#cod x reader

John Price x Reader

Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.

Or: the fertility clinic au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Fertility Clinics, Strangers to Lovers, Slow Forced Cohabitation, Breeding Kink, Pregnancy, Very Mildly Dubious Consent

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Extras

no thoughts just simon riley and your new back tattoo.

his first thought is fuck - because it's big and intricate and must have fucking hurt.

his next thought is also, still, fuck - because all he can picture now is digging his fingers into the meat of your hips and fucking you from behind with this addition to his already perfect view.

that night he's uncharacteristically gentle; carefully helping you peel the wrapping off, rinsing blood and plasma and excess ink from your back in the shower. and for the next two weeks? he's there, helping spread cocoa butter over every inch of your new tattoo with careful touches; learning the shape of it with his fingertips.

and when it's healed? yeah, he's getting a cumshot video to cherish forever. something to take with him when he's away next to remind him of you. the perfect video of thick white ropes of his cum running down your tattooed back; gathering in the dimples either side of the base of your spine.

pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader

summary: fuck the space! you need your husband back

part 2!

part 1, definitely doing more harm to you

masterlist!

a/n: requests are open!! been having bad writer’s block :(((

“soap m’ tellin ya,” simon begins, taking a sip of his beer, “never seen ‘er so upset.”

the british brute decided to call his mate when you kicked him out, asking him to meet at their local bar. “be there soon, ghost.” johnny didn’t miss the troubled tone in his lieutenant’s voice, so he knew something serious was going on.

both of the muscular men were two beers deep, now working on their third— just teetering on the brim of tipsy. it sucked being so big sometimes.

“she’s been in ‘tis rut for multiple days. m’ tried and tried to help ‘er out, but nothin’,” simon continues, eyeing his wedding band. he brought his right hand to fidget with the jewelry, “it got so bad tonigh’…”

a pause— silence consuming them, becoming a part of the conversation. simon struggled to resume, still in disbelief himself about what happened just a few hours ago. he took another sip of his beer, maybe more of a long gulp, then, a deep breath, “she started hittin’ m’. thought m’ sweet lass was gonna hurt ‘erself.”

johnny, sharing his lieutenant’s disbelief, couldn’t stop it from showing on his face. the scottish man’s eyes widened and his mouth fell agape, “hit ya? y/n hit ya?” you wouldn’t even hurt a fly, how could you hit your husband?

the man nodded, confirming, “couldn’ believe it either soap, but tha’s not tha point. we both know she didn’t cause any pain.”

finishing the last drops of his beer, simon slammed the empty glass on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. the thud from the glass caused stares from onlookers nearby, but a scary, threatening glare from the brit made them turn away.

“tha point ‘s that she got so stressed out, it lead to ‘er havin’ a total breakdown. m’ didn’ know how to help ‘er, johnny. m’ sweet wife…” the larger man started to trail off, his rambling quieting.

the scott hated seeing his mate upset, never seeing his lieutenant in such a perturbed state.

johnny let a few seconds pass before trying, “ya gave ‘er what she asked for. tha’s all ya can do, LT,” finishing his beer now, “ya did everythin’ right.”

ring. ring. ring.

simon’s phone started vibrating, the ringtone barely audible over the bustling crowd and music at the bar.

both men glanced down at his phone on the table, your caller id flashing across the screen, “m’ told ‘er to call when she needed m’.”

johnny smiled at his mate, patting his back, “go help yer wife. i’ll cover us.” “thank ya, johnny. for everythin’.”

the military men gave a final head nod to each other, your husband answering your call on his way out, “hello? luvie’?”

simon was frantic, long strides getting him to his truck, “are ya there? m’ comin’ home to ya.” the brit waited for a response, turning his radio all the way down to hear.

he almost missed it, the subtle sounds of your sobs, “can hear ya, hon. shhh, it’s alrigh’. yer husband’s comin’,” he coos, trying to console you.

“s-si!” he heard you hiccup out. “yes, sweet’eart. m’ ‘ere.”

“i’m s-so, so sorry,” more wailing left you, “i can’t believe i hit you, kicked you out— oh my gosh, si, i’m sorry.”

simon imagined what his wife looked like, body curled into itself, hands tugging at your poor hair. he knew you would have the worst headache after all this crying.

“sweetie, it’s alrigh’. know ya been strugglin’ lately. jus’ wanna help ya-” “exactly, simon! all you’ve tried to do is just help me and i keep p-pushing you away! i’ve been a terrible wife to you,” you interrupted him, voice trembling when it raised, “you’re such a caring husband, a-and i treat you like shit.”

“luvie’, please. m’ almost home,” he took a left turn. only two right turns before he makes it to you, “let m’ take care of ya.” you cried out to your husband, “si.”

when he entered the front door, he saw you in the same spot he left you— right in the entrance way, though, you were sitting on the floor now, back against the wall.

he frowned at the revelation, “oh, m’ sweet fawn,” stepping towards you, the familiar creak of the hardwood under his size 13 boot. he scooped you into his strong arms, guiding your legs to wrap around his built torso, something you’ve done hundreds of times before. encircling your arms around his neck, you placed your head onto his chest, “s-simon. i’m sorry.”

you felt him slither his hands along your spine, the deep shhh’s rumbling from his chest encouraging your cries to assuage. “yer husband’s gotcha, sweet’eart. m’ ‘ere.”

he walked you both to your shared bedroom, sitting on the bed with you still in his hold. he let you rest in his arms, still gliding his hands up and down your back. he would let you start when you were ready.

a couple minutes passed, then, “i don’t really know what’s wrong with me.”

you leaned away, hand fiddling with your wedding band, a fidget you and simon apparently shared. your husband’s hands moved to either side of your hips when you leaned back, a soft squeeze and “go on,” encouraging you to proceed.

“i feel so useless, si. i haven’t been able to get out of bed, help around the house— i- i haven’t had the energy to do anything! all my projects are forgotten! my days are wasting away! i’m w-wasting myself away,” you were getting worked up again, your husband frowning when he watched you pull at your strands of hair.

promptly grabbing your hands to stop your actions, he brought you back into his hold. “the world f-feels like it’s eating me, simon. l-like i’m sinking and can’t swim up.”

“luv’, didn’ know ya were feelin’ like tha” he kisses your forehead, “we’re gonna get ya help. m’ promise.”

over the next few days, that’s what your husband did— he spent time researching for a high-rated therapist that would accept your insurance, scrubbing your body clean in your shared showers, cooking you meal after meal, cuddling with you. your husband even drove you to your therapy appointments, “m’ so proud of ya, luvie’,” when you’d return, littering kisses all over your face.

he monitored your medicine, assuring you consumed it at the correct hour every day, picking up your refill prescription when it ran out.

Im imagining a drunken mistake that isn't really a mistake at all.

I mean, how can the best sex of you life be a mistake? Well, when the best sex of your life happens to be with your best friend, it feels like a mistake.

Kyle doesn't want it to be a mistake.

He wants to do it again. Wants you beneath him, writhing and squeezing his cock.

But he wants more than that. He wants to take you out to dinner, wants to carry your bags on his arms while you drag him from shop to shop. He wants you to propose date ideas you think are silly but he'll make happen.

There's a risk that comes with that, though. A risk you won't want what he wants, a risk he could lose you forever.

And kyle doesn't want to lose you forever.

(He wouldn't lose you forever, but you're too anxious to tell him that. You dont want to ruin the greatest friendship you've ever had. Even if the reward would be something so damn great).

Of course, all kyle needs to do is ask. You'd say yes every time. He just needs to work that out

(fluff with a side of angst)

cw: gn!reader, reader is a member of 141, can be read as platonic or romantic, non-sexual showering together, hurt/comfort (mostly comfort), i think that covers it ?, word count: 740

It’s infuriatingly late when your lieutenant knocks on your apartment door– having given him your address for emergencies only. 

 “Really? I’m on leave–” Your words falter as soon as you look over at him. 

His usual balaclava is traded for a black medical mask. There’s dirt and dried blood coating his skin and uniform as his eyes stare through you. 

The solo mission must have gone to shit, you think to yourself. 

3.7k words. a retired! simon riley x blind! reader

MOODBOARD ⌕ PLAYLIST / masterlist

A wet nose nudged insistently against your hand before a familiar huff of impatience filled the room. You smiled into your pillow.

"Five more minutes."

The huff grew louder. Then came the unmistakable thump of Rex’s tail smacking against your mattress. You only had so long before your furry companion was pressing his wet nose against you again, his tongue leaving a wet sheen on your face.

"Give mommy a few more minutes Rex, please."

And he does just that, giving you at least ten seconds before nudging you again.

"You’re an impatient one."

Your Shepard responds with an excited whine that sounded suspiciously proud of himself. With a laugh, you reached over the side of the bed until your fingers found warm fur.

His tail accelerated immediately, drumming against the floor hard enough that your downstairs neighbor was probably already questioning his life choices.

"Good morning to you too."

He leaned into your touch, soaking up every scratch behind his ears like he'd gone years without affection instead of a single night's sleep.

You stretched before sitting upright, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your face.

Your apartment was quiet. Comfortably so. There was no need for a loud alarm when your smart pup had been the only thing awaking you timely.

You'd lived here for nearly three years now, and every creak in the floorboards, every humming appliance, every breeze slipping through the kitchen window had become familiar enough that the place felt like an extension of yourself. It didn't have to be something you saw when you knew it by heart.

Rex waited patiently while you got dressed, though the occasional impatient sigh reminded you breakfast was running behind schedule in his professional opinion.

"Someone's dramatic this morning." His tail answered for him

"Oh, don't start." You pointed your wooden spoon in his general direction while rummaging through the pantry for ingredients.

"You knew who I was when we got paired together."

His tail thumped once. Traitor, yet you laughed anyway.

You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. Every cabinet, every drawer, every spice rack existed exactly where you'd left it yesterday. There was comfort in that.

People often assumed living alone while blind must have been difficult.

It wasn't. Not when everything had a place. Not when you'd spent your entire life learning your home by memory instead of sight. Your parents made sure of that. They never let anyone mistake blindness for helplessness.

When you were eight, your dad taught you how to make pancakes. By twelve, your mom insisted you learn to do your own laundry. At sixteen, they trusted you to navigate the city with your cane. When you were twenty-two, they hugged you goodbye as you moved into your first apartment.

Not because they wanted you gone but because they knew you'd be okay.

The coffee finished brewing with a cheerful series of clicks and your toast was popping up a second later. From somewhere behind you came an impatient huff, you could feel Rex staring holes through your back.

"Don’t look at me like that. I know breakfast is late."

Rex padded across the hardwood, nails clicking rhythmically against the floor until he nudged your leg.

"You eat twice a day. I eat twice a day, we both get fed hm?”

After feeding him—and finally yourself—you clipped on his working harness. The familiar click of the harness buckles transformed Rex almost instantly.

The dog who had spent the last hour sighing dramatically over a delayed breakfast straightened beside you, ears perked and tail settling into a calm, controlled sway. His excitement melted into quiet focus as you rested a hand against the sturdy handle spanning his back.

"There's my good boy," you said, smiling. "I was wondering where my professional went."

He licks your hand after a small harrumph. You scratch behind his ear with an easy grin.

"Cocky are we? I remember who stole my slipper yesterday."

He goes quiet at that. He's like a small child sometimes but you loved him regardless.

"Exactly."

The apartment door clicked shut behind you as you slipped your keys into your tote bag. Feeling around the inside of your tote out of habit to make sure nothing was left behind, Phone, wallet, earbuds and Rex's treat pouch.

Beside you, Rex stood a little straighter the moment his harness settled over his shoulders. The playful dog who had spent the last hour pestering you for breakfast disappeared, replaced by the calm, attentive partner who took his job very seriously.

"Ready?" Rex stepped forward without hesitation.

The apartment door clicked shut behind the both of you and Rex stepped into the hallway with that of practiced ease, his pace steady.

Apartment 2B opened immediately and Mrs. Malloy stepped out with the biggest smile on her face.

"Good morning Sweetheart."

She smelled of cinnamon and lavender and the smile that painted your face was wide. Mrs. Malloy had been living in your complex long before you moved in, she was the sweetest and was always dropping by to help clean and give her cookies when she baked too many.

"Morning Mrs. Malloy"

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. It was followed by the gentle clinking of the silver bracelets she wore every day, a sound you'd come to associate with fresh-baked cookies and unsolicited life advice.

"I was hoping to catch you before work," she said. "I made blueberry muffins last night."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"You've been baking again?"

"My book club needed refreshments."

"And somehow you made enough to feed the entire building.", it was only a little light banter between the both of you.

She said your quick tongue managed to keep her young and on her toes. Nonetheless, she was a sweet soul. Reminded you a lot of your grandmother.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It isn't. I'm just trying to figure out how two dozen muffins became a necessity."

Mrs. Malloy laughed again before pressing something warm into your free hand. The paper bag was still slightly warm, carrying the unmistakable scent of butter and blueberries.

"Well here's a few for later"

"You spoil me."

"Nonsense. Someone has to make sure you're eating."

"I eat."

"I'm sure you do sweetheart"

You waved one last goodbye before stepping into the elevator, the paper bag tucked carefully into your tote. Mrs. Malloy had always been that way. She baked when she was happy, when she was sad, when the weather changed, when it didn't.

At this point you were convinced the woman simply looked for excuses to turn on her oven.

The elevator hummed softly as it descended, familiar enough that you found yourself absentmindedly mouthing along to the song still playing through your earbuds.

Rex leaned comfortably against your leg, patient as ever, his weight a quiet reassurance that never failed to ground you.

The lobby greeted you with the scent of freshly mopped floors and coffee drifting in through the open front doors.

Frank, the building superintendent, was crouched beside a toolbox near the mailboxes, muttering something under his breath that probably wasn't suitable for polite company.

"Morning, Frank." He let out a startled grunt before laughing.

"One of these days you're gonna give me a heart attack."

"I said good morning, that was a fair enough warning."

"I know, I know." He pushed himself to his feet, wiping his hands on an old rag. "You headed to work?"

"Unfortunately."

"I hear they expect you to actually do things there."

"The audacity."

He chuckled, giving Rex a respectful nod instead of reaching for him. "Mornin', buddy."

Rex's ears twitched in acknowledgment, but he never broke stride. Frank watched the two of you head toward the door before calling after you.

"Tell your mama I fixed that leaky pipe she kept fussing about."

You laughed over your shoulder as you spent a brief second reminiscing about your mom calling up Frank when there was a leak in your apartment. She had been visiting for a week just to check in.

"I'll let her know. She'll probably still ask if you're sure.”

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

The cool morning air wrapped around you the moment you stepped outside.

The neighborhood was just beginning to wake. Somewhere down the block, a café had propped open its front door, rich coffee and warm pastries spilling onto the sidewalk. A delivery truck rumbled past, followed by the hiss of a city bus pulling up to the curb. Someone nearby was walking their dog, the cheerful jingling of tags growing quieter as they turned the corner.

Rex guided you onto the sidewalk, settling into the easy rhythm the two of you had perfected years ago.

The walk to work wasn't long, but it had become one of your favorite parts of the day. There was something comforting about familiar routines.

—

The first thing Simon noticed every morning wasn't the silence. It had been the opposite, the absence of noise.

There was no radio or television.

Just the gentle creak of his body acting on the programming he’d ingrained from the last thirty years. He preferred it that way though.

Silence wasn't empty and even if it was peaceful, it left Simon alone with his thoughts a lot.

Silence was different. Silence meant nothing was wrong.

The alarm buzzed once. He would’ve thought that retirement would have kept him from waking up before his alarm—but then again, it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.

His hand reached over before the second vibration.

05:00.

The same time he'd been waking up for years. Retirement hadn't changed that or the nightmares.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, joints protesting before the rest of him did. He could only sit there for a few moments, years of pushing his body past the limits and this was what he had to show for it.

His lower back joined in next, a dull stiffness that wrapped around his spine from years of hauling eighty-pound packs over mountains that hadn't cared whether he made it to the top.

His right shoulder protested last, the joint grinding faintly as he flexed his fingers beneath the blankets

Simon pushed himself up, a groan falling from his scarred thin lips. “bloody ‘ell”

He scrubbed a hand over the stubble lining his jaw before reaching automatically for the faded T-shirt draped across the chair beside his bed.

The man staring back from the mirror in the adjoining bathroom wasn't the same one who'd first pulled on an SAS uniform all those years ago.

The lines around his eyes had settled in for good, carved there by too many sleepless nights and too many things he'd rather forget.

Silver had begun threading through the blond beneath the perpetual stubble along his jaw and at his temples, subtle enough that most people probably wouldn't notice.

His shoulders were still broad enough to fill most doorways. Still built like a brick wall but retirement had softened the edges.

His body had earned the rest, even if his mind hadn't quite caught up.

The shower was hot enough to sting. Simon stayed beneath the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat loosen muscles that had stiffened overnight. It never fixed anything.

A faded scar stretched white across the back of his forearm as he reached for the kettle. His coffee, black, was strong enough to strip paint.

Anything weaker wasn't worth drinking.

Simon kept the kitchen spotless. Everything sat exactly where he'd left it the night before. He had learned quickly that old habits never died, they only showed through different ways.

Outside, rain tapped lazily against the kitchen window.

By half six he was already outside. Work gloves stuffed into his back pocket, steel-toed boots and a weathered jacket thrown over the dark gray mechanic uniform.

His lunch consists of some half ass sandwich and whatever was left over from last night's take out. It had been a lot of that recently, but only because he was running low on groceries.

Simon huffed silently, another task to add to the shit load of things he needs to get done. At least it kept him busy.

If there was one thing that Simon hated about retirement was the restlessness.

By seven-thirty, Simon had already been under the bonnet of three different cars. Hands greased stained and clammy.

The garage wasn't busy yet. Just the steady rhythm of impact wrenches, radios murmuring somewhere in the office, and the occasional hiss of compressed air.

The radio in the office crackled to life somewhere behind him, though whoever had arrived first hadn't bothered changing the station yet. A presenter droned on about motorway traffic before disappearing beneath the shrill whine of an impact wrench from one of the service bays.

He preferred evenings to anything else.

Customers hadn't arrived in force, and the lads knew better than to interrupt him unless they had to.

The younger mechanics had learned quickly that Simon wasn't much for conversation while he worked. Questions got answers. Small talk got polite grunts. Neither bothered anyone anymore.

During his lunch, Pete, the only guy Simon tolerated around the shop, had emerged carrying a cardboard tray balanced on one hand.

Pete had owned Thompson's Auto Repair for longer than Simon had been in the military. Somewhere in his early sixties now, he still insisted on opening the garage every morning despite employing enough mechanics that he could have stayed home if he'd wanted.

According to Pete, retirement sounded terribly boring. According to his wife, he simply liked having somewhere to be before six in the morning.

Simon believed them both, he completely understood where Pete had been coming from.

"You know," the man huffed, setting a paper cup beside Simon's toolbox, "one of these days you're going to admit you like me."

Simon looked at the coffee before lifting his eyes to Pete.

"I tolerate you." A joke and Pete could practically see the amusement in Simon’s eyes.

"There it is then."

"What?"

"That's practically affection coming from you." It gets a small shake of Simon’s shoulders.

Two years ago, Pete had hired him with little more than a glance at his qualifications and a handshake. He never pressed for stories about the army after spotting it on Simon's employment history.

The only thing he'd wanted to know was whether Simon knew his way around an engine.

The answer had apparently been convincing enough.

Since then, they'd settled into an understanding that suited them both. Pete talked enough for the pair of them, Simon answered when he had something worth saying, and neither expected the other to be anyone different.

It worked, Pete might’ve been the closest thing Simon would consider a friend since he’s been retired.

The rest of the afternoon passed much as his mornings usually did.

One car became two and two became five. A timing belt that had seen better days. A cracked radiator hose. A stubborn alternator that seemed determined to fight him every step of the way.

None of it bothered Simon. Engines were patient. They didn't care how long it took so long as the job was done properly.

By the time he lowered the last car from the lift, the daylight spilling through the open roller doors had begun to soften into amber. Long shadows stretched across the concrete floor, broken only by the occasional mechanic wheeling a toolbox back towards the workshop.

Someone switched off the compressor. Simon had always been one of the last to leave, he was never in a hurry to return to silence.

The changing room had emptied by the time Simon locked his locker.

His shoulders carried the familiar ache of a day's work, heavy without being unpleasant. It settled differently than the pain left behind by old injuries.

Honest work had a way of reminding him he'd accomplished something by the end of the day.

Outside, the evening air had cooled just enough to chase away the heat trapped inside the garage.

His truck waited where it always did, backed neatly into the far corner of the car park beneath an ageing oak tree that had probably been there longer than the garage itself.

It wasn't much to look at.

A dark grey pickup with more miles than Simon cared to count, a handful of scratches along the bodywork and rust beginning to creep around one rear wheel arch.

It hadn’t taken him long to get there. Simon turned into the supermarket car park just as another car pulled into a space near the opposite entrance.

People drifted through the automatic doors in steady waves, each carrying the invisible weight of an ordinary Tuesday.

Simon slipped the black surgical mask over his face and pulled on a black cap before climbing from his truck and slipping his keys into his back pocket.

—

The elementary school was quieter now, though quiet was a relative term. There were still footsteps echoing through the halls, classroom doors opening and closing, and the distant voices of teachers finishing up their last conversations before heading home.

You had always liked this part of the day. It meant the rush was over.

The children had gone home with backpacks full of fun homework and stories they couldn't wait to tell their parents.

The classroom settled back into itself, leaving behind the faint scent of crayons, construction paper, and whatever mystery snack had been spilled during afternoon activities.

"Are you sure you don't want me to walk you out?"

Mrs. Harris's or Sophia’s voice came from beside your desk. You smiled as you slipped your notebook into your bag.

"I'm sure. You know I can handle the walk to the front office."

"I know you can."

There was no hesitation in her answer. That was one of the reasons you liked working with Sophia. She never hovered and never spoke to you like you were fragile.

She trusted you.

You were amazing with the kids, a gentle soul when it came to them and she appreciated you more than you ever knew.

Every Friday night she would invite you over and she and her husband would have dinner with you. It was a kind gesture and little tradition she instilled once you started working with her.

"Besides," you added, reaching down to adjust Rex's harness, "I think someone is ready to go home."

At the sound of his name, Rex lifted his head from his place beside your desk.

"He's been watching the door for the last fifteen minutes." She countered

"He gets dramatic when his shift ends."

Rex huffed and you rolled your eyes with a smile.

"See? He knows I'm right."

The classroom assistant position had been one of the best decisions you'd made after moving to the city. You didn't write lesson plans or stand at the front of the classroom leading lessons. That was Sophia’s job.

Your role was different.

You helped students during reading activities, worked with smaller groups, assisted with classroom projects, organized supplies, and supported whichever children needed a little extra patience that day.

Some days that meant helping a child sound out a difficult word.

Other days it meant sitting beside a nervous student until they felt comfortable joining the rest of the class.

Children were honest. They didn't treat you differently because you couldn't see. They simply adapted.

They learned quickly that you knew their voices, their footsteps, and their personalities almost better than they knew themselves.

Rex was a huge help as well. What kid didn’t like having a dog in class to help them out.

"You know, I'm convinced half these kids think you have superpowers."

"Some days I think they might be right. The twins asked me if daredevil was my brother the other day. It was the hardest I’ve laughed in a minute”

Working here had never felt like something people allowed you to do.

You had coworkers who trusted you, children who relied on you, and a classroom routine you knew as well as your own apartment.

You slipped on your cardigan before leaving, the evening air greeted you as Rex guided you away from the school entrance.

The city was beginning its transition from afternoon to evening. Cars moved steadily along the road.

Somewhere nearby, a restaurant door opened, carrying the smell of dinner into the street.

You adjusted your tote bag on your shoulder. "Alright, Rex."

His ears perked.

"Supermarket?"

The gentle wag of his tail answered before he even moved. Sophia appeared beside you.

“I'm giving you a ride." You paused, rebuttal falling from your lips quickly.

"Sophia—"

"Nope.”

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I know exactly what you were going to say."

"And?"

"And the answer is still no." You laughed quietly.

"You know I can take the bus."

"I know."

"And walk from the stop.”

"I know."

"And—"

"And it's getting late, it's cold outside, and I'm already heading that direction." You opened your mouth.

"Don't argue with me. I have twenty years of teaching experience. I can handle a stubborn person."

You tilted your head.

"Are you calling me stubborn?"

"I'm calling you exactly what you are." Rex nudged your hand.

"See? Even Rex agrees."

A few minutes later, you were settled into the passenger seat of her car while Rex rested comfortably in the back, finally free of his working harness.

Sophia dropped you off at the supermarket just as the evening rush was beginning.

The parking lot carried the usual sounds of a weekday night—shopping carts rattling across concrete, car doors opening and closing, conversations blending together as people hurried through the last errands of the day.

You thanked her before she left, promising to let her know once you were home. She relented in wanting to wait and drop you off at home, but you were indeed stubborn and didn’t want to make her wait any longer.

She waited until Rex had guided you safely toward the entrance before pulling away. The automatic doors opened with a quiet rush of air.

Warmth greeted you first, followed by the familiar scents of fresh bread, produce, and the faint sweetness drifting from the bakery section near the front.

You adjusted your tote bag on your shoulder and tightened your grip on Rex's harness handle.

Neither of you noticed the other.

Not yet.

But in another few minutes, somewhere between the fruit aisle and the refrigerated section, two routines that had remained unchanged for years were finally about to collide.

© — reesepiveces ( 2026 ) do not steal. comment to be tagged in next chapter!!

You giggle, twirling around in the new georgette gown your mother got sewn for you, almost perfectly made. The flair goes high, making you feel giddy.

As you open the doors to your rooms and head downstairs to the dining hall, you can hear the heavy boots of your assigned knight behind you, the sound comforting as usual.

You hold up the skirts because of the few extra inches on the bottom, electing to be barefoot, but it’s causing a bit of an issue, making you trip over your own feet.

You start walking down the big stone steps, hopping down like a bunny in a meadow, much to Simon’s dismay, his hand outstretched in fear.

You only giggle when you stumble, but he almost growls, grabbing your skirt “carefull lass,” he says in that gruff voice. You brush off his warning, but the silliness finally catches up to you, and your foot twists in the cloth, making you yelp as you fall.