I'm so tired.

If the volume of calls weren't bad enough, then it's the watchful eyes and pressing noses breathing down the back of his neck that puts him on edge. He smiles and laughs when it's socially acceptable, and yet again politely declines another offer of becoming a supervisor, no matter how many times they dangle the pay raise and benefits in front of his face. Worst of all, he doesn't even get shift differential for this. Flat rate pay for flat rate shit.

His head aches by the time he's clocking out and groaning through the 5PM rush hour. He thinks of his bed and how much his muscles yearn for the cooling sheets and plush pillow and the mattress that always keeps his botched back muscles in place. He's near skipping through the complex door as he approaches the lift.

Out of order. Please use stairs.

Stiff fingers toy with the top of his trauma shears as he stares at the sign. He glares at it as if he can intimidate the lettering enough to morph before his very eyes and quickly bring the lift back in order, but thirty seconds later and he's still standing there, and the machine is still broken.

It's only one flight of stairs that separates Kyle from his apartment, but it's enough to make the pain worse. Tension grows in his lower back like tender breath on hot coals, blowing until they're glowing cherry red, searing through his skin until it's biting at the tips of his nerves. The door opens then closes. His gear hits the floor. One boot is left in the hallway while the other lingers by threshold of his bedroom.

He makes a bitter promise to himself to shower when he wakes up—whenever that may be—before collapsing on the bed, stripped down to his boxers. A little voice mocks him in the back of his mind.

If Price could see the mess I've just left after work, I'd never hear the end of it.

The end of that thought is nipped by his phone receiving a call. It's enough to send Kyle into fight or flight—more tones, pager buzzing on his hip, another call, more paperwork. Rolling over onto his side, he yanks it off of his nightstand and stares at the unfamiliar numbers with a squint.

"Fucking telemarketers," he mutters before declining the call.

The silence that follows is bitter. Whatever peace he was able to garner sours within an instant as he rests his phone on his stomach. The afternoon sun seeps through his blackout curtains like the glinting blade of a knife cutting across his ceiling. He thinks about how much he needs a vacation, but the idea dissolves in his skull the moment he remembers he doesn't have anywhere left to go that isn't tainted by his soldier past.

It's why he took this job. He can't deal with the trash of being a police officer and would never want to tarnish himself with such an idea, but any other job wouldn't be able to read his scars. No one else would understand the jokes, the umbra-tinted humor. The glassy stares, the long walks, the tight silence.

Once more, the phone rings. Something softer and less intrusive this time, but it's still enough to get Kyle's heart rate up higher than he'd like. It's the same number again. The text that illuminates his screen makes his stomach sink.

Hey, sorry if you're at work. I just don't know who else to call. A dog bit Ophelia and we're at the vet. They said we're good to go home but I'm not feeling well and I don't really have the cash for a ride or anything.

Don't worry if you're busy though. I can always find someone else.

Or I could take the bus, I just wasn't sure I could make it to the stop.

Sorry for the spam.

Suddenly, the ache ebbs.

Send me the address.

The sun is in his eyes for the entire drive over, and he curses throughout it all the way until he's parked and rushing through the front door to find you. Blood follows him. He's not sure why or where it comes from. Maybe it's continuing to linger after his shift, or maybe it's just stained in his memory from the first time he ever saw you and the subsequent scar that followed—forever ingrained in your forehead.

Kyle finds you sitting on a wide couch in the waiting room with Ophelia's head in your lap. The pup's hand rests on your knee, wrapped in pristine bandages that smell of antibacterial ointment and lidocaine. Her dark eyes grow heavy to the point she can't even garner the excitement in her gaze when she eyes him coming through the door. Numbed. Anesthetized until the throbbing stops.

Somehow, you look worse for wear than Ophelia. Puffy red eyes, nose sniffling every other second, fingers wrapped around your inhaler like it's the only lifeline you have left and you're clutching the remnants of the old one as she crumbles away in your lap. You manage the type of smile that makes his throat tight. It's fractured, and you're pulling at it so tight it spills; a laceration pulled too taut.

"Thanks for coming to get us," you sniffle, hand resting on Ophelia's head. She huffs, eyes closing tight as she melts into you.

Before Kyle does anything, he ignores the ache in his knees as he bends down to your height, keeping a comfortable distance from where you and Ophelia are curling around one another on the couch. "What happened?"

You roll your eyes in frustration, like the mere recollection of it pains you. "Headed to the market for some food, and some lady had her stupid fucking dog in there with her. She claimed it was a service animal, but he obviously wasn't because the bastard bit her."

Attention moving to your loyal friend, he cautiously eyes the bandages. His fingers twitch. He's used to poking and prodding, but this type of patient isn't one he's familiar with. "What's the damage?"

"Couple of stitches. Rabies booster in case the prick was sick. They're sending us home with antibiotics and pain meds for her to take, along with the orders to return in a couple of days so they can put a cast on her," you spew.

Kyle's brows rise. "Her arm's fractured?"

"Near her wrist, I think, yeah," you solemnly nod. "She's too swollen for a cast to do any good, and she can hardly walk and I just…"

Squeeze and inhale—medicine floods your lungs as you take a moment to breathe, then cough. Problems spew through Kyle's brain; crying, the increase of mucus, the physical movement are all undesirable aspects with your sickness. Pausing, Kyle reminds himself he isn't your doctor, and he can't cure you. But he can at least do this much for you.

"Come on, Sunshine, let's get you two home."

Ophelia is too inebriated and injured to walk, and when the sight of that alone nearly sends you spiraling once again, Kyle doesn't hesitate to scoop her into his arms. She's certainly the lightest patient he's lifted all day, and the pure shock of the image along with his request for you to open the car door for him is enough to snap you out of whatever frustration induced breakdown you were on the path towards.

On the ride home, Kyle sets one hand on the steering wheel and the other rubbing at his enervated eyes while he focuses too hard on the lines on the road to ensure he doesn't swerve where he shouldn't. Your talking keeps him awake. With heated words and fiery expletives, you retell the story of the market in greater detail. You curse everything from the misspelled lettering on the dog's vest to the blatant disregard for everyone's safety bringing such a misbehaved mutt into the store.

"She didn't even apologize," you rehash, arms crossed and eyes glowering through the window. "Told me Ophe antagonized him and that it was my fault. Left the store in a hurry so I couldn't even get any information from the cunt. Fuck, if I ever see her again, I'm breaking her wrist."

"Just, do it while I'm off shift," Kyle interjects.

"No promises."

When you arrive back at the apartment, Kyle once again lifts Ophelia into his arms and lumbers behind you with a wide stance to make up for the odd shift in weight. Your door seems to be in the process of being fixed, he notes. New wood to replace the splintered boards, hardware half drilled in, but not quite where it ought to be. The inside looks better—lived in, now, and no longer hospital plain. You have a futon shoved up against the wall next to a standing lamp that's illuminating the living room on the lowest setting.

A guitar hides in the corner. Soft grain and a worn neck that seeps through the dark stain between the frets. Well loved into destruction, he thinks about asking you about it until you're interrupting his thoughts, directing him to lay Ophelia on your bed.

She's grown more lucid now, but she's still not quite there. Looking up at him with glassy eyes, Kyle nearly feels his heart shatter as he offers her his palm to lick at. Heavy lids swallow her eyes as she rests her head on the mattress, not at all bothered by the way your weight dips in next to her. You cough and it's wet. It's enough to pull Ophelia from her slumber, but it isn't long before she's crashing again.

The sniffling returns. You rub at your eyes. Kyle already know what's coming before your mouth opens.

"I dunno what I'm gonna do." Your voice is tight. Incensed in the way frustration lingers after a wrongdoing. "She's not just some pet, she helps me. People don't fucking get that-that if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be able to live on my own and now I'm not sure what I'm gonna do while she's healing."

Even after all these years—or even these last few weeks since you've moved in—Kyle still isn't good with the mushy talk. With the reassurance. He's seen too much for that. Witnessed more meat and ichor than any human ever should. All he knows for sure is that he's got working hands, and he might as well put them to use.

"You've got my number," he gently reminds.

When you look away from Ophelia, you find Kyle leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face heavy. Scoffing, you shake your head. "Oh, fuck off."

"I'm being serious," he deadpans.

"What, so you want me to call you every time I need my inhaler?" you challenge.

He shrugs. "That's what I'm here for, Sunshine."

You're about to go off on another tirade when you pause. You raise a finger, grimace falling on your face with a poorly concealed smirk in disbelief. "That's not becoming a thing."

"What?" Kyle asks, feigning cluelessness.

"That nickname."

"Bit too late for that… Sunshine."

Exacerbated, you groan and throw yourself back onto your bed with enough violence to shake Ophelia. Peeved, she huffs and kicks her feet against your side, but her strength is negligible.

"Get the fuck out of my apartment, Kyle," you say, voice wooden.

Slipping out of the doorway, he gives a half-assed salute just out of your view. "I'll be right upstairs if you need anything."

"I won't! I'm not a baby, I can take care of myself!" you call.

"Whatever you say, Sunshine."

Your car, without even the slightest warning from the dashboard, has decided to start shaking abruptly and billowed out three huge smokes in the middle of the highway. You couldn’t even accelerate past a thousand rpms in the process. The drive back to the garage was brutal. You could only be grateful you made it home in one piece from the metal death trap.

Once you returned back to your unit, you learned that your gas stove refused to ignite. Aside from your worries of carbon dioxide poisoning from a possible leak, this prompts another list to add on your notes of things to sort. 

The water is another problem in and of itself. Your showers are now performed with gritted and chattered teeth for hot water is practically not an option for you in the middle of winter—and not to mention, when your quarterly water bill arrives, you are indignantly puzzled by the excessive charge.

Your nights are lately spent calling your family and friends over the phone of your domestic troubles—though they are too far or unfit to be of any help, their reassuring words work at least some wonders to your aggrieved mental state. 

The next incessant calls would be made to your property manager, then to your nearby mechanics, then your local water authority for a metre test. It’s been rough sleeping through the nights with a lot on your mind. Such is the life of your poor, local metropolitan girl.

You can continue feeling sorry for yourself and order in takeout with ridiculous service fees for the nth time, or you can start focusing on things you can control. Like for example, keeping a positive attitude—and also, purchasing a portable butane stove top.

After days of cold cut sandwiches, cold showers, and colder walks to the station—you fear you might die of hypothermia before the season ends. 

And so here you are after work, pedantically looking over the warranties and reviews of a gas burner at the first hardware store you see. You think of the many hot meals you can make out of this thing—perhaps even heat some water up for your shower; though you mournfully think about the painstaking time that would require. 

A shadow encompasses your being from your left side. You shift advertently to your side to give space, but the person remains close. 

‘How entitled,’ you think begrudgingly. 

You hold your ground but the moment lingers too long for it to be respectable. You lift your gaze up to the corner just to see what kind of person they are before you take your leave—but their brown eyes meets yours expectantly. 

You fix your face quickly. 

“Simon,” you breathe out a laugh. 

What a coincidence; you are lucky to remember his name for all the stress that’s mounting on your desk, you had forgotten all about your brooding encounter with the biggest man you’ve ever seen. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” Though it’s just what people say in passing to make small talk, it wasn’t an entire lie. You’ve been so on edge waiting for him to call in his favour that never came; you begin to think that you’ve been talking to a ghost. 

But here he is; alive and well—you suppose. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” he pointed gruffly towards your sleek black, shiny stove in your hands. 

“Oh—I think there’s something wrong with my gas line. My landlord’s looking into it,” you say, trying to sound as inconvenienced as possible. “In the meantime this is my substitute for the next week or so.”

He hums lowly. 

You guess he is the same as you saw him last—maybe a bit more tired, and dressed accordingly to the weather. You try and not to take notice of the bolt cutter or the heavy-duty zip ties he has on his person, lest you make a bad joke he might not appreciate. 

“Mind letting me ‘ave a look?” 

You blink at his offer and shake your head profusely. “I don’t want to trouble you more than I already have.”

“Rubbish,” he interjects roughly. “Just let me know the time, and I can swing by.” Simon grabs some butane canisters, engulfing you around him for a split moment. You think of his arms around your waist; the memory is scored into you, you can still feel the phantom weight of it. 

Your eyes immediately search for anything else other than him—silently praying he’s not some mind reader. Politely taking a step back from his space, you concede and nod in small. 

“Alright, thank you. I appreciate it.” 

He follows you to the register, a scene all too familiar for your liking. Simon lets you go ahead first and while you ready your phone to tap on the point-of-sale system, you eye him covertly and hold out your arm as if to block him in jest. He seems to find it amusing.

A lazy smirk appears on the corner of his lips. You think you prefer him this way rather than his impassive manner. Efforts to engage in more one-sided conversations seem a bit easier now—only because you know you’re about to separate ways again. You wait for Simon to finish up and before you could even take a step further from him, he stops you. 

“You’re walkin’?” 

The wind whips your hair against your cold cheeks when you look back at him.

“Yeah,” you reply. “It’s not far from home.”

“An’ where’s home?” Simon crosses his arms. There is a strange feeling that he isn’t going to like your answer either way. 

“Just three blocks or so down the road,” you say apprehensively. “It’s not bad—I quite like the walk.”

He nods lightly but seems to disregard it all the same.

“Get in,” Simon says offhandedly; his keys clinks as a black Hilux flash in the distance. “I’ll drop you off.”

“—You don’t have to.”’

“I ain’t askin’.”

You’re about to protest some more but he’s walking back to his truck as if he knows you’ll follow—which you do but that’s besides the point. It reminds you of your first impression of him; a mix of coarse manners. It’s as if he doesn’t know his actions to be kind.

He opens the door to the passenger side for you as you give him a sheepish thanks. When the door closes and he tracks around his car, you clandestinely feel the outline of your mobile in your pockets. You figure you know him well enough, though you remind yourself to be vigilant should anything happen. 

“Righ’, your address.” He asks as the engine comes alive. You answer accordingly, getting ready to tell him the way back to your building. He seems to know your location the moment you mention the street name with the way he scoffs out a mutter, “three blocks my arse.”

The heating from the air conditioning system is immediate, you’re relieved to feel the blasts of warm air hitting your cool skin even from beneath the layers of your clothes. 

The conversation is light as he pulls out from the parking lot. Simon makes a casual remark about you wandering around in sub-zero temperature at night. It was at this time that perhaps you might have overshared. 

You begin to tell him all about your car issues, then your gas line, then your water boiler and how you’re lodging an application to get your water meter tested for leaks. Despite the negative circumstances you find yourself in, you couldn't help but laugh at your own predicament. Talking animatedly at such length to the quiet man who doesn't seem to mind your prattling. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” He drawls when you finish. You hum and stare past the street lights. 

Simon moves his gaze surreptitiously from the road to you. He wonders why you stopped talking, he wanted to hear your voice more—wanted to hear those laughs that sounds like bells to him. He wants you to continue to tell him how awful your life has been, and how he can make it better.

In the past week he wondered why it was easier to overfill your engine with oil or mess with your unit systems instead of just shooting you a text. There is a definite guilt in his conscience when he looks back at his actions; nothing proud of the things he did to get your attention—but regret? Nonexistsent. 

Because where he’s at right now, driving you home in his motor, it makes it all worth it. 

“I can see about it,” He brings it up as he turns the corner to your street.

You stare at him incredulously. It’s hard to believe this man who seems so detached and devoid of any sentiments could be so courteous and generous with his time. 

“You’ve done so much for me already.” You shake your head gently. “Besides, I’m already in the process of calling around. It should be all in order–”

“How much they chargin’ you?” he puts the vehicle in park, leaning back slightly as he looks ahead before moving lazily to you.

“Umm.. “ You trail and grimace when you reluctantly say a four figure amount, knowing you’re just proving his point—indicative with the increasingly smug look on his face. “But I’m paying for convenience aren’t I? And it can't be helped, I’ve done my research—unless you know someone who does it for cheaper–”

“Yeah,” he cuts you off gravely. “Me.”

You bite your lip and drop your hand in defeat, “I still haven’t gotten you back for my groceries last time.”

“You still goin’ on about that?” He raises his brows at you, as if it was odd for you to hold onto something that was so insignificant. Simon exhales and regards you with his brown eyes.

“So what’s it gonna be?”

You practice fiscal rectitude ever since you moved out—can’t afford anything less. You do your due diligence, keep a spreadsheet when things get complicated, you make sure your credits and savings are on track. So when you make your round of calls, you know you can’t accept any first quote—but here he is, proposing a much nicer offer. 

The last thing you want is to take advantage of someone; more so, be in more debt with a high compounding interest rate with someone like Simon. As kind and considerate he seems to be, you are highly suspicious that he is doing so purely out of the goodness of his heart—a case in which you hope that you’re wrong. 

However after living in the cold, big city, you learn that everyone here has a motive. Not to mention, it would be a lie if you said that his appearance doesn’t unsettle you in the slightest. You’ve never really rubbed shoulders with people—or more specifically—men like him. And as disgustingly classist and discriminatory as it might sound, it comes from a cautious place.

As a woman on your own, you now live alone; far from the immediate support of your family. Should anything happen, you need to figure it out and help yourself. 

So you do what you think is best; you give him the benefit of the doubt. You surmise the pragmatic warnings in your head are just disguised as bigotry, and you are above that. 

Instead, you let him in. You expect him every few days or so after six in the evening—ten in the weekend morning. Simon’s frequent visits to your apartment fits seamlessly to your schedule. The sight of him working away at your engine and your unit systems is beginning to be a familiar one. 

He takes his coffee black; his tea with a splash of milk. There’s no music when he works away, so you fulfill it with useless chatter. You’d like to believe he appreciates the noise pollution from your side—there is never any protest from him when you do anyway. 

One afternoon, you almost leap into him with joy when he calls you to your bathroom, and you feel the warm water hitting your palms from when he twisted the handle. You imagine finally crawling into bed without shivering now—which is a huge plus since you feel a cold catching. 

On top of that, he has fixed the issue going on with your water bills, and your gas stove. You feel light as a feather with each problem he fixes, feeling as if you finally have control over your life. 

Much to your chagrin, Simon takes no reimbursement, not even a charity meal—which is upsetting because you feel as if you’re exploiting the poor man. He comes and leaves without so much as uttering a word of himself, making him remain more or less a stranger to you. Your efforts to learn more about him is met with a curt one-worded answer:

Does your family live close by?

No.

Do you have any siblings?

No.

What’s your last name?

Riley.

Do you have a football team you support?

Man. U.

What do you like about them?

Nothin’.

There is no inclination that he is willing to give himself away anytime soon; this didn’t bother you in the slightest—

Until one late night, a sudden haze of paranoia takes over your senses. Your rhythmic heartbeats run a little faster; your mind is restless with a nonsensical impression that you’re being tricked—but by what? You don't know yourself. 

The laptop emits a glaring blue light in the dead of the night. You bite your nails as you search up his name. Nothing. Typing his name on every social platform you can think of and clicking each profile with the alliterations of his name—zero results. 

Your fingers hover over the keyboards as you hesitate your next search—fearing as if he, himself is in the room with you. After a few moments of stillness, you proceed anyway. Much to your simultaneous relief and defeat, his name doesn’t appear in any offender registries. 

You sigh and rub your hand down your face before closing your laptop; leaving you to sit in the dark and contemplate your ill suburban-like preconceptions on the goodwill of an innocent, yet seemingly, ghost of a man. 

An email notification from your phone distracts you from your moral conundrum, pulling you from your pensive reflection. It was a reminder for your five-week cooking class a friend recommended when you attended her end of year dinner. In the midst of everything the past week has thrown at you, you’ve forgotten all about your long-awaited cooking courses. 

Checking the time and venue for the first class, you make a reminder on your phone in the case another series of unfortunate events occurs. 

Simon is still working away at your car; he tells you all the issues going with your engine and how much time it will take for him to repair. It sounds pretty serious when he talks you through it—but really you’re just grateful he’s even looking at the piece of junk, even while he adamantly refuses for you to take it to the shop, claiming he can do better. 

With your car still out of commission, you’re left with no choice but to rely on public transport.

Giving yourself ample time to take into account delays, you head out to your door in a rush right after you clock off from work. Before you could even step outside the threshold of your home, Simon unexpectedly appears before you; hands curled into a fist by his chest as if he is about to knock on the door. 

“Oh!—Good evening,” you chirp, flashing him a smile. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to come today.” Pulling out your phone, you frown and look over any misread texts you might’ve missed from him.

“I was just ‘round,” he responds in indifference. “Thought I’d drop by, sort your car out.” Simon eyes your handbag and the keys you have clenched in your hand. 

“Where you off to?” 

“I just have this cooking class I signed up for about a month ago,” you say eagerly in the pretense of containing your unease when he looks down at you with his arms crossed. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I have to get going, bus leaves in five and–”

“Didn’t think t’ ask me, then?” 

You look up at him, as if contemplating the words he uttered is sincere or not. “I’d hate to impose and waste your time..”

“Tellin’ me how to spend my time?” His bite of a question reduces you to a flustered mess, copiously denying any negative implications he might have. 

Simon can’t help but scoff and twist his lip at the sight. Honestly, how you get by without him all your life is something he can’t wrap his head around. Luckily for you, your life expectancy just went up now that you’re with him—albeit, he admits, he is still a lesser man—though he promises hell would freeze over before he sees you with a better, deserving man.

“Relax,” he says with a brusque reassurance. “Go on—give us the location.”

It takes you a moment to register his words before you weakly trail after him. You figure asking if he is okay to take you would just be a waste of your breath. So you acquiesce and follow him to his parked truck, let him open the door for you, and pretend that you didn’t feel the graze of his fingertips against your back. 

Once Simon settles into his own and turns the key, he covertly adjusts his blind spot mirror until you come into view. He watches as you fuss with your seatbelt then to your bag, knowing just how anxious he makes you feel.

You’re a good girl and he hates that you know it too. Carrying yourself just a little high but never stooping low enough to condescend. You play nice; give him the time of day—but he knows you would rather send him on his way should you be given the choice. 

That’s why it makes it all so difficult for him—knowing you know your worth to be hanging around a man like him. Simon can’t ask you to bend over so he can fuck you stupid in the backseat of his truck. You’d probably turn your pretty nose up and slap his face like the proper princess you are. 

And worst of all is that he’d take it; he knows he’ll still have the affection to chase. Like a bloodhound tracking blood, sweat, piss—you can go anywhere you like and it’ll never be far enough. For it to be called an exaggeration on his part would be a lie. It is still a viable option reserved for the worst, but you'll probably do something smart and get the police involved. 

Which is why he’s on his best behaviour. So that you could possibly see the vestiges of goodness in him and think him fit to be yours. Simon will never know if he’s the kind to ever settle for marriage; nothing of the sort ever crosses his mind when he thinks beyond the present—always assuming something between a proper burial or a carcass rotting away from an MIA.

And yet with you, he finds himself curious. 

Curious of what it's like to have the whole white picket fence. What's it like for you to call him ‘love.’  What it would be like to have you love him unconditionally; the kinds of arguments you’ll have, and how devastatingly sweet you would be during the make-up sex. Simon will go on further to toy with the idea of a couple of brats crawling around your feet— 

He figures he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. 

Nonetheless, it’s irrefutable. His nihilistic tendencies subsides when he thinks of you. Simon is daring to change the narrative for himself, and he needs your help to achieve it—because in all honesty? Simon has declared a silent proclamation on the day you called him your husband that he will not accept a life where it isn’t realised. 

Soon enough, the building you’ve checked over a dozen times finally appears ahead. Simon pulls into the lot and just as you’re about to thank him, he tells you to wait as he steps out of the vehicle. 

Your hands pause at the buckle as you follow him walking around the hood of the car, blankly staring before it registers to you that he’s to open your side of the door like a gentleman. Keeping a bashful smile, you thank him in quiet—almost embarrassed that he’s gone through the trouble for the kind gesture. You peek from behind to see him follow you into the lobby—but not before pushing the door ahead from beside you. 

A blonde lady with a neatly tied bun warmly greets at the sight of you two walking in. “Are you two here for the cooking session at six?” 

“Oh, just me,” you clarify as she instructs you to sign your attendance form. 

“Apologies, it’s because couples have a special two for one deal.” 

As if you’ve both been stricken with the same thought; Simon’s eyes meets yours when you whip your head up at him. 

“Do you.. ?” The question never fully leaves your lips as he rubs the side of his chin in contemplation. Simon almost has to contain the smug look on his face when she advises the offer. He never truly believed in some kind of divine intervention—but this surely has to be some kind of providence sent from his manifestations. 

“You always sayin’ that I needed to ‘elp out more ‘round the house; weren’t ya, love?”

The lady behind the desk lights up at his inclination to join before fetching a registration form for him to sign. Meanwhile, you look at him with uncertainty—as if you can’t believe he would willingly choose to spend his Friday night learning how to sauté and blanch vegetables and proteins. 

“Are you sure, Simon?” You ask in a whisper. “I can find my way home. You don’t have to accompany me.” 

“Always meant t’ learn anyway.” He regards you nonchalantly. “You was goin’ on about payin’ me back; think of it as this way of doin’ that.” He signs the waiver and she gestures to the double glass doors to the right. 

“You’ll just ‘ave to pretend t’ be my wife again,” Simon murmurs before opening the door for you. “Hope you can stomach it.”

You’re ready to refute him with a flurry of excuses—that you’re humbled by his kindness, and that you’re grateful to have met someone like him; you can leave out the part where his attention and threatening disposition makes you nervous. But in the end, you would never reproach him when he’s shown you nothing but consideration for your poor situation. 

Instead, you hold his hand and squeeze thoughtfully. 

“I’m happy you’re here.” You smile softly, hoping that your sincerity reaches him. 

Simon looks down at your small hand around his; your fingers outstretched around his palm that you’re unable to close. And for the first time in his life he doesn’t have any smart quips in his arsenal, only settling for a subdued hum. He doesn’t actually quite believe your words—not yet at least; but he would settle for this and take what you’re giving him for now. 

You both take your spots at an unoccupied kitchen island. The ingredients are neatly laid out along the left side of the table, and by the looks of it, you’ll be making an elaborate roast for your first lesson. 

Taking out your pen and notebook diligently from your bag, you wait patiently for the culinary mentor to start. Tapping your fingers, you glance around the room and notice Simon is one of the few men here—endearingly sticking out like a sore thumb; looking entirely out of place. 

The people around are starting to notice the six foot something guy with a hardened mien that’s attended the class; suppressed giggles and glances his way are natural—for you yourself would never admit that you actually find his fair lashes against his warm, brown eyes so, so pretty.

He catches you looking and you regret pretending not to, like you justified what you did was wrong. That sudden insecurity you had when his arms were around you creeps back in. You can’t afford to feel something—not when you’re still figuring out what he meant to you: a passing acquaintance? A friend?

..

You refuse to entertain the idea he was anything more than that.

The thing is, you’ve never been the one to start things without intention—loneliness persists in your day to day life but you can’t see yourself settling for the first person to look your way. And with how convenient he slots himself within your schedule, you refuse to be romanced by proximity. Besides he doesn't see the type to want to win your parents over or even the one to want a serious, lifetime connection. 

Thankfully, the mentor, vetted by prestigious culinary experience, finally begins—distracting you from your thoughts. It continues without a hitch, you follow along easily and Simon is surprisingly cooperative; washing his hands and spatchcocking the chicken with such ease that it earned a commendation from the chef herself.  

His sudden popularity among the teachers and your peers has you simmering with a longing,  envious admiration. You catch one of the mentors passing by to comment on your potatoes. You deflate once she dismissively approves without a second glance. 

Simon gives you a condescending look as he washes the carrots. 

“Don’t patronise me,” you state half-heartedly, resuming your mash with a little too much force. 

“Ain’t said nothin’.” He drones smartly in response. 

Simon cuts the tomatoes beside you and you’re reminded again just how overwhelming he is against your whole being. The knife in his hand could easily be passed off as a butterknife with how comically small it is when he uses it. The tattoos peeking from his sleeves—you don’t know why you’ve bothered to notice, but the motifs he has painted on his skin is rather grim.

You know better than to shrink into yourself around sharp objects—and yet, your mind couldn’t help but wander; call it feminine intuition, but you can’t help but feel as if he likes you. 

Truthfully, the idea of it hasn’t left when his lips touched your fingertips.

Could it be absurd to think so? Too self-absorbed? With how nonchalant he presents himself to be, his actions lead you to believe he might be into you. You are highly suspicious of his game; the theory that his benevolence might be a quid pro quo. 

The thought is onerous—what if you’re to refuse him? What would he do then? Whatever it is, you certainly couldn't stop him.

It sits heavy in your mind, the expectation for reciprocity. You feel burdened by his kindness, his attention—as welcome as they may be, they’re unwarranted. Simon doesn’t look like the type to struggle with attention from anyone, so why does he chase what he can’t have? 

Doesn’t he see what kind of person you are by now? A good, every day samaritan who is far too boring to enjoy unlawful adrenalines. Surely he can tell by how tongue-tied you are by his dark humour, or how his antisocial disposition upsets you whenever you try and make a connection—so why does he continue?

Perhaps you’re to send a subliminal, so that he can see that you are a friend to him.

There really is no ego when considering his possible, romantic attachments. In fact, you might even go as far as to say that he can do better. This is not you demeaning yourself in the slightest way, but forecasting the future ahead; you know that it’s not fair to surmise the kind of values he has, but you think you’ve got a pretty good idea. 

The needs you want in a partner, you don’t think Simon can deliver. You don’t doubt he’ll be good to you, but the discrepancies are already too stark to miss. There is a distant vision of you both fighting; you frustrated at him that he’s nothing like the man you made up in your dreams and him aggrieved at the expectations you set for him on top of the constant faults you point out. 

Without his knowledge, you made his choice for him. He's to look elsewhere because he can’t be what you need him to be; he will surely resent you in the process if you ask him to. 

A sigh absentmindedly leaves your lips; the irony of playing house despite the complexities you feel for the man. 

You didn’t know it then, but with your thoughts endlessly preoccupied with dozens of hypotheticals; you unknowingly drop the freshly cut and very wet potatoes into a pot of hot oil instead of water. 

Simon reacts before you do. You gasp at the sight of oil bubbling over, making sharp, crackling noises and spilling over the countertop. His hand closes around your side, critically setting you aside as he reaches for the handle—unconcerned with how the searing oil splashes onto his forearm with a nasty hiss. Simon wrenches the pot away from the stove and drops it promptly into the sink. 

“Are you okay?”

Immediate guilt wrenches into your stomach. You’ve been assassinating his character in your head when he’s placed himself in the frontline of danger for you. 

Shaking your head you retort back, “are you okay?” 

Two of the mentors came by to check in. Luckily, aside from a few drops of oil on the floor, the damage is minimal. Simon brushes you off when you try and point out how he might’ve been burned in the process—he won’t hear you; you sink further into guilt. 

The remainder of the lesson passes with you leaning close to him, fretting over his hand. Again and again you whisper of his wellbeing, the same quiet questions into his ear; each one he dismisses, as though your concern were nothing more than a nuisance. 

You sit in the passenger seat with a warm, manila bag resting on your lap, the savoury smell of roast filling the car. A slight frown tugs at the corner of your lips as you look towards him. His hand is now red, and you are unrest with the lack of consideration he gives it. You suggest stopping by a hospital, a GP, the chemist—anything. 

He ignores you and takes the route directly to your home. You don’t get out of the car unless you see to his burn—this he inclines all too easily. 

Simon is now perched comfortably on your sofa, making himself at home with his head against the backrest and his legs spread apart. 

You sigh as you gather your supplies under your arm. Padding through the hallway, you crouch before you sit on the floor, placing the items onto the low wooden table. Setting aside the teas and biscuits you haphazardly made for him, you gesture for him to hold out his hand—in which he wordlessly obliges. 

It is a nasty sight; bright, red, angry, shiny patches. You wonder as to why he’s so vehement in tolerating the pain instead of treating it straight away. Male ego—you suppose. 

Applying a generous dollop of the burn-aid gel, you soothe the area gently so as to not irritate it further. Unfortunately, the gel only came in travel-sized tubes from the first aid kit—and you’ve squeezed it dry knowing this burn will continue to singe. 

Which is why you’ve brought out your high-end aloe vera gel from your vanity that you use explicitly for your aesthetics. It’s not meant explicitly for a superficial injury such as this, but you are confident it’ll soothe his skin and alleviate the pain. 

“Keep applying this throughout the next few days,” you advise, offering out the sleek, verdant cube with slight gold accents. 

Simon scoffs as he waves away your vetted, topical treatment that eats up your savings, mumbling out an affronted line claiming it’ll heal on its own. Your brows and lips are downturned at his petulant attitude. 

What is it with men and medical attention?

“Why are you being so difficult?” you finally say, exasperated.

“Difficult?” he repeats.  “I’m sittin’ ‘ere like a proper patient, ain’t I?” You have nothing to say back; only a scolding, pleading look. Simon concedes with a roll of his eyes. 

“Alrigh’ fine. Give it ‘ere”

He gives it a look over before raising a light brow and setting it beside him. 

“You’re posh.” Simon comments unwarrantedly. 

“And you ain’t livin’ right.” You quip smartly, slipping into a hint of his cockney accent. Unravelling and cutting a loose fitting gauze, you carefully apply it to his forearm all the while he watches you from above. When you’re satisfied that it’s secure, you begin to pack the supplies back into the kit. 

Simon glances over your work before lazily tossing his arm to the side. 

“What?” he grunts. “You not gonna give it a kiss better?” His tone is dry, but you know it was his poor attempt at a joke.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes despite the slight smile playing on your lips. Your hands suddenly slow before deliberating into a complete stop as you look back in hindsight of the day—no weeks, that had transpired. 

“I’m very sorry, Simon..” You feel so small at the apology; not daring to look at his face lest he gives you a look that sinks you further into shame. 

“Wha’ for?” 

“For everything.” Your eyes widened slightly at the statement. “I think I’m bad luck on you.” 

This he laughs at. “Yeah, maybe.” He thinks it’s funny; but you are sincere. 

“You’re really kind.” You finally have the courage to face him when you say, “Truly; I don’t think I deserve all your help, but you insist anyway—and for that I’m really grateful. I mean it. If there’s a chance for me to repay the favours, you just call and I’ll come running.”

Simon is silent for the longest time, long enough for you to wonder if you’ve said something out of line. You’re about to break the stillness but he beats you to it.

“Wha’ if I told you I wasn’t?” 

Like a stone cast into a sleeping pond. 

“That I’m a selfish man; an angry man; a righ’ pissed geezer. Would you regret lockin’ in your door with me inside then?” You don’t know why Simon is trying to scare you but you call his bluff—not because you don’t believe his words, but out of something akin to survival rather than courage.

“I find that hard to believe.” You shut the kit down with a sharp clip. “And I only regret to have caused you so much trouble.”

He hums at that before adding, “guess you have.”

“You’re supposed to say the opposite.” You admonish playfully, giving him a slight glare. You laugh lightly, deciding the banter is more comfortable than his usual brooding silence—even if his humour isn’t exactly to your liking. 

“Thought honesty’s the best policy.” He shrugs—and you don’t know why you feel just a little hurt by that. 

“Then why do you do it?” the question slips before you even think. 

Simon looks into the distance before responding simply, “Maybe I’ve got too much time on my hands,” He sighs as he stretches lazily. “Comin’ over around yours like I lived ‘ere—that it’s dead sad seein’ you struggle like that, like you ain’t got a clue what you doin’.” His gaze drifts back to consider you once again.

“Or maybe I just like you.” He snags a twisted, cynical smile when he scoffs out, “God knows; wha’ do you think?” 

You don’t know if he’s making fun of you or if he’s genuinely being honest—you don’t like either possibility. 

“I think it’s getting pretty late.” Your reply is soft and ambivalent, avoiding his stare as you get up to excuse yourself. You didn’t exactly lie; it’s well past midnight and where you should be huddled under the covers—you’re tending to a poor man’s wounds for the past hour, entertaining conversations that could be misconstrued as something more.

His words find themselves in your heart. Instead of brushing them off like the dust on your shelf you wipe before placing the box back in their place, you’re immediately confronted by the need to answer. 

You are sure he’s a good man—not the sort you’d usually find yourself wanting—but no reasonable cause for you to turn him down either. And thus, the feeling you have is horrible. You don’t know why this man is insistent on you. While whether his intentions are borne out of pure kindness or to leverage himself in your heart is unclear, you do know you don’t feel anything for him. 

There are certain qualities you imagine yourself with, characters in which he seems to fall short in. Simon is a great man; a better friend, in fact. You’re torn with the chance of losing him altogether—and perhaps what he would do should you refuse him. 

Treading lightly back to the living room, you are surprised to find Simon completely knocked out on your couch. He sleeps upright with the side of his face resting on one side, chest rising with a slow and deep ebb and flow. 

“Simon..” You whisper, hesitant as you approach closer to his being. “You can’t stay here..” 

Looking at the time, you purse your lips and decide that the pity you have for him weighs far too heavy than the boundaries you’ve set up. Quietly gathering a spare fleece blanket, you dim down the lights and drag your heater closer to the couch.