#afterwards

You’d been at his flat for eight days

Eight days, which had not been the plan.

The plan had been one night. Maybe two. Three, if neither of you were feeling sensible.

Then three became five because it rained, and five became eight because Simon had this extremely annoying habit of making his flat feel safer than yours. Quiet. Warm. Uncomplicated. Like you could exist there without performing for anybody.

Which was dangerous.

Because you’d started leaving little pieces of yourself everywhere.

A hair clip on his bathroom counter.

Your ring by the kitchen sink.

Your boots by the door.

A half-empty bottle of shampoo in his shower.

And now you were standing in his bedroom wearing one of his black shirts, staring into your overnight bag like it had betrayed you personally.

“You alright?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

You pulled out a tiny black thong between two fingers and held it up.

“This is my last clean pair.”

His eyes went to the thong.

Then to you.

Then back to the thong.

“That the emergency?”

“Yes, Simon, that’s the emergency.”

He looked unconvinced. “I’ve got a wash.”

“I know.”

“And detergent.”

“I know that too.”

You shoved the thong back into your bag. “I have to go home.”

His expression shifted immediately, though barely. Just a small tightening around his mouth. A flicker in his eyes.

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You can wash them here.”

“No, that’s weird.”

Simon stared at you.

“Weird.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve been sleeping together for months.”

“Still weird.”

“I’ve eaten your ass.”

“Different category.”

“You wore my boxers to bed last night.”

“That was cute.”

“You’re afraid of my detergent?”

“I’m not afraid of your detergent.”

“Sounds like you are.”

You pointed at him. “Do not make this sound irrational.”

“It is irrational.”

“It’s intimate.”

“More intimate than my tongue in your bumhole?”

You blushed but stayed quiet.

He blinked.

“I literally could not give less of a fuck about the ten pence worth of detergent it takes to wash three thongs.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“The point is…” You paused, irritated because the point sounded stupid even in your own head. “It’s domestic.”

Simon’s face changed again.

Still small.

Still barely there.

But you saw it.

Domestic.

That was the word you’d both been orbiting for days. Maybe weeks. Not sex. Not staying over. Not using his shower or eating cereal in his kitchen or falling asleep with your face against his chest.

Domestic.

That was the dangerous thing. The toothbrush in his cup. The socks mixed in with his laundry. The drawer that didn’t exist yet but could. Simon looked down for half a second, then back up at you. “I’m offering to wash your underwear,” he said, quieter now. “Not marry you over the rinse cycle.”

Your chest tightened. “Could’ve fooled me.” His mouth twitched. “You’re dramatic.” “You like it.” “A bit.” You looked away first, zipping the bag with too much force. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” He nodded once. “Alright.” You hated that. You hated how he accepted it too quickly. How he pulled himself back behind that neutral face like he’d never wanted anything in the first place. So you stepped closer and poked him in the chest. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Act like a sad divorced dad at a train station.” His brow lifted. “I’m not.” “You are. In your face.” “No face.” “Like someone just told you Christmas was cancelled.” That got him. Barely. A tiny exhale through his nose. “Christ.” “There he is,” you said softly. Simon looked at you for a long second, then reached down and picked up your bag. Not to unpack it. Just to carry it.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Yes. Tomorrow.” “And bring more of those little—” He glanced toward the bag. “Underpants.” “They’re thongs.” “Right.” “You can say thong, Simon.” “Can.” “But won’t?” “No.” You smacked his arm on the way out. The next time you stayed over, you did not bring enough underwear. That part was on you. A little on purpose. A little not. You told yourself you’d packed in a hurry, that you’d miscounted, that nobody could reasonably expect you to remember basic items while leaving the house. But some traitorous part of your brain had remembered Simon’s face when you’d said laundry was too domestic. And now you were back in his bedroom, dropping your bag beside the bed, when you noticed the matte black shopping bag sitting on top of his dresser. Folded tissue paper. No branding you recognized from the grocery shop.

You stared at it. Then at Simon. He was standing near the wardrobe, calm as anything, wearing a black T-shirt and looking very much like a man who had handled a situation. “What’s that?” “Yours.” “My what?” “Underwear.” You blinked. Then laughed once. “You bought me underwear?” “You ran out.” “Simon.” “What?” “That’s…” You paused. Because it was sweet. It was insane, obviously. But sweet.

He’d noticed. He’d remembered. He’d gone out and bought something so you could stay without having to turn it into a whole vulnerable conversation about detergent and intimacy and whatever domestic cliff edge you kept dancing around. You stepped closer, suspicious but warm. “How did you know my size?” He shrugged. Your eyes narrowed. “No, don’t shrug. How?” “Guessed.” “You guessed?” “Yeah.” “Simon, you cannot just guess women’s underwear sizes.” “Apparently I can.” “You don’t know that yet.” “Looked right.”

You stared at him. He stared back, annoyingly steady. No shame. No explanation. Just that deeply aggravating confidence of his, like he’d glanced at you once and mentally recorded all necessary measurements for future field use. “You’re weirdly good at that.” “At what?” “Knowing things you should not know.” His mouth twitched. “Observant.” “Creepy.” “Useful.” “Concerning.” “Still useful.” You looked back at the bag. Curiosity won. Obviously curiosity won. You opened it. The first piece was black lace. Pretty. Delicate. Expensive-looking. You held it up, pleasantly surprised despite yourself. “Okay,” you said slowly. “These are nice.” Simon’s eyes flicked over them, then to your face. “Told her black.” “Told who black?” “Woman in the shop.” Your head snapped up. “You spoke to someone?” “Had to.” “About my underwear?” “About buying underwear.” “For me?” “Yes.” You pressed a hand to your mouth, half horrified and half delighted. “What exactly did you say?” “Said I needed a few pairs.” “And?” “Your size.” “Which you guessed.” “Correctly.” “Allegedly.” “And I said black. Lace if they had it.” You stared. He was too calm. Far too calm. “Simon Riley, did you walk into a lingerie shop and request black lace underwear for me?” “Yes.” “Just like that?” “Wasn’t shouting it.” You laughed, genuinely now. “I’m obsessed with you.” “Mm.” “You menace.”

“Needed underwear.” “No, you bought lingerie.” His gaze flicked to the bag. Then back to you. “Thought you’d look good in it.” That shut you up for half a second. Not because it shocked you. Because it didn’t. Because of course he’d thought that. Because of course Simon, practical and blunt and quietly possessive in all the ways that made your knees stupid, had looked at black lace in a shop and pictured it on you.

The problem was that your brain liked that. A lot. You cleared your throat and looked back into the bag before he could clock the heat rising in your face. “So you bought these because I needed underwear?” “Yes.” “And because you thought I’d look hot?” “Yes.” No hesitation. No coy little smirk. Just yes. Your stomach did something deeply unhelpful. “Right,” you said. “Problem?” “No.” “Sounds like a problem.” “It’s not a problem. I’m processing.” You pulled out the next pair. More lace. A little strappier. Still fine. Then the next. Mesh. Thinner.

Less practical. Then you reached in again and pulled out something with tiny pearl beads. You froze. Simon’s eyes moved to it. You held it up between you. The room went very quiet. “Simon.” “Yeah.” “What the fuck is this?” He frowned slightly, studying it. “Underwear.” “No.” “No?” “This is not underwear. This is a threat.” His brow furrowed more. You lifted the pearls higher. “This is not something you wear to run errands.” “Didn’t buy them for errands.” You looked at him. He looked back. Your mouth opened. Closed. You reached into the bag again, because apparently you had chosen psychological warfare against yourself. The next pair was crotchless. You stared at it. Then blinked. Then stared harder, as if the missing fabric might reappear out of respect. Simon watched your face. You lifted the garment with two fingers. “Simon.” His eyes dropped to it. This time, something shifted in his expression. Not surprise exactly. More like recalibration. “Oh.”

“Oh?” “Right.” “Right?” He leaned a little closer, inspecting it with the seriousness of a man reviewing faulty equipment.

“That one’s more… direct.” A laugh burst out of you so hard you had to turn away. “Direct?” “What?” “You bought me crotchless panties and your review is ‘direct’?” “Accurate.” “You knew they were sexy underwear.” “Yes.” “But you didn’t know they were this sexy.” He paused. Then gave a small nod. “More or less.” You laughed again, still holding them up. “So what, you thought this was like… elevated date-night underwear?” “Something like that.” “Not tactical access wear?” His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say tactical.” “You thought it.” “Didn’t.” “You absolutely did.” He took a step closer. You did not step back. That was the problem, really. Because you were baffled. Entirely. Profoundly. But not offended. Not even close. The bag was ridiculous. The man had gone out to solve a domestic issue and somehow returned with a curated selection of black lace escalation. It should’ve been absurd. It was absurd. It was also hot. Annoyingly hot. And Simon knew you well enough to sense the difference between your actual discomfort and your theatrical outrage. His eyes stayed on your face. “Too much?” he asked. That softened something in you immediately. Because there it was. Not insecurity. Not embarrassment. Just a check. A real one. You lowered the crotchless pair slightly. “No,” you said. Then, because honesty apparently wanted you dead, you added, “Just… a lot.” He nodded once. “Can put them away.” “You already bought them.” “Doesn’t mean anything.” “It means you walked into a shop and somehow guessed my size perfectly.” “Mm.” “And asked for black lace.” “Mm.” “And came back with a bag of slutty little crimes.” His mouth twitched again. “Nice crimes?” You stared at him. Your grip tightened on the lace.

“I hate how well that line works on me.” Now he did smile. Barely. Infuriating. You shoved the crotchless pair against his chest. “Stop looking proud.” “Not proud.” “You’re extremely proud.” “I got the size right.” “You have no proof.” Simon’s eyes dropped to the lace in your hand. Then back to your face. “Try them on.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, calm as anything.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Accurate.”

“You bought me a drawer full of lingerie and now you’re acting like this was a public service.”

“You needed underwear.”

“I needed underwear. Not a full tactical seduction kit.”

His mouth twitched.

You lifted the crotchless pair between two fingers. “Especially not these.”

Simon looked at them.

Then at you.

“Wear those.”

You should’ve said no faster.

That was the problem.

You didn’t.

You looked at the lace, at the missing piece of it, at the absolute audacity of him standing there like this was a reasonable suggestion.

Then you looked back at him.

“To what, Tesco?”

“Dinner tonight.”

That threw you so completely you forgot about the underwear.

“What?”

“Dinner.”

“As in… out?”

“Yeah.”

You blinked.

The word moved through the room differently than the rest of it had.

Lingerie was easy. Lingerie was ridiculous. Lingerie was a joke you could hide behind, a dare you could pretend you were only considering because he was infuriating and hot and too calm about all of it.

Dinner was not that.

Dinner was shoes on, coat on, sitting across from each other with glasses and menus and candlelight and the awful social implication of being seen together on purpose.

Dinner was what people did when they were trying.

You stared at him. “You’re asking me on a date?”

Simon’s face gave away absolutely nothing.

“Foreplay.”

You laughed, but it came out a little too late. A little too breathless.

“Dinner is foreplay?”

“With you?” His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “Everything is.”

That should’ve helped.

It did not.

It made the whole thing worse, actually, because he’d made it filthy enough to survive, but he hadn’t taken back the date.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to recover. “So this is not a date.”

“It’s dinner.”

“You just said foreplay.”

“It can be both.”

Your stomach did something small and stupid.

“Both,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Dangerous wording.”

“Accurate wording.”

You looked down at the crotchless pair still dangling from your fingers.

That part, annoyingly, was not the problem anymore.

You could wear them. You probably would wear them, because apparently you had no respect for your own peace and because the idea of him knowing about them across a table had already started doing irreparable damage to your nervous system.

But dinner.

Dinner meant something.

Or it could.

And neither of you had been touching that with both hands.

You lifted the underwear slightly. “These I can work with.”

His brow rose.

You pointed at him. “Do not look pleased.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You were internally pleased.”

“Maybe.”

“But a date?”

Simon watched you for a second.

Then his voice came quieter, still blunt, still him.

“Just dinner.”

“That’s worse.”

“How?”

“Because you’re saying it like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

There it was.

Small.

Plain.

Absolutely devastating.

You stopped moving.

Simon held your gaze, not pushing, not softening it into something easier. Just letting it sit there between you.

Then, because apparently mercy was not one of his stronger qualities, he added, “Still want you to wear those.”

You huffed a laugh and looked away, grateful for the escape.

“You are emotionally manipulative.”

“No.”

“You just followed an almost sincere moment with crotchless underwear.”

“Balance.”

“Psychological warfare.”

“Foreplay,” he said again.

You pointed at him with the lace.

“You are on very thin ice.”

“Still coming?”

You looked at him.

At the drawer.

At the lace.

At the man who had somehow made the underwear less frightening than being asked to dinner.

Then you sighed.

“Yes.”

His mouth barely moved.

“But,” you added quickly, “do not get smug.”

“Wouldn’t.”

“You already are.”

“Face did nothing.”

“Your face is a national security concern.”

Simon’s mouth barely moved again.

“Wear them.”

You looked down at the lace still hanging from your fingers.

The underwear, horrifyingly, was not the part making your stomach twist anymore.

That was the thing. That was the problem.

The underwear was ridiculous, yes. Criminal, probably. A garment with suspiciously little respect for public decency. But it was also just the kind of dare you could survive by pretending it was funny.

The date was the bit that had knocked the air sideways.

Dinner.

Outside.

Together.

On purpose.

You glanced back at him. “You’re very focused on the underwear for a man who just asked me on a date.”

“Foreplay,” he said again.

“Yes, I heard you the first time.”

“Then you understand.”

“I understand that you’re unwell.”

“Likely.”

You lifted the crotchless pair slightly, studying them like they might explain themselves if given enough eye contact.“They’re not exactly dinner underwear.”

“They are tonight.”

“That’s not how categories work.”

“Could be.”

“They are barely underwear.”

“Easy access.”

“Simon.”

“Practical.”

“That is not practical. That is deranged.”

“Efficient.”

“You sound like you’re planning a burglary.”

“Might be.”

You pointed at him with the lace. “You’re not slick.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Don’t need to be.”

There was a pause.

A bad pause.

A pause where your own imagination betrayed you completely, sprinted miles ahead, came back with notes, and then had the audacity to blush.

Simon saw it.

Of course he saw it.

His expression barely changed.

But you knew.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Haven’t said anything.”

“You thought loudly.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“What’d I think?”

“You know what you thought.”

His eyes stayed on yours, calm and unbearable.

Then he stepped closer, slow enough that you had every opportunity to move.

You did not move.

His hand settled lightly at your waist. Not pushing. Not grabbing. Just there, warm through the fabric of his shirt you were still wearing.

“You said yes to dinner.”

“I said yes to dinner because you made it weirdly sincere for half a second and I panicked.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“And the underwear?”

You looked down at the lace again.

Then back at him.

The corner of his mouth threatened to move.

“Do not look pleased.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Face did nothing.”

“Your face is smug in spirit.”

His thumb moved once over your waist.

Tiny.

Barely anything.

Enough to make your spine remember it.

“Wear them,” he said, quieter.

You swallowed.

“Why?”

His eyes held yours.

“Because I want to know you’re wearing them.”

Oh.

That was worse.

That was so much worse than the jokes. Worse than easy access. Worse than efficient.

Because he said it plainly. No performance. No smug little grin. Just the truth, rough and simple and unfairly effective.

You looked away first.

“Mental illness.”

“Probably.”

“You need help.”

“Likely.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You shoved the lace against his chest.

“Fine.”

Simon went still.

You pointed at him immediately. “Do not look victorious.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

“Didn’t move.”

“You got quiet. That’s worse.”

His mouth twitched.

You snatched the lingerie back before he could say anything else and turned toward the bathroom.

Simon caught your wrist before you made it two steps.

Not hard.

Not even close.

Just enough to stop you.

You looked down at his hand, then back up at him. “What?”

“You can change here.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

“In here.”

“Simon.”

“What?”

“I’m not putting on crotchless underwear in front of you like this is a fitting room.”

“Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

“That is not the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

His thumb shifted once against your wrist.

Slow.

Patient.

Infuriating.

You hated that he didn’t pull. Didn’t crowd you. Didn’t make it a command.

He just stood there, big and calm and warm-eyed, like he already knew you were thinking about it.

“Come on,” he said, quieter. “Let me see.”

Your stomach flipped so hard it was actually disrespectful.

You looked at him.

Then at the bathroom door.

Then back at him.

“You are so full of yourself.”

“Maybe.”

“You think all you have to do is stand there and ask?”

“No.”

A pause.

His eyes dropped briefly to the lace in your hand.

Then returned to your face.

“But it’s working.”

You scoffed, because murder was illegal and he was unfortunately correct.

“It is not working.”

“No?”

“No.”

His hand loosened around your wrist, giving you an easy out.

You did not take it.

That was the worst part.

Simon noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His mouth barely moved.

“Door’s right there.”

“I know where the door is.”

“Could use it.”

“I know.”

“You’re still here.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Quiet.

Certain.

Waiting.

You exhaled through your nose and held up the lace between you. “You say one stupid thing, I’m leaving.”

“Wouldn’t dare.”

“That was already a lie.”

His mouth twitched.

You rolled your eyes and stepped back toward the bed instead of the bathroom.

Simon’s gaze followed you.

Not rushing.

Not greedy.

Just focused in that way that made your skin feel too aware of itself.

You pointed at him. “Do not look victorious.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You look like you won a war.”

“Small skirmish.”

“Simon.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He did.

Which was worse.

You just sighed, pulling your jeans down.

“Stop staring.”

“Can’t. It’s my favourite view.”

You rolled your eyes and changed quickly, deliberately not giving him a show. Unfortunately, the crotchless panties did that for themselves.

He licked his lips slowly.

“There’s that perfect cunt.”

He said it while pinching your labia together, making you squirm.

“SIMON!”

“What? Got a problem with this?”

His hand cupped you, his middle finger exploring your folds through the slick gathered there.

“See? You act all offended and dignified, but your body has different opinions.”

You bit your bottom lip, finally letting out a soft moan that he usually would’ve taken as a plea to keep going. Instead, he pulled his hand away and smacked your bum.

“Get ready for dinner.”

He got up and started changing his clothes, ignoring the growing bulge in his sweatpants.

You stared at him.

Actually stared.

Because apparently Simon Riley could just do that. Touch you like he’d been put on earth to ruin your nervous system, then pull away and start getting dressed like he hadn’t left you standing there in cursed underwear, breathing wrong.

“You’re evil,” you said.

He pulled a black shirt from the wardrobe. “Yeah.”

You watched him tug the shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly over his shoulders before settling against him. It should not have been that distracting. It was a shirt. A normal black shirt. Buttons. Collar. Adult man clothing.

Unfortunately, it fit him like it had a personal vendetta against you.

He rolled the sleeves to his forearms with the same maddening calm, exposing ink and veins and the thick lines of his wrists, then reached for a pair of dark trousers like this was all very ordinary.

Like you were not still standing there trying to remember how knees worked.

“Oh,” you thought, traitorously.

He cleaned up nicely.

Painfully nicely.

Not polished in a pretty way. Of course not. Simon Riley didn’t do pretty.

Just sharp. Controlled. Broad shoulders under black fabric, belt pulled through loops, watch fastened around his wrist, jaw set like he could walk into a room and make every other man there suddenly remember an appointment elsewhere.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You wanted to bite him about it.

Simon glanced over and caught you looking.

“What?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

His brow lifted.

“Stop staring,” he said.

You scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that annoying?”

“Distracting.”

“Good.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bite. Bastard.

Instead, he reached past you toward the chair by the wardrobe.

Your dress was still there.

Small. Black. Folded over the back like it hadn’t been quietly living in his room since the other night.

Not left behind.

Not on purpose.

Just… not taken home.

Simon picked it up with one hand and held it out.

“Wear this.”

You looked at the dress.

Then at him.

“You have outfit requests now?”

“Suggestion.”

“That was not a suggestion. That was a command in a button-up.”

He shrugged, painfully nonchalant. “Looks good on you.”

Your brain tried very hard not to melt at that.

Failed.

“Makes your tits look like your bra’s overflowing.”

Ah.

There he was.

“What, I’m complimenting you.”

You rolled your eyes.

That was what you hated most about him. His ability to be all sweet for half a second, just long enough to make your stomach do something embarrassing, and then immediately follow it with something crude enough to make you want to throw the nearest object at his head.

Worse, he never even looked like he was trying.

He didn’t leer. Didn’t grin like some idiot who thought he was being clever. He just said things in that flat, calm voice, painfully uninterested in polishing the edges.

Like he wasn’t aware he’d just said something that would live in your head for the next several business days.

Simon held the dress out again. “Put it on.”

“Bossy.”

“Dinner.”

You looked at him.

Then at the dress.

Then back at him.

“Turn around.”

“No.”

“Simon.”

“I like seeing your tits,” he said, entirely too calm. “Don’t make a big deal of it. Just put it on.”

You stared at him for one full second.

Then you snatched the dress from his hand.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to look away. Just stood there in his button-up with his sleeves rolled, composed as anything, like watching you get dressed was the most reasonable thing in the world.

Which, unfortunately, made you feel very unreasonable.

You pulled his shirt over your head and reached for the dress.

“Stop staring.”

“No can do.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to step into the dress quickly, deliberately giving him as little performance as possible.

Simon, apparently, had other ideas.

He reached out and gave your left breast a squeeze.

You froze halfway into the dress.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“I am getting dressed.”

“Helping.”

“You are absolutely not helping.”

His hand lingered, warm and shameless, thumb brushing once like he was testing fabric he already knew he liked.

“You’re delaying me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“At least pretend you’re sorry.”

“No.”

You looked at him over your shoulder, dress bunched at your waist, hair half-messy from pulling his shirt off.

He looked back at you like this was normal.

Like he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes making sure you’d be thinking about him all through dinner.

“You are impossible.”

“Still going?”

You narrowed your eyes.

“Yes.”

His hand dropped away.

Immediately.

Infuriatingly.

“Good.”

You finished pulling the dress into place, smoothing it down with more attitude than necessary.

He grabbed your hand, placing it on his crotch.

“See what you do to me?”

You felt his hard cock twitch beneath his trousers.

Unconsciously, you bit your bottom lip and tightened your hand around his bulge.

“…Fuck…”

“Yeah? You want it?”

You nodded brainlessly.

“You’ll have to wait until after dinner.”

Unfair. Completely unfair. You just wanted to pull his trousers down and suck on those perfectly shaved, heavy balls of his.

He moved your hand away, making you whine before you could swallow it down.

Simon’s mouth barely twitched.

“Thought so.”

You hated him. You hated him deeply. Religiously. With conviction.

Mostly because he was right.

You grabbed your bag, watching him tuck himself under his belt with the same infuriating calm he did everything else.

“Ready?” he asked.

You stared at him.

“At this point? No.”

His mouth twitched.

“Good.”

He grabbed his keys and led you out of his flat.

You thought he’d be a gentleman, at least this once. After the dress. The dinner. The whole “date” thing. So you waited beside the car, chin lifted, expecting him to open the door.

Instead, Simon got into the driver’s side, shut his door, and looked at you through the windscreen.

Then he sighed.

“You getting in or what?”

You stared at him and scoffed.

“Right. What was I thinking?”

Simon frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought you’d be a gentleman.”

“Yeah. Nah.”

You nodded once.

The joke died too quickly.

Something small and tight formed low in your stomach, embarrassment crawling up the back of your neck before you could stop it.

Why am I putting up with this bullshit?

He was never this rude.

Blunt, yes. Dry, always. Occasionally impossible.

But not mean.

Not like this.

You looked at him through the windscreen, suddenly very aware of the dress, the underwear, the whole stupid date you’d let yourself get excited about.

The drive to the restaurant was quiet after that.

Simon kept his left hand on your thigh like nothing had happened.

That annoyed you more than the comment.

More than the door.

More than the way he’d looked at you through the windscreen and made you feel stupid for expecting something gentle from him.

You stared out the window, throat tight, suddenly too aware of everything: the dress, the underwear, the ridiculous date, the fact that you’d let yourself get excited about being asked.

His hand was warm.

You hated that too.

His thumb moved once against your leg.

You didn’t react.

Not even a little.

The movement stopped.

For a while, there was only the low hum of the engine, the passing lights sliding over the dashboard, the wet shine of the road ahead.

Then Simon glanced at you.

You saw it in the reflection on the window, though you pretended not to.

His eyes moved from your face to your hands, folded tightly in your lap. Then to the set of your jaw. Then back to the road.

Something shifted in him.

His fingers loosened on your thigh.

A second later, he moved his hand back to the steering wheel.

You didn’t look at him.

Good.

Let him sit with it.

Simon cleared his throat once.

You still didn’t look.

The car slowed at a red light.

He stopped fully, both hands on the wheel now, staring ahead.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

His voice was lower than before.

You blinked at the window.

“Mean what?”

You knew.

He knew you knew.

You looked down at your lap.

“Okay.”

The word was small. Too small. Annoyingly small.

Simon’s jaw shifted.

“That was shit.”

You finally turned your head a little. “Yeah.”

He took that without flinching.

The light turned green.

He drove on.

For a moment, you thought that would be it.

Simon and his one-line emotional triage. Say the thing, move on, pretend the wound was closed because he’d named it.

But then he spoke again.

“I was winding you up.”

“You tend to do that.”

“Yeah.” His jaw shifted. “Sorry.”

You looked at him.

For a second, you didn’t know what to do with that.

“Thanks.”

His brow pulled slightly. “For?”

“Apologizing.” You shrugged, looking back toward the window. “That’s very decent of you.”

Simon huffed once.

Not quite a laugh.

“Decent?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“You absolutely were.”

He glanced at you, then back at the road.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably.”

That almost got you to smile.

The silence after that was different.

Still tense, but not sharp anymore. Not that horrible brittle kind where every breath felt too loud. Simon kept both hands on the wheel now, like he was making a point of not assuming he could touch you just because he’d apologized.

Which was irritating.

Because now you noticed the absence of his hand.

You looked out the window, watching the streetlights drag gold across the glass.

By the time he pulled up outside the restaurant, the knot in your stomach had softened into something less humiliating. Still tender. Still there. But manageable.

Simon parked, killed the engine, and got out before you could even reach for your door.

This time, he walked around.

Opened it.

Stood there with one hand on the top of the door and the other held out toward you.

You looked at his hand.

Then at him.

“Oh, wow.”

“Don’t.”

“Chivalry lives.”

“Get out.”

“You’re glowing with personal growth.”

“Out.”

You took his hand, letting him help you from the car.

He didn’t let go right away.

That was the problem with Simon. He could be blunt and foul and painfully nonchalant, then turn around and do something small with such quiet certainty that it knocked you sideways.

His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

“Alright?” he asked.

You looked up at him.

“Yeah.”

His eyes searched yours for half a second longer.

Then he nodded.

“Good.”

The restaurant was nicer than you expected.

Nothing flashy, just low lights, dark wood, small tables, warm lamps, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer without being told to.

The host led you toward a booth near the back, tucked half out of sight by a wall of dark green tile and a row of small hanging plants.

You slid in first, expecting Simon to take the seat across from you.

He didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He sat beside you.

Close.

Close enough that his thigh warmed yours immediately.

You looked at him.

He picked up the menu.

“What?”

“You’re sitting next to me?”

“Aye.”

“There is a whole other side.”

“Noticed.”

Which was irritating.

Because now you noticed the absence of his hand.

You looked out the window, watching the streetlights drag gold across the glass.

By the time he pulled up outside the restaurant, the knot in your stomach had softened into something less humiliating. Still tender. Still there. But manageable.

Simon parked, killed the engine, and got out before you could even reach for your door.

This time, he walked around.

Opened it.

Stood there with one hand on the top of the door and the other held out toward you.

You looked at his hand.

Then at him.

“Oh, wow.”

“Don’t.”

“Chivalry lives.”

“Get out.”

“You’re glowing with personal growth.”

“Out.”

You took his hand, letting him help you from the car.

He didn’t let go right away.

That was the problem with Simon. He could be blunt and foul and painfully nonchalant, then turn around and do something small with such quiet certainty that it knocked you sideways.

His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.

“Alright?” he asked.

You looked up at him.

“Yeah.”

His eyes searched yours for half a second longer.

Then he nodded.

“Good.”

The restaurant was nicer than you expected.

Nothing flashy, just low lights, dark wood, small tables, warm lamps, the kind of place where everyone spoke a little softer without being told to.

The host led you toward a booth near the back, tucked half out of sight by a wall of dark green tile and a row of small hanging plants.

You slid in first, expecting Simon to take the seat across from you.

He didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He sat beside you.

Close.

Close enough that his thigh warmed yours immediately.

You looked at him.

He picked up the menu.

“What?”

“You’re sitting next to me?”

“Aye.”

“There is a whole other side.”

“Noticed.”

“And yet.”

He glanced at you over the menu. “Problem?”

You should’ve said yes.

You did not say yes.

Instead, you looked down at your own menu, very aware of his knee against yours.

“No.”

His mouth barely moved.

“Good.”

The dinner started nice.

Annoyingly nice.

Simon was charming.

He had this quiet, controlled kind of charm that was almost dangerous.

He ordered water for the table without making a production of it. Asked what wine you wanted and actually listened when you answered. When the waiter came back, Simon repeated your choice correctly, pronounced the name without stumbling, and gave one small nod like he’d done this a hundred times.

Classy bastard.

You looked at him over the menu. “You’re showing off.”

He didn’t look up. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Working?”

Unfortunately, yes.

“Barely.”

His mouth twitched.

From the outside, he looked perfect. Attentive. Composed. Jacket sitting sharp across his shoulders, voice low and even every time he spoke to the waiter. A man taking you to dinner properly. A man who knew how to behave.

He held the menu in one hand, eyes lowered like he was actually reading it.

And then his other hand found your knee under the table.

“Later.”

You hated that your first instinct was to laugh.

You hated even more that you couldn’t.

Not safely.

Not with the waiter still close enough to ask about specials, not with your wine glass untouched in front of you, not with Simon sitting beside you looking like the most composed man in the room while his hand stayed exactly where it should not have been.

Shamelessly, he slid his index and middle fingers into you, pumping slowly, a quiet groan catching in his throat as he felt you gush around him.

“Someone’s excited.”

You glared at him, holding your breath, trying not to make a sound that would give you away.

The waiter’s voice snapped you out of it. “Ready to order?”

Simon’s hand stilled instantly.

You inhaled too sharply, then covered it by reaching for your wine.

“Yes,” Simon said, calm as anything. “We’ll start with the baked smashed potatoes.”

You turned your head slowly.

His eyes stayed on the waiter.

“For her main, the pan-seared salmon,” he continued, voice low and even, like he wasn’t actively ruining your ability to sit still. “With the lemon butter, crispy capers, and whatever greens come with it.”

The waiter glanced at you for confirmation.

You forced a smile.

“That’s right.”

Your voice sounded almost normal.

A miracle, honestly.

“And for you, sir?”

Simon ordered his own meal without hesitation, asked one polite question about the sauce, and thanked the waiter when he took the menus.

Classy bastard.

Absolute criminal.

“Why did you order for me?”

“You seemed… occupied.”

He caught the annoyed little look you gave him and barely reacted.

“Did I get your order wrong?”

“No.” You looked away first. “Shut up. Just keep going.”

“Fair enough.”

He kept pumping his fingers in and out of you, curling them like he knew exactly what he was looking for, dragging over that soft, sensitive spot until your grip tightened around the edge of the booth.

You felt a moan trying to crawl up your throat and reached blindly for the bread basket, shoving a piece into your mouth like that had been your plan all along.

Simon’s mouth barely moved.

“Hungry?”

You glared at him while chewing.

“Starving,” you muttered.

His fingers curled again.

You nearly choked.

Simon’s hand stilled.

Not because of you.

Because both of you saw the waiter approaching at the same time, plates balanced neatly in his hands, expression politely blank as he made his way toward the booth.

Simon withdrew his hand beneath the tablecloth with maddening calm.

No rush.

No panic.

Just that same composed control, like he hadn’t spent the last several minutes committing crimes under white linen.

You stared straight ahead, face hot, one hand still wrapped around your glass like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

Beside you, Simon shifted slightly.

You caught the movement in the corner of your eye.

The discreet lift of his hand.

The slow press of his fingers to his mouth.

Your entire body went still.

He licked them clean like it was nothing.

Like he was tasting sauce.

Like he was not trying to put you in an early grave in the middle of a perfectly nice restaurant.

The waiter set the plates down.

“Baked smashed potatoes to start.”

“Thank you,” Simon said, voice low and even.

You said nothing.

Couldn’t, actually.

The waiter placed the rest of the food down, said something about lemon butter and crispy capers, and disappeared again.

Simon picked up his fork.

You turned your head slowly.

He looked at you.

“What?”

You stared at him in disbelief.

He cut into his food like a man with no conscience.

“You’re disgusting,” you whispered.

His mouth barely moved.

“You liked it.”

You looked away first.

Because unfortunately, the evidence was becoming a problem.

The booth beneath you felt warm.

Maybe a little damp.

You were not going to think about, acknowledge, or examine in any way until you were safely out of public.

Dinner continued.

Somehow.

You ate. Barely. Enough to pretend you were a person with normal priorities.

Simon, to his credit or detriment, behaved after that.

Mostly.

He spoke to you like nothing had happened. Asked about your week. Made you laugh twice against your will. Listened when you complained. Answered when you asked him things, even the little things, even the questions he could’ve dodged with a grunt.

The way he could sit there beside you, warm and sharp and infuriatingly composed, giving you a real date after thoroughly proving he was capable of making you forget where you were.

The conversation was good.

Annoyingly good.

Comfortable in a way that made your chest ache if you looked at it too directly.

By the time the bill came, you were quieter.

Not upset anymore.

Just wound tight and soft around the edges, caught somewhere between wanting to throttle him and wanting to crawl into his lap.

Simon paid without comment.

You didn’t even pretend to argue.

Outside, the air hit your face cold enough to make you breathe properly for the first time in an hour.

Simon’s hand found the small of your back as he walked you to the car.

This time, he opened your door.

You looked at him.

“Learning.”

“Don’t push it.”

You smiled despite yourself and got in.

By the time you got back to Simon’s flat, the silence between you had changed again.

Thick enough to feel in your teeth.

He unlocked the door and let you walk in first.

You stepped inside, kicked off your boots, and dropped your bag on the nearest chair with more force than necessary.

Simon shut the door behind him.

The click of the lock sounded too loud.

For a second, neither of you moved.

“Dinner was good,” you said, stammering.

“Still hungry.”

“Really? Because I feel like I ate too mu—”

He swallowed the rest of your sentence, mouth crashing into yours, tongue pushing past your lips like he’d been waiting all night to stop pretending.

You gave in for one stupid, helpless second.

Then you broke the kiss, breathless.

“Simon.” Your voice came out weaker than intended. “What about no kissing?”

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

“Fuck that stupid rule.”

You stared at him.

No kissing meant no softness.

No kissing meant it was just sex. Just heat. Just bodies. Just the two of you getting exactly what you wanted without having to name any of it afterward.

No kissing meant it could still be nothing.

But Simon had kissed you like he was sick of pretending.

And now he was standing in front of you, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking at your mouth like he wanted to do it again and hated that you’d made him stop long enough to think.

You swallowed.

“So what is it, then?”

His gaze flicked up to yours.

“If it’s not nothing.”

There it was.

Out loud.

Ugly little question.

Dangerous little question.

The kind of question that could ruin a perfectly good arrangement.

Simon didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Before you could say anything else, his hands were on your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like the question weighed more than you did. You barely had time to grab his shoulders before he carried you into the living room and dropped you onto the couch.

Not rough.

Not gentle either.

Just enough to knock the air out of you.

Then he was over you.

One knee between yours, one hand braced beside your head, his mouth finding yours before you could gather the thought you’d been holding. It wasn’t careful this time. Wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t the controlled little crime of dinner, hidden under tablecloth and manners.

This was blunt.

Heavy.

Avoidant as hell.

And unfairly effective.

You should’ve pushed him back and asked again.

You didn’t.

Your hands went to his shirt instead, grabbing at the clean black fabric you’d been staring at all night, pulling him closer until his weight settled over you properly. He kissed you harder when you did, hips pressing down into yours with enough purpose to wipe the question clean out of your head for one stupid second.

Then another.

The couch dipped beneath you. His jacket came off somewhere between your fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and his mouth dragging down your jaw. Your dress rode higher under his hand.

He shifted over you, pressing his growing erection against your thigh, and your hand went straight to his belt.

Or tried to.

The angle was awful. His weight had you pinned to the couch, your wrist twisted awkwardly between your bodies, fingers slipping uselessly over the buckle while he kissed you like he had all night to watch you fail.

You made a frustrated sound into his mouth.

Simon finally reached down, covering your hand with his.

Still no words.

Just his fingers guiding yours to the clasp, slow enough to be cruel, steady enough to make your stomach flip all over again.

“Take them off,” you whispered.

“Not yet.”

He moved lower before you could argue, and suddenly your thighs were around his neck, his tongue delving deep into you like he’d been waiting all night for it.

“Oh…”

That was all you could let out as he moaned and lapped at your juices, soaking his face.

He pulled back to take a breath.

“Fuck, these panties were the best purchase I’ve ever made.”

You smiled, running your fingers over the short blond hair at the crown of his head.

“Don’t stop.”

He followed that instruction, keeping you there until you were shaking, whining at every stroke of his tongue.

If there was one thing this asshole was incredible at, it was making you jizz and squirt all over his perfect face.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he said between breaths, looking up at you with those big brown eyes. You tugged at his hair, pulling him up before he could lower his mouth again.

Simon came willingly, crawling back over you with his shirt open and his mouth still wet, one hand braced beside your head while the other found your thigh.

Your dress was still bunched uselessly around your waist.

He looked down at it for half a second, then tugged it upward.

“Off,” he muttered.

You lifted your hips just enough to help him, and he dragged it up your body with none of the patience he’d had at dinner. The fabric caught briefly at your shoulders before he pulled it free and tossed it somewhere behind him.

Then his mouth was on yours again.

Hard.

Messy.

You tasted yourself on him — salt, heat, something faintly metallic and sweet — and it made your fingers tighten in his open shirt.

Simon made a low sound against your mouth, his hand moving to your chest like he was trying to decide which breast to give attention to first.

“They’re both so fucking nice.”

You answered with nothing but a soft moan.

You reached between you for his trousers.

The belt was already open, but the button fought you this time, your fingers clumsy from the rush of it, slipping once before you finally got it free.

Simon kissed you through it.

No words.

No room for them.

Just his weight over you, his shirt hanging open, your dress gone, his hand on you, and your fingers finally working his trousers loose.

The second his cock sprang free, he entered you with a deep, punishing thrust that made your eyes roll back.

You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, however unrealistic that might sound.

Each time he pounded into you, he removed one item of clothing he was still wearing, until there was nothing but skin against skin.

He kept going until you were a sobbing, panting mess.

“Simon!” you screamed as you reached the edge.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t gloat. He just quickened the pace, determined to make you spray your sweet juices all over his living room.

He felt you come apart beneath him.

That was what did it.

Not the noise. Not the way your nails dug into his back. Not even the mess of it, though his breath caught hard when he realized exactly what he’d done to you.

It was the way you clung to him afterward.

Like you still wanted him closer.

Simon’s control faltered.

For the first time all night, the careful, composed thing he’d been wearing cracked completely. His pace turned rougher, less precise, his breath coming hard against your neck as his hand tightened at your hip.

You felt it happen. The shift. The loss of restraint.

Your fingers slid into the short hair at the back of his head, holding him there.

“Simon,” you breathed again, softer this time.

His whole body tensed over yours, warmth spilling deep inside you.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The flat was quiet except for both of you trying to breathe.

Simon stayed over you, heavy and warm, his face pressed into your neck like he wasn’t ready to look at you yet.

Which was fine.

You weren’t sure you were ready to look at him either.

Because the question was still there.

You finally caught your breath.

“…So.” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Nothing?”

Simon went still.

Not much.

Just enough for you to feel it.

His breathing changed against your neck, and for one stupid second, you thought he might answer. Actually answer.

Then he pulled out.

The absence of him made you shiver.

He sat back on his heels, looking down at you, shirt open, chest flushed, mouth still swollen from kissing you. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the mess of you beneath him, completely wrecked across his couch.

For half a second, he looked proud.

Then your question caught up with him.

The little curve of his mouth faded.

His jaw shifted.

You watched him close up in real time.

“Simon.”

He got up.

He pulled his trousers back into place, fastened his belt, and ran one hand over the short hair at the back of his head.

Then he walked toward the kitchen.

“Tea?”

You stared at the ceiling.

A laugh almost came out.

It didn’t.

Of course.

Of course he’d do that.

Leave the question sitting there between the couch cushions and go put the kettle on like he hadn’t just dodged the only part of the night that mattered.

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

In the kitchen, the kettle clicked on.