#cod riley

Simon: You awake?

You grinned, sitting up against the pillows.

You: Barely. Why?

Simon: Thought you'd be filming already.

You: Wow. You are learning. That's usually my morning routine, but today I'm just... scrolling.

A pause. Then:

Simon: Lazy.

You laughed out loud, fingers flying.

You: Rude. I prefer "recharging my creative spirit."

Simon: Still lazy.

You shook your head, still grinning, before sliding out of bed to start your day.

You texted between errands, snapping a photo of your coffee.

You: Try this place yet? Best latte I've ever had.

His reply came a few minutes later.

Simon: Walked past it. Didn't stop.

You frowned, glancing around the café. "What do you mean, walked past—"

The phone buzzed again.

Simon: Ten minutes ago.

Your stomach flipped. Ten minutes. You'd nearly been in the same place at the same time.

You: That's cruel. You know how cinematic that would've been?

Simon: Not in my line of work.

You: Mysterious. As always.

Later, as you filmed a cozy clip of books stacked on your nightstand, your phone lit up again.

Simon: You at the bookshop today?

Your eyes widened.

You: ...Yes. Why?

Simon: Left an hour ago.

You groaned into your blanket, typing furiously.

You: We're playing tag at this point.

Simon: Suits me.

You: Thought you didn't like games.

A beat. Then—

Simon: I'd make an exception.

Your heart stuttered, warmth flooding your chest as you stared at the words.

You were chasing each other without even meaning to.

And it was starting to feel inevitable that, sooner or later, you'd collide.

Holly's townhouse smelled divine the second you walked in — herbs, garlic, butter. Her private chef was already plating appetizers in the kitchen, music humming low through the speakers.

The dining room glittered with candles and glassware, the table set like something out of a magazine. You and the girls laughed as you slid into your seats, glasses of prosecco clinking in cheers.

Halfway through the first course, Holly propped her phone against a vase of flowers, tapping Go Live.

"Alright babes," she said to the camera, waving with her manicured nails, "welcome to girls' night. Private chef, too much wine, and way too much gossip. You're lucky I'm letting you in."

The comments flooded instantly.

"QUEENS 👑"

"That food tho 😭"

"Give us the tea!!"

You waved at the lens, laughing, but your phone buzzed in your lap.

Simon.

Simon: You eat yet?

You smiled down at the screen, typing quickly under the table.

You: Private chef tonight. Feeling spoiled.

Simon: Don't get used to it.

You bit your lip, grinning at his bluntness.

Another buzz.

Simon: What's on the menu?

You: Everything. Come steal a plate.

The dots blinked. Stopped. Blinked again. Then—

Simon: ...Tempting.

Your cheeks warmed, and you ducked your head, pretending to sip your prosecco.

"Okay," Holly sing-songed from across the table, "who are you texting that's got you smiling like that? Spill."

The chat lit up instantly, fans spamming "👀👀👀" and "she's glowinggg" and "we want the name bestie."

You laughed too loudly, shaking your head. "Nooo, not tonight. Not telling."

Holly leaned closer to the camera with a wicked grin. "Oh, she's definitely hiding something."

And she wasn't wrong.

Because under the table, your phone buzzed again.

Simon: You're smiling.

Your breath caught. He wasn't watching, couldn't possibly be — but somehow, he knew.

Dinner wound down with empty wine glasses and laughter echoing through Holly's townhouse. The live had long since ended, the girls buzzing on champagne and gossip. Holly tried to convince you to stay over, but you shook your head, insisting you had edits waiting back at the Airbnb.

Simon's texts were still open on your phone when you slipped into the backseat of the Uber.

Simon: You're not walking, are you?

You: Relax. Uber.

A pause. Then—

Simon: Don't be stupid tonight.

You rolled your eyes at the screen, but your chest warmed anyway.

The ride was short, and when you unlocked the Airbnb door, you leaned against it with a smile and typed:

You: Safe and sound 🖤

You tossed your bag onto the sofa, kicked off your boots, and headed for the kitchen to pour some water. Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed.

Incoming call.

Simon.

Your pulse jumped. You fumbled to grab it, pressing accept. "Hello?"

His voice rumbled through the line, low and steady. "Just checking."

You laughed softly, curling onto the couch. "You really do have a thing about keeping me alive, huh?"

A grunt, almost defensive. "Someone's got to."

"Glad it's you," you said quietly.

There was silence on his end — not heavy, just full. Then he let out a slow breath, like he'd been holding it all day.

The line hummed softly, his steady breathing filling the quiet between you. You tucked your knees up on the sofa, phone warm against your ear.

"Since you're calling me at midnight," you teased gently, "I think I get to ask more questions."

A low grunt. "Dangerous game."

You smiled. "Only if you don't answer. What was little Simon like?"

Silence stretched, long enough you thought he'd hang up. Finally, his voice came through, rough and reluctant. "Quiet. Kept to myself."

You tilted your head. "Always?"

"Mostly." Another pause. "Didn't have much choice."

The honesty in it tugged at something deep inside you. You softened your voice. "And now? Still keeping to yourself?"

His exhale was sharp, almost a laugh but not quite. "'Til you showed up."

Your breath caught, heart thudding. You grinned into the dark, trying to keep it light. "So I'm special, huh?"

"Annoying," he corrected, but there was no bite in it.

You laughed, leaning back against the cushions. "I'll take it. Okay, next one. Favorite book?"

He hesitated, then answered low. "The Road by Cormac McCarthy."

You lit up. "That's actually a good answer. Thought you'd say something bro-y like Fight Club."

He made a noise — somewhere between offended and amused.

The call drifted on, question after question. Favorite meal. Least favorite sound. The one thing he couldn't live without (tea, obviously). His answers were clipped, but they kept coming. And every one felt like another brick pulled loose from a wall you hadn't realized you were climbing.

By the time the clock glowed 2:00 AM, you were curled under a blanket, smile soft and giddy.

"See?" you whispered. "You're not that hard to talk to."

His reply was low, almost thoughtful. "Not with you."

You were curled under your blanket, the lamp casting soft gold across the room. He was quieter now, his voice almost a murmur when he did speak.

You yawned softly. "You know, I could probably keep this up all night. Just asking you questions until you run out of patience."

"Hm." A pause, then that low rumble. "Wouldn't take that long."

You laughed, tired but glowing. "Yeah, right. You're holding out on me. There's so much I don't know."

Another stretch of silence. You thought maybe that was it—that he'd gone quiet for good. But then, his voice came through, rougher than before.

"...When are you free?"

You blinked, sitting up a little. "Free?"

"To meet again." He cleared his throat, the words awkward, stiff. "I want to... see you."

Your lips curved, warmth blooming in your chest. "Simon, are you asking me on a date?"

"Not—" He stopped, let out a sharp breath. "If that's what you want to call it."

You bit back a grin, kicking your feet under the blanket. "I'd love to call it that."

There was silence on the line, but not heavy this time. You could feel him sitting with it, working it over in his head.

Finally, he muttered, "Good."

And you were pretty sure your heart wasn't going to calm down anytime soon.

You were sprawled across the couch, blanket tangled at your ankles, phone pressed to your ear. He hadn't hung up yet, hadn't even tried.

"So..." you started, voice teasing but warm, "if we're gonna plan this date—not-date—thing, what are you thinking? Don't tell me another dark corner of a pub."

A low grunt hummed through the line. "Don't do crowds."

"I know." You smiled, chewing on your lip. "We could do something more private. Doesn't have to be fancy."

Silence stretched, like he was weighing every word before he let it go. Finally—

"...Could always come there."

Your brows lifted. "Here? To my Airbnb?"

"Quieter." His voice was low, almost cautious. "No strangers. No cameras."

Your heart thumped. The image of Simon in your little kitchen, filling the narrow doorway, hood off, mask maybe still on—it lit something inside you.

You softened your tone. "Alright then. You come here. I'll cook."

A pause. You swore you heard the faintest shift of fabric, like he'd leaned back in his chair.

"You cook?"

You laughed, grinning. "Of course I cook. You think I live off brand deals and takeout?"

"...Didn't say that," he muttered.

"Good. Because I make a mean pasta. You'll see."

For a moment, there was nothing but his breathing on the line. Then, softer than you'd ever heard him—

"Alright. I'll come."

And just like that, the walls you'd been chipping at didn't feel so high anymore.

💀📱🖤💄💀📱🖤💄💀📱🖤💄💀📱🖤

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