#bt extra

Your gaze sweeps over the familiar surroundings, the polished glass counters gleaming under the golden afternoon light streaming in through the wide storefront window. Behind the counter stands Simon, his figure both unassuming and magnetic. He’s wearing his usual dark apron, the fabric smeared with streaks of blood and marinade, his sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the edges of tattoos that peek out like secrets.

The sight of him brings a smile to your lips. It always does.

“Hey there! The usual?” Simon asks as you approach the counter. His voice is deep, smooth, and unhurried, carrying a warmth that seems to settle the frayed edges of your mind. His eyes catch yours, and the corners of his lips lift in a shy smile that hints at a deeper, quieter affection he seems almost afraid to show.

“Yeah, the usual,” you reply, trying to keep your voice casual. But the flutter in your stomach betrays you, as it does every time.

Simon moves with practiced ease, pulling the knife from his station and making clean, precise cuts into the slab of meat on the cutting board. It’s mesmerizing to watch him work. Each movement is a dance of skill and confidence, his hands steady and deliberate. Those hands—they tell a story. The scars scattered across his knuckles and fingers speak of mistakes learned from, the faded tattoos of a life lived in vibrant bursts, the slight tremor in his right wrist of long hours and hard-earned experience.

He glances up at you as he wraps your order, his expression soft and attentive. "Anything else today?" he asks, the question lingering like an invitation.

You shake your head, trying not to linger too long on the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only person in the world. “No, this is great. Thanks, Simon.”

He hands you the package, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—a fleeting touch that leaves your pulse racing. You catch the way his gaze lingers, like he’s searching for something, but before either of you can speak again, the bell rings, and another customer walks in.

As you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder. He’s still watching you, his shy smile now tinged with a quiet longing that makes your chest tighten.

Simon’s days are long, filled with the constant rhythm of knives slicing through flesh and bone, the hum of the cooler, the occasional clatter of metal trays. He loves his work, but it’s repetitive, a steady drumbeat in a life that once felt more unpredictable.

And then you walked in.

He remembers the first time he saw you, how your laughter bubbled over as you joked with him about the weather. You were bright, a spark in the monotony, and though he’d stumbled over his words that day, he’s gotten better at hiding how flustered you make him feel. Each time you visit, he finds himself lingering over your conversations, replaying the way you say his name or how your eyes light up when he teases you with a dry joke.

But Simon’s never been one to take risks when it comes to his heart. He’s spent years guarding it, locking away his past—the late nights in dive bars, the fights that left his hands bloodied and his spirit bruised. He’s a man remade, quieter now, content to find peace in his craft and the simple pleasures of routine.

And yet, here you are, stirring something in him that feels like both a risk and a refuge.

You leave the shop with your neatly wrapped package in hand, but your thoughts are still with Simon. There’s something about him—the way he’s steady but not stagnant, reserved but not cold—that pulls you back, week after week.

Over the months, you’ve pieced together fragments of his story. The tattoos on his forearms, faded and slightly smudged, hint at a wilder youth. The small scar on his cheek, which he once told you was from an accident in his first week as a butcher. The way he talks about his grandmother’s recipes, his voice softening with nostalgia, makes you wonder what kind of family shaped him into the man he is now.

And then there’s the way he looks at you. It’s a look that makes you feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying, as though he’s peeling back the layers of who you are and seeing the raw, vulnerable core.

You wish you had the courage to let him in. But courage is hard to muster when your life is split between the warmth of moments like these and the icy grip of what waits for you at home.

As you climb into your car and start the engine, you glance back toward the shop. Through the window, you see Simon helping another customer, his hands moving with the same practiced precision. For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine what it would be like to linger in that warmth a little longer, to let him know the parts of you that you’ve kept hidden.

But for now, the thought is enough.

You’d meant to grab your coffee and go — boots already on, bag by the door, radio murmuring some slow indie tune in the background. The sun was barely up, stretching long shadows across the kitchen floor, catching on steam from your mug. Just a quick sip before the drive.

Simon, still in his joggers and a threadbare t-shirt, wandered in like he owned the morning. Hair a mess, socks mismatched, and sleep still in his eyes — but his grin?

Sharp. Knowing.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice rough with sleep and smoke from the coffee he hadn’t touched yet.

“So are you,” you shot back, not meeting his eyes as you sipped. Too dangerous. Too familiar. You could feel him closing the distance without even looking.

And then his arms slipped around your waist from behind, dragging you back into the warmth of him. His mouth brushed your neck, stubble scraping just enough to pull a gasp from your lips.

“Y’look too good to let go,” he murmured, accent thick, hands already sliding up under your shirt. “How’m I supposed to let you walk out the door dressed like that?”

“Simon,” you warned, breath catching as his palms flattened against your stomach.

“What?” he said, teasing. “Just touchin’, aren’t I?”

You turned around — half-expecting to shove him playfully away. But your hands met his chest instead, warm and solid beneath the fabric. And then his lips were on yours.

Hungry.

Messy.

His tongue swept past yours like he already knew you wouldn’t say no. You barely had time to think before you were pressed against the counter, your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt, his body heavy against yours.

“Christ,” he mumbled between kisses, voice muffled against your jaw. “You kiss me like this and expect me to behave?”

“You started it,” you breathed.

“You touched me first,” he said, grinding his hips forward just enough for you to feel the heat building beneath those sweatpants.

Your hand moved without thought — dragging down, palming him through the soft cotton. Just once. Just curious. But even that was enough to make him groan into your mouth, lips curling into a grin against yours.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered, voice low and smug. “That the way you say goodbye now?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, flushed.

Simon leaned in again, hands cupping your ass, lifting you just enough to sit you on the counter edge. “Nah, love. You don’t get to tease me and then run off to work all sweet-faced like nothin’ happened.”

You let your fingers drift down again — slower this time, testing. The groan he gave was practically feral.

“You gonna stop me?” you asked, breathless, eyes on his.

He kissed you once more — harder this time — then pulled back just enough to speak.

“Not stoppin’ you, darlin’. Just lettin’ you know: you’ve got ten minutes ‘til you’re late... and I’m countin’ every bloody second.”

Then he leaned in close, voice low, breath hot at your ear — that accent dark and full of heat.

It was just a notebook. Old, leather-bound, kept tucked away in your rucksack.

But apparently, someone found it.

The first hint came when you walked past the break room and heard laughter — the loud, wheezing kind. A voice imitated your handwriting, reading exaggerated lines from one of your stories in a mock-dramatic tone:

“Oh, and Simon’s mask looked like a shadow, guarding me from the world—”

More laughter. You froze.

“Mate, this is gold,” another voice said. “They actually write this down? What a freak.”

You stepped in, expression carefully neutral, and reached past the small group to grab your journal off the table. The ringleader — a private named Collins — was grinning like he’d just won the lottery. His friends smirked.

“Good stuff, mate,” Collins said, leaning back in his chair. “Bit personal though, innit? You should publish it. Make us all laugh.”

You met his eyes and said evenly, “Thanks for your… feedback.” You turned and left without letting him see your hands shake.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even tell anyone. If they saw you unfazed, they wouldn’t win. Still, that night the words echoed, warping into something uglier each time they replayed.

The next day, however, someone else noticed.

Soap was the first to pick up on it. He’d been joking around with you in the hall when you smiled a little too mechanically. “What’s wrong, bonnie? That smile’s faker than Gaz’s hairline.”

Gaz, walking beside you, scoffed. “Oi.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

“You’re not,” Soap pressed, frowning now. “What happened?”

You shook your head. “It’s nothing worth talking about.”

But later, when you were out on the range, Ghost wandered over. He didn’t say much — didn’t have to. “Price wants to see you,” was all he said before walking with you back to the briefing room.

Price was there, arms crossed, the air heavy with an unspoken seriousness. Gaz leaned against the wall. Soap sat forward in his chair. Ghost stood in the corner, unreadable.

Price’s eyes met yours. “Collins.”

You stiffened. “What about him?”

“We know what he did,” Gaz said.

You opened your mouth, but Price cut you off. “You should’ve told us.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you muttered, even though your throat tightened.

Ghost’s voice was low, dangerous. “It was. And we’re handling it.”

You frowned. “You’re not going to—”

“We are,” Soap interrupted. “You don’t get to decide on this one, lass. Not after he decided to drag your name through the mud for sport.”

Price’s gaze was firm. “You’re part of this team. No one humiliates one of ours and walks away smiling.”

That night, Collins and his friends were having a little get-together in the rec room. Music blared from someone’s speaker, cheap beer cans littered the table, and the same journal — your journal — sat right in the center like a trophy.

They didn’t notice the door open until Ghost stepped in.

The music stopped with a sharp click.

“Evenin’,” Ghost said, voice calm but heavy enough to silence the whole room. “Mind if we join?”

Behind him came Soap, Gaz, and Price. The air went colder.

Collins swallowed. “Uh… sure, we were just—”

“Reading, were you?” Price’s voice was quiet, but it carried the kind of weight that made even seasoned soldiers sit straighter. “This,” He walked over to the table, picked up your journal, and looked Collins dead in the eye. “belongs to one of my people.”

“Just having a laugh,” Collins said weakly. “No harm meant.”

“No harm meant?” Gaz repeated, stepping closer. “You went through their private things. Made them the punchline to your little comedy show.”

Soap leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. “Do you know what they write here? No, you don’t. And you wouldn’t understand even if you did — because it’s theirs. Not yours. Not your mates’. And definitely not for your cheap amusement.”

Collins opened his mouth, but Ghost’s slow step forward shut him right back up. “You think humiliating someone makes you clever?” His tone was flat, lethal. “You don’t even understand the kind of people you’re playing with.”

Price set the journal down deliberately. “You owe them an apology. Not a lazy one. Not because you’ve been told to — but because you understand exactly what you’ve done.”

Gaz tilted his head. “And if you don’t… we’ll make sure you do.”

They didn’t hurt him. Not physically. But the way 141 dismantled Collins and his friends’ smugness was surgical. Every word dripped with precision, peeling away their bravado layer by layer until they sat pale and silent.

Collins finally stammered out a shaky, “I’m sorry.”

Price didn’t blink. “You will be if it happens again.” He picked up the journal and turned to leave. “Party’s over.”

When they handed the journal back to you later, it felt heavier somehow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“We did,” Gaz replied. “You’re family.”

Soap grinned faintly. “Besides, you should’ve seen their faces. Priceless.”

Ghost’s eyes met yours briefly. “They won’t try it again.”

Price’s voice was quieter now, but it held the same steel as before. “Don’t ever think you have to deal with that alone. Not while you’ve got us.”

You swallowed hard, tucking the journal close to your chest. “Thank you.”

For the first time since that break room, you felt the tension in your chest ease. They’d made sure of it — not just by confronting Collins, but by reminding you of something you’d almost forgotten:

Don’t let him see. Don’t let him know. He’ll look at you and regret every second he’s been with you. He’ll see you for what you are.

The silence pressed in. The shower was off, but you stayed frozen in place, shrinking down, your damp body sinking onto the cold tile floor. You curled into yourself, arms tight around your knees, towel clutched like a shield.

“Love?” Simon’s voice came through the door, deep and steady, tinged with concern. “You’ve been quiet. You alright in there?”

“Yes,” you forced out, too quickly. The lie tasted bitter as the single syllable left your mouth.

The floor creaked outside. You heard the weight of him move closer. Two knocks—firm, certain. “I’m coming in.”

The handle turned, and cool air rushed in as the door opened. You shrank further against the floor, wishing you could disappear.

Simon stepped inside, bare-faced. No mask, no Ghost—just Simon. Damp strands of blond hair curled faintly at the ends, the last traces of his own earlier shower still clinging to him. The sharpness of his face softened at once when his eyes landed on you—small, shivering on the cold tile, wrapped in a towel too big and too thin to hide your fragility.

“What happened?” His voice was low but clipped, edged with urgency as he crouched down to you, broad frame folding easily. His hand hovered, scanning for injuries. “Did you fall? Hit your head? Tell me where it hurts.”

“Nothing,” you whispered, your voice brittle.

His jaw tightened. He wasn’t buying it. He never did.

The words spilled anyway, heavy with shame. “I just… I don’t understand why you’re with me. My body—it’s ruined. Stretched. Ugly. I look like Frankenstein stitched me together. You could have someone perfect, and instead you’re stuck with me.”

Simon froze. His expression shifted, softening in a way that undid you more than his urgency ever could. Slowly, he reached out and took your trembling hand in his, his warmth anchoring you against the chill of the tiles.

Then he lifted his other hand, turning his palm up. The light caught the scars carved into his knuckles, his wrist, ridges etched deep by years of survival. “You think those marks make you ugly?” His voice was quiet, roughened by disbelief. “Then what about these? What about the ones all over me?”

Your head shot up. “No! Never.” The words tumbled out fast, desperate. “They’re not ugly. I love them. I love tracing them, remembering every part of you. They mean you survived. They’re beautiful.”

His mouth twitched—something caught between a sigh and the faintest smile. “And you don’t think yours mean something too?”

Your breath hitched.

Simon leaned closer, lowering until his forehead brushed yours. His eyes, unguarded without the mask, held you steady. “My scars came from pain. Violence. Things I’d give anything to erase. Yours? They’re proof you’ve lived. That you’ve grown. That you’ve been safe enough to change. Strong enough to keep going.”

The towel slipped from your shoulder, and his fingers caught the edge. He tugged it aside gently, just enough to expose the pale lines curving over your side. His thumb traced one with a reverence that made your chest ache.

“These,” he murmured, “are no different than mine. You gave my scars the kindness and love I didn’t think I deserved. Let me do the same for you.”

Tears blurred your vision, hot against your cheeks. He looked at you like you weren’t broken at all. Like every jagged line was a story he wanted to memorize by heart.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear as he whispered, “You’re not ruined. You’re beautiful. Always have been.”

Simon’s hand lingered against your cheek, warm and grounding against the damp chill of your skin. You leaned into it without meaning to, your tears softening beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His forehead rested against yours, the steady rhythm of his breath tethering you to the moment.

“Come on,” he said quietly after a long beat, his voice gentler now, stripped of the soldier’s edge. “Floor’s freezing. You’ll catch a cold.”

You shook your head at first, clutching the towel tighter, the thought of standing making your stomach twist. But Simon didn’t push, didn’t chide. He simply shifted closer, his arm sliding beneath your knees, the other bracing behind your back.

“Up you come.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was softness threaded through it—like lifting you was the easiest choice he’d ever made.

You gasped as he scooped you off the tiles, the cold replaced by the firm, steady press of his body against yours. The towel loosened slightly, but his hold only grew more protective, careful not to let you feel exposed. His bare face was inches from yours, his jaw brushing your temple as he carried you out of the bathroom and into the dim glow of the bedroom.

The room smelled faintly of him—warm spice, soap, clean cotton. He set you down gently on the edge of the bed, as though you were fragile porcelain, though you knew his arms could hold you through fire if he had to.

“Stay,” he murmured, stepping to the dresser. He pulled out one of his shirts, black and worn-soft with use, and knelt in front of you again, holding it out like an offering. “Put this on. It’ll be warmer.”

You hesitated, clutching the towel. “Simon—”

“Love.” His eyes caught yours, steady, unyielding. He didn’t look at your marks, didn’t flinch at your hesitation. He just held the shirt there, his voice firm but patient. “Trust me.”

Your throat tightened. Slowly, you let him guide the towel away. He averted his gaze just enough to give you dignity, though his presence never wavered, and when you slipped the shirt over your head, the fabric swallowed you whole in his scent, soft and comforting.

“Better,” he said simply, smoothing the collar where it had bunched against your shoulder. His hand lingered, fingers brushing the curve of your neck, before he sat beside you on the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, solid and grounding. Without a word, he reached for you, tugging you gently until you were tucked against his side, your cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest. His arm wrapped around you, firm and unshakable, his thumb drawing slow circles along your upper arm.

For a long while, silence filled the room—the kind that wasn’t empty, but safe.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asked eventually, his voice low, rumbling through his chest beneath your ear.

You shook your head, unable to answer.

“I see the person who’s given me more peace than I ever thought I’d have. The one who touches my scars without fear. Who doesn’t flinch at the worst of me.” His hand tightened slightly around you, protective. “And I’ll be damned if I let you think I’d ever see you as anything but beautiful.”

The tears welled again, but softer this time, less sharp, more like a release. You buried your face against him, letting the fabric of his shirt soak them instead of your palms.

Simon didn’t move to stop them. He only pressed a kiss to the crown of your damp hair, lingering there, his lips warm and sure. “Sleep, love,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You wished you could reach across that gap, bridge the distance to ease the burdens his past had placed on him. But tonight, lost in the fever’s haze, you were the one who needed strength. The chill in your bones clawed deeper, wrapping around your spine as the fever rose, each pulse of heat making you shiver. Simon had been by your side all day, checking your temperature, trying to mask his worry, but you could see it in his eyes each time the numbers climbed. He was a soldier in a battle against the sickness that gripped you.

The warmth of a shower called to you, promising relief, a balm for your aching body. You’d promised Simon to take it easy, not to push yourself, but as the hot water poured over you, easing the chill, you felt a moment of reprieve. Your mind drifted, lulled by the comfort, until suddenly, the walls seemed to close in, and the steam grew too thick, too stifling. Dizziness crept in, and the grip on reality slipped away. You staggered out of the shower, clutching at the door frame, the room spinning around you. Weakly, you tried to call out to Simon, but your voice barely whispered his name before the darkness began to pull you under.

Downstairs, Simon’s thoughts had drifted, but the sound of your fall shattered his focus. His instincts took over, and he raced up the stairs, fear gripping his heart like a vice. When he found you, half-conscious and feverish, the worry that he’d tried to keep at bay flooded back in. Gently, he lifted you, his voice breaking through the fog as he urged you to stay with him, desperation clear in every word.

Each movement felt heavy, each breath a struggle, but you were vaguely aware of his touch, guiding you back to safety. Simon’s hands trembled slightly as he tried to lift you, but you were limp, your head rolling back against his shoulder.  Despite the fear that threatened to boil over, he moved with a precision born of years spent in the line of fire, but there was a softness too—a fear of losing something he couldn’t bear to face. Without hesitation, he filled the still warm bathtub with cold water, the shock of the chill cutting through the air, and carefully lowered you in, his hands steadying you, offering reassurance even as he fought back the fear in his throat.

The icy water jolted through your system, muscles tensing as it pulled at the fever, a strange kind of clarity beginning to pierce the fog in your mind. You became aware of Simon’s touch, his hands warm and sure, his presence grounding you in reality. Through the haze, his voice reached you, low and urgent, telling you to hang on, to stay with him. His words were an anchor, pulling you back, tethering you to the world outside the fever.

As the fever began to break, you took in the room, feeling a chill not just from the water, but from the vulnerability hanging in the air. Here was a man who had faced battles of his own, who had endured hardships that had left him scarred, yet he was here, pushing through his own pain to make sure you were okay. You realized, in that moment, just how deeply he cared. The weight of his worry, his love, settled over you like armor.

The night stretched on, and he stayed by your side, offering you sips of water, feeding you bits of crackers, each small gesture a testament to his steadfastness. His eyes never left you, a silent vow that he’d be here, no matter how difficult it became. Even in your weakened state, you’d never felt safer than you did in those hours, each touch, each quiet word building a bridge between you that hadn’t been there before.

As dawn’s light crept over the horizon, casting a warm glow through the window, you looked over at him, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of the fever. "Thank you, Simon. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Your words held a weight, a gratitude deeper than you could express.

A small, relieved smile spread across his face, his voice breaking with a chuckle as he replied, “Just promise me—no more hot showers, alright?”

Laughter bubbled up between you, breaking the tension, and for a moment, everything felt light. In that shared laugh, that quiet moment in the first light of morning, you understood that whatever challenges lay ahead, you’d face them together, one heartbeat at a time, each of you a shelter for the other.

The voice on the other end, fragile and trembling with fear, nearly paralyzes him. "Simon?" 

It's you. And in that one word, in the sheer terror that laces it, Simon’s world tilts, and all the anger and hurt he’s kept buried for so long rises to the surface, hot and violent. 

"What's wrong, love?" His voice is rough, half-awake, but the panic is unmistakable. He struggles to ground himself, to make sense of what he’s hearing. "What happened? What did he do?"

Your voice breaks as you speak, barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to rattle him to his core. "He’s going to kill me this time, I know it."

Simon’s blood runs cold. Every nerve in his body goes taut, and his heart pounds in his chest as the words hang in the air between you both. The rawness of your fear is something he’s never encountered before, and it pierces through him like a dagger. He can hear the crashing of objects in the background, the sounds of a struggle. Then, Tom’s voice—mocking, casual, as if your life is some game to him. 

“Sorry, but they’re a little busy at the moment,” Tom sneers, his words dripping with malice. 

Then, the line goes dead.

The silence that follows is deafening, a hollow emptiness that fills Simon’s chest with a freezing panic. His throat tightens, his stomach churns. In that moment, it’s as if time itself stands still, and Simon’s worst fear becomes a brutal reality. You’re in the hands of a monster. His mind races, each thought sharp, desperate, as the fear of losing you claws its way through him.

His fingers tremble as they dial the police, his voice a mixture of urgency and barely-contained rage as he relays the details. He pleads with them to hurry, to get to your house—now. But the suffocating weight of the night drags everything down, the darkness amplifying the terror of the unknown. There’s nothing he can do until they arrive, but he can’t sit idle. Not when your life is on the line. Not when every instinct in his body screams that he needs to act.

Without hesitation, he slams the phone down and rushes toward the truck. The engine roars to life beneath him, the sound a furious symphony against the quiet of the night. He slams his foot down on the pedal, sending the truck screeching forward. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white, but he doesn’t feel the pain. All he can think of is getting to you, getting to you now.

The road ahead is a blur, the lights from streetlamps slicing through the night like stabs of light in a sea of dark. His mind races with memories of you—your laughter, the way your eyes lit up when you smiled, the warmth of your hand in his. Every moment he’s spent with you flashes before his eyes like a reel of precious memories, and for a split second, he lets that tiny flicker of hope ignite inside him. Maybe, just maybe, he can make it in time. 

But as the miles stretch on, that hope feels like it’s slipping through his fingers. The darkened streets pass in a haze, each second a heartbeat that echoes louder and louder in his ears. His foot presses harder on the gas pedal, his breath coming in shallow bursts. He’s already pushing the truck to its limits, but it doesn’t feel fast enough. There’s no time for caution now. Only the desperate need to reach you.

When Simon finally arrives at your house, the scene is chaotic. Police cars line the street, their flashing lights a disorienting mix of red and blue that slices through the night. Officers swarm around, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of urgent conversations, punctuated by the crackling radio transmissions and the sharp clack of boots on asphalt. The air smells of tension and fear. Simon’s stomach twists, each step he takes toward the house heavier than the last, his body moving on autopilot as his mind tries to process what could have just happened. He pushes through the crowd of officers, each one a physical barrier, until a voice rises above the rest.

“With those injuries, it’s a miracle they still had any blood left in their body.”

Simon’s breath hitches in his throat. A cold, brutal wave of dread crashes over him, freezing him in place. The words echo in his mind, each one a jagged shard that digs deeper and deeper into his chest. He can’t think, can’t breathe—his body is moving on instinct now, his legs carrying him faster as he fights through the crowd, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Where are they? What happened?” he demands, his voice hoarse and desperate, barely recognizing the rawness in it.

The officer he approaches looks at him, and for the first time, Simon sees the weight of the world in someone else's eyes. The fatigue is etched into the lines of the officer’s face—someone who’s seen too much, someone who’s witnessed the worst of what humanity can do. He opens his mouth to answer, but his words land with the kind of heaviness Simon wasn’t prepared for.

“Looks like it was a bad scene. The victim’s been taken to the local hospital. They’ll do everything they can.”

The officer’s words are a blur, but Simon barely hears them. His mind is already miles ahead, racing toward the one place where he might find you—the hospital. Without another word, Simon turns, his breath ragged, his heart beating in overdrive as he sprints back to his truck. Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to move faster, but the agonizing truth sits like a weight on his chest: he’s already too late to prevent whatever horrors have already been inflicted.

The engine of the truck roars to life beneath him, and Simon doesn’t hesitate, his foot pressing firmly against the gas pedal. The truck surges forward, the tires squealing against the pavement as he drives faster than he ever has, weaving through the streets with the sole thought of getting to you.

When he pulls up to the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic and bleach hits him like a slap. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too harsh against the darkness of the night that still clings to him. His hands shake as he pushes the door open, the noise too loud, too intrusive. He feels disconnected from everything, as though he’s walking through a dream—a nightmare he can’t escape. He’s gripped by the overwhelming pull of anxiety, guilt, and helplessness, and his heart is a wild, uncontrollable drumbeat in his chest.

A nurse sees him and gestures for him to follow. Her professionalism is almost a cruel contrast to the mess of emotions churning inside him, but he clings to it, letting it guide him through the sterile corridors. She leads him to the ICU, where the air is thick with sorrow. And then, there you are.

You lie in the bed, a quiet warrior in a battlefield of bandages. Simon’s stomach twists violently, and for a moment, he can’t breathe. His knees feel weak as he steps closer, the sight of you a punch to the gut. Your skin is marred with bruises and cuts, black and blue hues staining you like a map of countless battles fought in silence. He sees the way your body is wrapped in white gauze, each bandage a whisper of the suffering you’ve endured, each stitch a testament to the hell you’ve lived through. The enormity of it presses down on him, each breath he takes a struggle as if the air itself has been robbed of its warmth.

"Will… will they be okay?" he finally manages, his voice barely a whisper, trembling with the raw emotion he’s been holding back.

The nurse’s face softens, but her answer is cautious, laced with the knowledge of what recovery truly means. "They’re stable for now, but it’s going to be a long road. It’s going to take time."

Simon nods, his heart cracking a little more, the weight of her words settling deep inside him. Time. He wants to scream, to demand that it hurry, but he doesn’t. He just watches, helpless, as you lie there—your life hanging in the balance, the toll of your suffering written across your face.

He pulls a chair up to your bedside, his hands trembling as he reaches out to grasp yours. His fingers wrap around yours gently, but it feels like you’re a thousand miles away. Your hand is cold, too cold, lifeless in his. His throat tightens as tears threaten to spill, but he holds them back. He promised you he would protect you, and here he is—unable to protect you from the man who’s broken you.

“Stay with me, love,” Simon murmurs, his voice cracking with emotion, a raw promise slipping from his lips. “I promise I’ll take care of you. Every day after this, every moment.”

He watches the faint rise and fall of your chest, the steady rhythm of your breathing a bittersweet comfort. The night drifts on, time stretching endlessly as he sits by your side, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts—thoughts of you, thoughts of Tom, thoughts of the life you should have had. He remembers the cruelty he faced at the hands of his own father, how those scars shaped him into the man he is today—a protector. And now, watching you fight for your life, he realizes that he is fighting, too. Fighting for you in every way he can.

He thinks of his mother, who used to say, when the nights turned cold and the shadows loomed too large, "Love’s light will always pierce the darkest nights."

And Simon clings to that light. He knows it’s what will guide him through the darkest moments ahead, and it starts right here—staying, waiting, and hoping.

Until the moment you wake, he’ll be here. Fighting for you, for your healing, for the chance to give you everything you deserve.

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Members of the 141 Mafia.

For months now, they’d come in like ghosts slipping through the shadows — deadly, enigmatic, and utterly out of place in the world most people knew. To the outside eye, they looked like any other patrons, but the air around them was charged, like a storm perpetually on the horizon. The kind of tension that made you realize they weren’t just men who had seen an unspoken battle, but men who carried it with them, like a weight that could never be set down. But to you, they were just regulars, faces who blended into the dim light like anyone else. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

John "Soap" MacTavish was the first to break the ice. His boyish grin and easy banter disarmed you from the start, making you forget, if only for a moment, that he was part of something darker. He’d sling a joke your way or toss a casual flirtation across the bar, a half-finished beer in hand. His carefree nature seemed almost out of place, but when you caught the flicker in his eyes — a fleeting darkness — you knew there was more to him than the easy charm. He often asked you to stay after closing for a drink, and though you’d laughed it off the first few times, lately, you found yourself lingering a little longer, drawn to the mystery behind his laugh..

Then there was Simon Riley — Ghost. Silent as a shadow, he would plant himself in the farthest corner of the bar, a hood pulled low and that eerie skull-patterned mask always hiding his face. No one dared approach him unless invited, but his eyes, constantly scanning the room, missed nothing. His mere presence sent shivers down your spine, though not from fear — it was something else, something deeper, as though he carried the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders. Whenever Soap got too close, Ghost’s gaze would darken just a shade, his silent watch never breaking, as though ensuring nothing more than words passed between you two.

John Price was different — a man who exuded authority and a weariness that came with a lifetime of hidden battles. He’d sit at the bar nursing a tumbler of whiskey, sharing stories that sounded more like fiction than fact. 

And then there was Gaz. He brought a breath of fresh air to the heavy atmosphere. His laid-back attitude, the way he could light up the room with a joke or a quick challenge to a game of darts, made it easy to forget that he too was part of this group of regulars. He’d always laugh at your terrible aim, encouraging you despite the fact that you’d never win, but that was the charm of it. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke, like you were part of their world, if only for a moment.

But tonight was different.

The bar, usually bustling at this hour on a Friday night, had grown unsettlingly still. Midnight had come and gone, and the usual hum of late-night laughter and drunken banter was absent. You were meant to take your break, but something gnawed at the back of your mind, keeping you anchored behind the bar. There was a heaviness in the air, a stillness that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t quite see.

You wiped down the counter, deciding that it’d be better to call your boss and close up  instead of standing around, casting a glance toward the door. Nothing. No one. Even the regulars had slipped away without you noticing. The quiet was unnatural, as if the bar itself had exhaled its last breath. The jukebox continued its soft, haunting melody, the only sound left in the deafening silence. As you reached for a bottle to busy yourself, your fingers brushed against something cold.

A folded piece of paper.

It sat there on the counter, exactly where an afternoon patron had been sitting earlier. Your heart thudded in your chest as you unfolded it, the jagged handwriting making it somewhat hard to read:

"I’ll see you later, sweetheart…"

Read Part 2

He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Each time you entered, Simon felt a familiar ache in his chest, a tug of frustration at the helplessness of his position. You’d greet him with a smile, but it was always forced, fragile—never the smile that had once come so easily. Under Tom’s watchful gaze, it was brittle, as though each word you spoke was measured, calculated. Simon saw it every time: the contrast between the warmth of your personality and the cold shadow that clung to you. How could such duality exist in the same world? The light you exuded, so vibrant and full of life, trapped in a world where Tom's darkness loomed like a constant threat.

Days blurred into weeks, and with each passing moment, Simon’s frustration began to crystallize. He could feel the slow burn of resentment, a gnawing fury that he couldn’t name. The napkin with his phone number remained crumpled on the counter, a mute reminder of what he couldn’t say or do. Each time his knife sliced through flesh, he thought about your wounds—the marks on your body and the ones buried deeper, etched into the very core of you. Every customer’s cheerful laugh, every conversation that filled the air, seemed to magnify the silence that surrounded you. It was as if you had become a ghost in the shop, a silent figure moving behind Tom’s shadow, lost in a world of quiet desperation.

The butcher shop, with its raw meat and steady rhythm, felt like a prison. Simon could no longer see it as just a place of work—it had become a battlefield, a space where his own sorrow festered in the stillness. The flickering fluorescent lights above, the hum of the old fridge in the back, the endless slicing and wrapping of cuts—it all felt suffocating. Every piece of meat he worked with, he envisioned as your pain, as the things Tom had stolen from you. With every stroke of the knife, he tried to carve out a future, a future where you weren’t bound by invisible chains, where you could smile freely again, without fear of reprisal.

But he couldn’t bring himself to confront Tom directly, not yet. He couldn’t risk the consequences, not when you were still in his grasp. Simon’s mind raced with plans—ways to get you out, ways to give you an escape—but each time he thought he had found a solution, doubt crept in. What if it made things worse? What if it put you in more danger?

Still, his resolve remained. He would never turn his back on you. He would watch from the sidelines if he had to, but he would always be there, lurking in the background, a silent protector. Even as his own frustrations mounted, he promised himself each day that he would be a constant, a steady presence, no matter how hopeless the situation felt. The butcher shop, a place he had once found comfort in, had become a reflection of the struggle he now faced: a never-ending cycle of meat being cut and packaged, just as your life had been reduced to mere survival. He longed for the moment when you would find the courage to break free, to untangle yourself from Tom’s grip.

In his mind, Simon clung to that hope. He carved it into every piece of raw meat, as though etching a future without Tom’s shadow looming over you. And in the quiet moments, when the shop was empty, when he could breathe without the suffocating weight of Tom’s presence, Simon let himself dream. He dreamed of a life where you weren’t a ghost, where you could laugh and live freely again. Maybe, just maybe, one day you would find the strength to undo the threads of control that Tom had wrapped so tightly around you. And when that day came, Simon would be waiting, ready to help you break free.

I know this one's a bit short - finals week be kicking my ass😣 - but I've got more in stock coming up tomorrow! 💙

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