Awkward simon x reader
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Simon Riley doesn’t ask to walk you home.
He just… does.
The first time, you don’t even notice until you hear boots behind you, steady, familiar. Not close enough to crowd you, not far enough to pretend it’s coincidence. When you glance back, he lifts his chin once in greeting, eyes already scanning the street like it’s habit.
You slow down without thinking. He matches it.
Neither of you says a word.
After that, it keeps happening.
You’ll leave the mess hall with your hands full and somehow he’s already there, taking the heavier box without asking, nodding once like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’ll sit down somewhere quiet and a moment later there’s a mug of tea set within reach, how he knew exactly how you take it, you’re not sure. You don’t remember telling him.
Simon never hovers. Never crowds. He just… fills the empty spaces.
When something breaks, he fixes it before you even realize it’s broken. When someone raises their voice at you, Simon doesn’t step in, he just steps closer. It’s enough. It’s always enough.
You start to expect him.
Not in an entitled way. In a way that feels like muscle memory.
Sometimes you talk. Mostly you don’t. He listens like every word is being carefully stored away, filed somewhere safe behind those quiet eyes. When you trail off, unsure, he waits. Never rushes you. Never finishes your sentences.
If you look cold, his jacket is suddenly around your shoulders. He doesn’t make a show of it, just drapes it there and looks away like he’s embarrassed by his own kindness.
At night, you’ll find him outside your door under the excuse of “checking the locks.” He doesn’t come in. Doesn’t linger. Just makes sure you’re safe before disappearing back into the dark.
And then one day, someone asks, half-joking, half-curious
“So… you and Riley?”
You open your mouth to deny it.
But Simon is already there, standing close enough that your arms brush. Close enough that his presence feels like a constant, solid thing at your back. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t look at them.
He just says, quietly,
“Yeah.”
It’s not a confession.
It’s not a declaration.
It’s a fact.
And when you reach for his hand later, no words, just fingers brushing, he hesitates for half a second before curling his hand around yours like he’s been waiting for permission all along.
Neither of you ever say I love you.
You don’t need to.
It’s in the way he follows you.
In the way he helps without being asked.
In the way you both move through the world already certain you’re not alone anymore.
