then tug his shirt over her head in one smooth motion before tossing it carelessly across the room.

Simon’s eyes tracked it automatically before flicking right back to her.

“Christ,” he muttered.

“What?” she asked innocently.

“You know what.”

Her grin was soft and teasing as she padded toward the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her knees before she crawled straight onto him without hesitation, like she’d done it a thousand times before.

Maybe ten thousand.

Simon opened his arms before she even settled.

She laid across his chest fully, arms winding around his ribs while her legs tangled with his. Her cheek pressed against the center of his sternum, warm skin against warm skin, and then she sighed — one of those deep, content little breaths that seemed to melt right through him.

Like she’d finally gotten where she belonged.

“There y’are,” Simon murmured quietly.

“Mhm.”

Her arms squeezed tighter around him.

Simon’s hand slid up her spine slowly, broad palm spanning nearly the entire width of her back. He held her there carefully, protectively, fingers tracing absentminded patterns against her skin while the room settled into silence around them.

This was the only peace he’d ever found.

The weight of her on top of him.

The slow rise and fall of her breathing.

The warmth pressed against his chest.

The little sleepy noises she made when she got comfortable enough to stop pretending she wasn’t exhausted.

His wife clinging to him like a koala after a long day.

Simon lowered his head until his lips rested against her hairline. His eyes slipped shut as he held her tighter, one massive arm wrapped entirely around her body.

He’d spent years believing peace was impossible for men like him. Then she climbed into his lap one day and proved him wrong.

“You comfy there baby?” he asked softly.

“Very.”

“You planning on moving anytime soon?”

“No.”

Like just imagine Simon tied up in some warehouse beaten half to death and still too proud to look it and one day he just hears gunshots and a comically loud “WHERE THE FUCK IS MY HUSBAND!????”

Yup, that’s his wife, his girl.

No thoughts just

Simon Riley who is paranoid out of his mind that something will happen to his precious dove while he’s away on a mission.

Simon Riley who equips the whole house with cameras that cover every single inch of the house, leaving no blind spots inside or out.

Simon Riley who watches his sweet girl live her life through those cameras. Baking in the kitchen, watching a movie, taking care of her plants.

Simon Riley who later jerks himself off in his quarters while his girl puts on a show for him in the bedroom, playing with the dildo that was custom made to match him.

Simon’s first person POV

Mentions of y/n

Tags: angst (?) comfort, fluff

Word count: 1,312

a/n: This is inspired by lovely @scarlettscavenger’s work found here 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

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Whack!

I don’t even bother turning the lights on when I get in. Two in the bloody morning, whole house dead quiet, boots soft on the floor out of habit more than courtesy. I shut the door behind me with a careful click, roll my shoulders like I can shrug off the last few weeks, and head straight for the kitchen because I’m parched enough to drink from the tap like a stray. It smells like home—her shampoo, faint vanilla, something warm and lived-in—and it hits harder than anything I dealt with overseas. Makes my chest feel tight in a way I don’t like thinking about too long. I drop my bag by the door, drag a hand over my face, already half-reaching for a glass when there’s this sharp shift in the air, something wrong, something off, and I barely get a second to register it before—

WHACK.

“—fuck!”

It’s loud as hell, metal on bone, stars bursting behind my eyes as something heavy clips the side of my face and sends me stumbling back into the counter. My ears ring, vision swimming, and every instinct screams to retaliate, to neutralize, to end the threat, but I choke it down fast because I know this house, I know her, and there’s only one person in here who’d swing like that. My hands go up immediately, palms out, voice rough and urgent, “It’s me— it’s me, it’s me, y/n, don’t swing—”

There’s a split second where I can hear her breathing, sharp and panicked, the faint scrape of bare feet on tile, and then the light flicks on. It’s blinding after the dark, makes me squint, one eye already starting to swell, and there she is—hair a mess, oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, and a bloody bat raised over her head like she’s about to cave my skull in properly this time. She looks wild, proper terrified, chest heaving, eyes wide and glassy—and then it clicks. Recognition hits her all at once.

“Oh my God—Simon?!”

“Christ, woman.”

Her voice breaks on my name. The bat clatters to the floor like it’s burned her, and her hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God, I— I didn’t— I thought— you didn’t text, you didn’t call, I heard something and I just—”

“I know, I know—easy, dove, easy—”

“Your face—oh my God, I hit you— I actually hit you—” she’s moving before I can stop her, hands hovering like she doesn’t know where she’s allowed to touch, eyes darting over the blood already trickling down from my brow. “You’re bleeding, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding so much? Sit down, sit—no, don’t sit, wait—no, sit— I need—where are the tissues—”

“You’ve only gone and brained me, sweetheart, that’s why,” I mutter, half-dazed, leaning back against the counter while she spins in a frantic little circle like she’s short-circuiting. It would be funny if my head wasn’t ringing like a church bell.

“I didn’t know it was you!” she blurts, already grabbing a roll of paper towels and yanking half of it off in one go. “You’re supposed to tell me when you’re coming home at two in the morning like some kind of—intruder!”

“I did text,” I say, wincing when she presses the wad of paper to my face with shaking hands. “Hours ago.”

“I was asleep!” she shoots back, voice wobbling. “I don’t check my phone when I’m asleep, Simon!”

“Right, yeah, that’s on me then.”

She makes this distressed little noise, like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and I can see the tears building now, clinging to her lashes as she fusses over me, dabbing at the blood, trying to be gentle but still pressing hard enough that I grunt. “Does it hurt? Of course it hurts, that’s a stupid question—can you see properly? Did I break something? I didn’t break something, did I?”

“You didn’t break anything,” I cut in, catching her waist before she can start spiraling further, pulling her a little to get her attention. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make it any better!” She protests.

She glares at me, even with tears spilling over now. She’s got an attitude even while crying. “Don’t you dare downplay this, I literally attacked you.”

“Defended your home,” I correct, because there’s a difference and she needs to hear it. “Heard a noise, grabbed a weapon, went for it.”

“I nearly knocked you unconscious!”

“Aye,” I huff out a breath that turns into a rough laugh despite myself. “Hell of a swing at that.”

That stops her for a second. She blinks at me, confused, like she wasn’t expecting that reaction at all. “You’re— you’re laughing?”

“Lil bit, yeah.” My hand comes up to my temple, and I wince again because, Christ, she really did get me good. “Jesus fuck, woman, you could take out a grown man with that arm.”

Her face crumples at that, completely misreading it. “I’m so sorry—”

“No, no—” I tug her closer by the waist, ignoring the way my head protests the movement. “I mean it. You did exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“I hit my husband in the face with a metal bat, Simon, I don’t think that’s in any safety manual—”

“You didn’t know it was me,” I say again, softer this time, steadying her when she starts to shake. “That’s the point. You thought someone broke in. And instead of freezing, you acted. I’ll take a bruised face over you hesitating any day.”

She sniffles, looking down like she doesn’t quite believe me, fingers still curled in my shirt. “You’re bleeding all over the kitchen.”

“Adds character.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

She lets out this shaky, half-laugh, half-sob, and finally—finally—she leans into me instead of hovering like she’s afraid of making it worse. I don’t wait. My arm wraps around her, pulling her in properly, tucking her against my chest like I’ve been needing to do since I stepped through the door. She buries her face into me immediately, gripping tight, and I can feel how fast her heart’s going.

“You scared me,” she mumbles into my shirt. “I thought— I don’t know what I thought—”

“I know.” My chin rests on top of her head, eyes closing for a second because this—this right here—is the only thing that’s real after a deployment. “I know I’m sorry. But you’re alright. That’s what matters.”

“YOU are not alright,” she argues weakly.

“I will be.” I huff out another quiet laugh, hand rubbing up and down her back. “Might have a cracking headache in the morning, but I’ll live.”

“At least we know you can take care of yourself proper when I’m not here.” I meet her gaze, make sure she hears it. “Tha’ matters more than ma face.”

She goes quiet at that, something soft and aching passing over her expression, and then she exhales, tension leaving her shoulders bit by bit. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“And you still need to sit down so I can clean that properly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nudges me toward a chair, still fussing, still muttering apologies under her breath even as she grabs proper supplies this time. I let her. Let her dab at the cut, let her scold me for not announcing myself louder, for not calling again, for scaring her half to death. And the whole time, I can’t stop the small, crooked smile pulling at my mouth.

Third person POV

No mention of y/n

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word count: 1532

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Soldier & Assassin 1

For two years, it had always ended the same way—gunfire echoing into empty space, a ghost slipping through his fingers, and Simon Riley left standing in the aftermath with an excuse already forming on his tongue before the radio even crackled to life. She was a shadow he could never quite catch, an assassin wrapped in silk and blood and defiance, always one step ahead and always looking back just long enough for it to mean something. Every encounter had teeth to it—sharp words, sharper movements, the kind of proximity that made his pulse thrum in a way combat never did—and each time she vanished, he told himself it was tactical failure, nothing more. He told Price she’d slipped through a blind spot, told Soap the intel had been off, told Gaz he’d hesitated for a second too long. He never said that when she looked at him, something in his chest went still instead of steady. He never said that he let her go.

Tonight, there was nowhere left for her to run.

The warehouse was cavernous and cold, all rusted steel beams and the smell of oil long soaked into concrete, moonlight cutting through broken windows in pale, fractured strips. Simon moved through it like something carved from the dark itself, silent despite the weight of him, every instinct honed and locked on the faint sound of her breathing somewhere ahead. He’d tracked her longer this time, ignored every instinct that told him to slow down, to give her the opening she always took. Not tonight. Not this time. His jaw was set so tight it ached, something ugly and desperate clawing up his spine as he finally turned the last corner— and there she was.

Backed against the wall, shoulders squared in defiance even as her chest rose too fast, too sharp, like she’d been running not just from him but from something inside herself. Her hair was a mess, her clothes smeared with dust and something darker, and her eyes—God, her eyes—locked onto his with that same fire he’d chased across continents. The gun came up in her hand in one smooth, practiced motion, aimed dead center at his chest.

“Stop.” Her voice didn’t shake. Not at first. “Don’t take another step, Riley.”

He didn’t listen. Of course he didn’t listen. Simon kept walking.

Each step was deliberate, heavy against the concrete, the sound echoing too loud in the silence between them. The distance closed inch by inch, her arm tightening as she tracked him, finger hovering over the trigger. He could see the exact moment the confidence cracked—not in her stance, not in her aim, but in the way her breath hitched just slightly, the smallest betrayal.

“Simon.” His name came out sharper now, warning wrapped around something dangerously close to panic. “I will shoot you.”

Another step.

The barrel of the gun pressed into his chest, right over his heart, and still he didn’t stop. He could feel the cold metal through the fabric, could feel the tremor that finally crept into her hand. His gaze dropped briefly to it, then lifted back to her face, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing her in this exact moment.

“No,” he said quietly, voice rough and certain in a way that cut through everything else. “You won’t.”

Her eyes flashed, anger flaring fast and bright. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t act like you know me.”

Another inch closer, until there was no space left between them, until the gun was the only thing keeping them apart. Simon leaned into it just slightly, enough to feel the pressure, enough to make a point that neither of them could ignore.

“I do know you.” His voice dropped lower, steadier, something almost dangerous in its calm. “Know you better than anyone else, I reckon.”

“Shut up.” It came out too fast, too tight. Her grip shifted, tightening, but her finger still didn’t pull. “You don’t know anything about me.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, filled with everything they’d never said.

“Pull the trigger, dove.”

Her hands shook worse, but she kept the gun pointed right over his heart still. She owned it anyhow, wouldn’t make much of a difference to Simon if she did decide to pull the trigger.

He sighed heavily when she just stood there with eyes as wide as a deer caught in headlights, breathing growing more shallow by the second.

“Do you know why you won’t shoot?” he asked, softer now, but it hit harder for it. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Want me to tell you?”

Her head shook immediately, sharp, almost frantic. “Don’t—Simon, don’t you—”

“Because you love me.”

It landed like a gunshot. For a second, everything stopped.

The world, the air, the sound of her breathing—it all just… froze. Her expression shattered.

“No.” The word came out broken, barely there, like she couldn’t quite force it past whatever had lodged in her throat. Her head shook again, slower this time, disbelieving, desperate. “No, that’s not—no. You’re wrong.”

But her hand was shaking now. Really shaking.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her, didn’t take the gun, didn’t do anything except stand there and let her see that he wasn’t taking it back.

“You won’t pull that trigger,” he said, quieter now, but unrelenting. “Not at me. Not ever.”

“Stop it.” Her voice cracked, the anger bleeding out of it, leaving something raw and exposed underneath. “Just—just stop talking.”

“Say it, then.” His tone sharpened just enough to cut. “Say you don’t.”

“I don’t!” she snapped, but it came out wrong—too fast, too high, like she was trying to outrun the truth instead of deny it. Her eyes were glassy now, blinking too quickly, her breathing uneven. “I don’t love you, Simon. I don’t—I can’t—”

“Look at me and say it,” he pressed, softer again, but somehow worse. “Properly.”

She tried.

God, she tried.

Her mouth opened, the words right there, ready to be forced out—but they wouldn’t come.

Instead, her face crumpled.

“I love you.” He pressed.

“Please,” she whispered, and that was worse than anything else. The anger was gone now, stripped away completely, leaving her standing there with nothing but bare, shaking desperation. “Please just… say you’re wrong.”

Simon’s chest tightened, something painful and heavy pressing against his ribs, but he didn’t look away.

“I’m not.”

A sob broke out of her before she could stop it.

Her grip finally gave, the gun wavering, lowering just slightly as her other hand came up like she didn’t know what to do with it, like she was trying to hold herself together and failing. “You’re not supposed to say that,” she choked out, tears spilling over now, fast and uncontrolled. “You’re not supposed to know that.”

She shook heat head “You’re a soldier!” She screamed at him. “You can’t— We can’t.“

He reached for the gun then, slow enough for her to stop him if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

Her fingers loosened around it like they’d forgotten how to hold on, and Simon took it from her easily, tossing it aside without a second thought. The clatter echoed through the warehouse, loud and final, but neither of them looked at it.

Because the second it was gone, she broke.

Her fists hit his chest hard, once, twice, again—no real strength behind it, just desperation spilling out in the only way she could manage. “I hate you,” she sobbed, the words dissolving into broken breaths. “I hate you, I hate you—”

Simon caught her before she could pull away, arms wrapping around her tight, pulling her in against him like he was afraid she might disappear if he didn’t hold on hard enough. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low against her hair, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. “I know.”

She kept hitting him for a moment longer, weak, uneven strikes that turned into nothing more than her hands gripping at his shirt, clutching onto him like he was the only solid thing left. Her face pressed into his chest, tears soaking through the fabric as her body shook with each sob.

He didn’t let go.

Didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t try to quiet her, just held her through it, steady and unyielding, like he’d been waiting two years to do exactly this.

Slowly, gradually, the sobs eased. Her breathing stuttered, then steadied, her grip on him tightening in a different way now—less frantic, more… afraid to let go.

Simon shifted just enough to look down at her, one hand coming up to tilt her chin gently so she had to meet his gaze.

Her eyes were wrecked—red, swollen, still wet—but there was something else there now too. Something softer. Something that had been buried under layers of denial and distance and carefully built walls.

“Say it again,” she whispered, like it hurt to even ask. “Please.”

His thumb brushed under her eye, catching the last of the tears.

“I love you.”

Her breath hitched. And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle—not at first. It was desperate, messy, the kind of kiss that came from too much feeling crammed into too little space, her hands fisting in his vest as she pulled herself closer like she couldn’t get close enough. Simon responded immediately, one arm tightening around her waist, the other coming up to cup her jaw, grounding her, steadying it into something deeper, something that lasted.

The world outside the warehouse didn’t exist anymore.

No mission. No team. No lies waiting to be told.

Just this.

Just them.

And for once—

Simon’s first person POV

Y/N reader

Tags: Fluff

Word count: 1246

𖦹 Part I 𖦹 Part II

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡° ⋆ ˚｡ 𖦹 ⋆｡° ᯓ★

Single Father Simon 111

I don’t go straight home. Habit, an unnecessary one someone might think, but it comes with the job.

I circle once, twice. Check the street, the windows, the angles. Nothing out of place. Nothing that sets my teeth on edge.

When I finally park, I walk up to her house and before I can overthink it, I’m knocking.

There’s a pause, then soft footsteps, and the door opens just enough for her face to peek through.

And there it is again. That light. Blindingly so.

“Simon!” she says, like she’s relieved. Like she’s been expecting me. “You’re back.”

Something in my chest shifts. “Came for Alcina,” I answer.

“Of course,” she says quickly, opening the door wider. “She’s—” Her voice drops instinctively. “—napping.”

I step inside. And—Fuck. Her place is… warm.Not just temperature. Everything. I hadn’t noticed it before when I brought Alcina over for her toy, as I was solely focused on her, but now that I have more time to take it in, it’s the first house I’ve been in that feels like a— a home.

Soft yellow light spilling from lamps instead of harsh overheads. Candles flickering on every available surface, the kind that smell faintly like vanilla and something floral. Plants everywhere—on shelves, hanging by the windows, trailing down like they’ve claimed the space as their own. Little bits of life in every corner.

It feels lived in. Safe. I don’t like how immediately I notice that.

“She just went down maybe twenty minutes ago,” she continues, closing the door quietly behind me. “I was gonna wake her soon, but—”

“No,” I cut in, harsher than I mean to, to I try and soften my voice. “Let her sleep.”

She nods, like she expected that answer.

“Okay.”

There’s a beat where we just… stand there. Then she gestures toward the couch. “You can sit, if you want. I made tea.”

Tea. Right.

“Yeah,” I say, because apparently I don’t know how to say no to her.

I sit. The couch is soft. Too soft. I sink into it more than I like, like it’s trying to keep me there.

She disappears into the kitchen and comes back a second later with a mug, holding it out to me.

My gloved fingers brush her soft ones as I grab JT from her, and I notice the way she freezes for a moment. Did I scare her?— of course I scared her.

But instead I see her smile to herself for a moment before sitting right next to me.

Fuck

“Chamomile,” she says. “Figured you might need something that’s not… coffee.”

I huff quietly. “You saying I look like shit?”

She smiles, small and teasing. “I didn’t say it.”

I take a sip and it’s warm.

“S’good,” I mutter.

Her smile softens like that means something. We fall into conversation easier than we should.

Small things at first. Alcina. What she ate. The fact she insisted on feeding that same stray cat and named it something I can’t even pronounce.

“She tried to bring it inside,” she adds, amused. “Very determined.”

“Sounds like her.”

There’s a pause. A shift. I feel it before she says anything, so I brace myself for the uncomfortable moment.

“…Can I ask you something?” she says, quieter now.

My shoulders tense automatically. “Depends.”

She hesitates. Not backing out—just choosing her words.

“Alcina’s mom,” she says gently. “Is she… around?”

Mm. There it is.

I stare into the tea for a second too long. I don’t talk about this. Don’t like talking about this. But it’s her. And for some fucking reason, that changes the equation.

“…No,” I say finally.

She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just listens.

“Her name’s Cadence,” I add, the word tasting wrong. “She—”I stop, jaw tight. Then force it out anyway. “She left.”

Her brows knit slightly, not in judgment—just concern.

“Left?” she repeats softly.

“In the hospital,” I clarify, voice flat. “After Alcina was born.”

The words sit heavy in the air. Ugly and unfinished.

“She didn’t want her,” I continue, harsher now. “Didn’t want the responsibility. Didn’t want… any of it.” My grip tightens around the mug.

“She shows up sometimes,” I add, like it doesn’t matter. “Calls to ask for money. Favors. Connections.” My lip curls slightly under the mask. “Uses whatever she can.”

Her expression doesn’t change in the way I expect. No pity. No shock. Only quiet understanding.

“I don’t let her near Alcina,” I say, firm. “Won’t.”

“Good,” she responds immediately. No hesitation. No but. No “but it’s her mother”.

Something in my chest eases with her approval.

“She doesn’t deserve her,” she adds, softer.

I glance at her. Am I breathing?

She’s not looking at me like I’m broken. Not like I’m lacking. Only like I did the right thing.

Like it’s that simple.

We sit in that for a second. Then a small voice from down the hall.

“…Daddy?” I’m on my feet before I even register moving.

She smiles a little, like she expected that too “Bedroom,” she murmurs. “Down the hall on your left.”

I don’t knock, don’t hesitate. I step inside while roughly pulling off my mask just as Alcina pushes herself up from the bed, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep.

She sees me, and her whole face lights up. “Daddy’s back!!”

She launches herself at me. No warning and with full force.

I catch her easily, arms wrapping around her like muscle memory, lifting her off the bed as she clings to me.

“Easy, easy—” I murmur, but I’m already smiling under the mask. Can feel it pulling at my face. “Missed me that much, yeah?”

“Yes!” she insists, like it’s obvious. Like it’s stupid to even ask.

Her arms tighten around my neck. That warmth. Stronger this time, only for my daughter.

“Missed you too, love.”

I don’t say that out loud often. Feels different every time.

I turn slightly, and catch y/n in the doorway.

Quietly watching. There’s something in her expression I can’t quite pin down.

Soft.

Warm.

Almost… fond.

Like she’s looking at something she didn’t expect to care about this much. Our eyes meet for a second. I look away first, which is odd for me.

“Say thank you,” I tell Alcina quietly.

“For what?” she asks, still buried against me.

“For taking care of you.”

Alcina leans back just enough to look at her.

“Thank you,” she says, serious as anything.

Y/n smiles, softer than I’ve ever seen it. “You’re welcome.”

I shift Alcina on my hip, adjusting my hold. Then, to y/n “Thanks,” I say, a little rougher than I mean to. “For… all of it.”

She shakes her head slightly, like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing. It’s not even close. I head for the door before I linger too long. Before that feeling in my chest gets any heavier.

“Bye!” Alcina calls, waving over my shoulder.

“Bye, sweetheart,” she replies. And then we’re outside.

Cold air. Familiar. Safer.

Back home, Alcina doesn’t stop talking. Not for a second. “We made cookies,” she says, counting on her fingers. “And we saw the kitty again and I gave him food and he liked me and—”

I set her down, listening. Really listening.

“She read me a story,” she continues. “And we drew and she let me use the blue marker even though I got it on my hand—”

I glance down. Yup, still there.

“She didn’t get mad,” Alcina adds, like that’s important. “…No?” I ask. She shakes her head, emphatic. “No. She nice.”

I exhale slowly. Something settles in my chest. That same warmth.

Alcina tugs on my sleeve. “Can we go again?” I look toward the street through the window that separates our homes.

Like I can see through the walls of her house.

Like I can see her in that warm little space with the plants and the candles and the soft light.

Simon’s first person POV

Y/n reader

Tags: Fluff, comfort

Word count: 1413

𖦹 Part I 𖦹 Part III

Single Father Simon 11

I don’t believe in coincidences. Not in my line of work. Not in my life. Things happen for a reason—planned, calculated, or forced. So the first time I run into her again, I write it off.

Second time—still nothing.

By the third, I start noticing.

It’s always small things too, quiet things. The kind most people wouldn’t notice.

I’m taking the trash out, late. Alcina’s already asleep, the house finally still, and I step out into the cold with the bag slung over my shoulder—and there she is.

Kneeling by the edge of the pavement, sundress swapped for an oversized sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, hair messy like she’s been running her hands through it.

“Oh— hi Simon!” she says, like she’s not crouched on the ground in the dark.

Like this is normal. I glance down.

There’s a stray cat pressed against her knees, scruffy thing, ribs just barely visible. She’s got a little plastic container in her hands.

“Feedin’ strays?” I ask.

“Trying to bribe them into loving me,” she corrects softly, holding her hand out as the cat sniffs cautiously. “It’s not working yet. The cat leans into her fingers anyway.

Traitor. “Hm.”

She peeks up at me. “You’re out late.”

“So are you.”

She smiles like that’s not an answer to anything. “Fair.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable. I hate that it’s comfortable.

“You settling in okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Alcina too?”

My grip tightens just slightly on the trash bag. “Yeah.”

She nods, satisfied, like that’s all she needed. “Good. She’s… really sweet.”

I don’t know what to do with that.

So I just nod once and walk past her to the bin.

When I come back, she’s still there, whispering something soft to the cat like it understands her.

I stand there a second too long before going back inside.

—

Next time, it’s morning, way too early for anything.

I’ve got Alcina on my hip, half-asleep, her face tucked into my neck while I wrestle with the front door and a cup of coffee that’s already gone cold.

I catch a sight of y/n once I’m outside, across the street, and she’s on her porch, barefoot this time, watering plants like she’s got nowhere else to be.

She walks over with her own coffee in her hand once she spots me.

“Morning,” she says, like she didn’t just appear out of thin air again.

I grunt something that might pass as a greeting.

Her eyes go straight to Alcina. “Hi, honey.”

Alcina blinks at her, slow and sleepy.

Then—traitor, again—she reaches for her.

Not fully. Just a little grabby hand in her direction.

I freeze. Y/n does too.

“Can I?” she asks, softer now. Careful.

Like the answer matters. It shouldn’t. It really, really shouldn’t. “…Yeah,” I hear myself say.

She steps closer, gentle, like approaching something fragile, and takes Alcina from me like she’s done it a hundred times before.

Either her other hand, she hands me her coffee and focuses back on Alcina.

Perfect hold. One hand supporting, the other rubbing slow circles on her back.

Alcina melts.

Just—completely melts.

I don’t know why Alcina reached for her in the first place, but I have a strong feeling it was the cookies.

And how warm she smells.

Y/n yucks Alcina into her like she belongs there.

I feel something sharp twist in my chest.

“Hi,” she whispers to her, smiling like it’s the best thing she’s seen all day. “You remember me?”

Alcina nods against her shoulder.

“Cookies,” she mumbles.

The girl laughs under her breath. “Yeah. I remember that too.”

I should take her back.

I don’t.

I just stand there, coffee in hand, watching something that shouldn’t feel this normal.

After that, it’s constant. Not in an overwhelming way.

Just… there.

She shows up with baked goods like it’s part of her routine. Banana bread. Muffins. Something with blueberries Alcina gets all over her face.

I catch her outside more than I don’t—watering plants, sitting on the steps, feeding that same damn stray like it’s her pet now.

Alcina starts asking about her.

“Pretty,” she says once, pointing at the door.

I don’t want to unpack what that might mean.

—

The breaking point comes at two in the morning.

Alcina’s crying. Not her usual soft, sleepy whining. Full-on, hiccuping, gasping sobs. I’m out of bed in seconds.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” I murmur, crouching beside her bed.

She’s clutching something in her hands.

Her teddy. Or what’s left of it. One of the seams has split clean open, stuffing half out, one of the arms barely hanging on.

“It—broke,” she chokes out, like the world just ended.

“Alright, alright, s’okay,” I say, even though I’ve got no fuckin’ idea how to fix it.

I try. God, I try.

Thread. Needle. Hands that are good at a lot of things— Apparently stitching isn’t one of them.

It looks worse. She cries harder. “…Hang on,” I mutter.

There’s only one person I can think of. And I hate that there’s only one person I can think of.

I grab my jacket, scoop her up—teddy and all—and across the street.

It’s too late. I know it is. Still, I knock. Once, twice, but ai think Alcinas wailing does enough of a job to wake y/n up.

The light flicks on almost immediately. The door opens, and there she is—sleepy, hair a mess, wrapped in something soft, blinking at me like she’s trying to place the situation.

Then she sees Alcina. Everything sharp in her expression disappears.

“Oh—hey, hey, what happened?” she asks, already stepping aside. “Come in.”

I don’t argue. Alcina reaches for her before I even cross the threshold.

Again. She goes without hesitation, cradling her close.

“It broke,” Alcina sobs into her shoulder, shoving the mangled teddy between them.

Her face softens in a way that makes something in my chest ache.

“Oh no… okay. Okay, we can fix that,” she murmurs, brushing Alcina’s hair back. “I promise.”

She says it like it’s fact. Like it’s already done.

She sits down with her, pulls out a small sewing kit like she’s got one ready for emergencies like this, and gets to work.

Slow. Careful. Talking to Alcina the whole time in that soft, warm voice.

Distracting her. Comforting her. Fixing it.

And she does. Perfectly at that. Better than it was before.

Alcina sniffles, clutching the bear to her chest, inspecting it like she doesn’t quite believe it.

“All better,” the y/n says, smiling. Alcina launches at her. Tiny arms around her neck, squeezing tight.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Y/n freezes for half a second—like that meant more than it should’ve—then hugs her back just as tight.

“You’re welcome, honey.”

That’s the night it settles in my head.

The thought I can’t shake after.

So a few days later, I knock on her door again. This time, it’s not an emergency.

She opens it, smiling like she always does when she sees us. “Hi—”

“I need a favor,” I cut in. Straight to it. Safer that way.

She blinks, surprised, but nods immediately. “Okay.”

I shift my weight, Alcina holding onto my hand beside me.

“I’m… gone a few days a week,” I say. “Work.”

I don’t elaborate yet, I won’t. I can’t scare off the only good thing in my life besides my girl.

Her expression doesn’t push for more. Just listens.

“She doesn’t—” I glance down at Alcina. “She doesn’t do well with strangers.”

Understatement. “She likes you,” I add, quieter.

That feels bigger than anything else I’ve said.

Her gaze flicks to Alcina, who’s already looking up at her like she hung the damn moon.

Something soft settles over her features “You want me to babysit,” she says gently.

I nod once. “Jus’ when I’m out. I’ll pay ya.”

Her nose wrinkles a little at that.

“Well then it wouldn’t be a favor,” she says. “No need to pay, of course I will.”

Just like that. No hesitation. No doubt.

And I feel that same tightness in my chest again. That same warm, unfamiliar thing. Only this time, it settles deeper. More dangerous.

Because now she’s not just the girl next door with cookies and sunlight in her bones.

Now she’s part of this. Part of us. And that—