#codblr

About two weeks after Simon returned to base, he sends you a text in the middle of the night: “You prolly won’t get this til morning. That’s fine. Just letting you know you won’t be hearing from me for a while. Got a long term assignment. Leaving in a few. Of course I can’t tell you anything but I’ll text when I get back ❤️.”

The next morning when you wake to his text, you become angry at his words. He’s going on some dangerous long-term mission. Just sends a quick word via text?

“What the fuck!?!” You yell out. Tears burn your eyes as they swell and fall down. With a snotty snuffle and a sob, you lay back down in your bed for a while.

Logically, you knew he was telling you to give you a heads up since he obviously didn’t know when he’d be back.

Would he be back?!

You thought to text Raphaela but knew this was just you in reaction mode. You needed to calm the fuck down. Your anxiety had you by the neck and you couldn’t reign it in yet.

You laid in bed all day, only getting up to go to the bathroom and make a tray of finger foods to take back with you to your room. You barely ate but tried. When you tried to read or watch a video, it was a challenge to focus on. So, you decide to take out your prayer book and say a few protection and travel prayers for Simon and the 141. It made you feel better but felt overwhelming too.

As you worked to settle down, your mind kept wandering to worse case scenarios about Simon and Johnny.

Johnny was loud and funny with his silly jokes that could only be half understood once he got buzzed. His Scottish brogue got pretty heavy then.

You try to focus on the party where you met Simon and all the details of Raphael and Wolfgang’s house. The smell of the food. The laughter. The footsteps. The taste of the food. The taste of the beer.

How your eyes kept being drawn to the fella in the corner with the balaclava skull mask and matching skeleton gloves. You thought at first it was the peculiarity of the mask but it wasn’t. It was his eyes. He was watching everything from his seat…his perch really. He was slouched, manspread with his mask up over his nose to sip at his beer.

He had a scar on his lip that pulled his upper lip up slightly that when he smirked it widened the smirk. You wondered how he had gotten it but knew to never ask. I have your own scars and how I got some of them are shameful and stupid. Hindsight being 20-20. Ralphaela disagrees. Hard to change that view. Best friends are like that, you think and smile. Ralphaela has helped you way too much. You need to show both Simon and her that you are an independent adult and don’t need to necessarily depend on them; however, being employed by Simon means showing you are able to work based off a brief discussion with him when it comes to the property.

In the late afternoon, you decided to work on the garden, getting rid of more weeds and confirming measurements. Once you’ve gotten a good sweat, you go inside, create a cost-price analysis spreadsheet, and then start researching prices for needed equipment and items. You got so absorbed that when you finally noticed you were hungry, it was nearly midnight. You snort at yourself. You save the spreadsheet and bookmark all the browser windows before going to find something to eat.

When you look inside the freezer, you find some meals that Simon and you made that first day you hung out with him. You remember grocery shopping with him for your own foodstuff. He didn’t talk a lot but had no problem, it seemed, with you talking. He did contribute to the conversation, so he was listening. At the end of the night when you two were done, you had leaned on him. What did he do? You grin at the memory. He easily picked your over 200 pounds up and set you on his wide lap. You thought he was a body builder but he’s just a mesomorph—gains muscle easily. He’s just fucking tall. How is a Manc so fucking tall? He has to have like Scandinavian in him or something for that blonde hair and height. Fuck. It’s so hot too. Shit. Your grin turns into a grim frown. He’s military, you remind yourself. He has done this for a long time, so he’s obviously good at what he does.

The next day you headed over to Ralph’s to catch up and show her the text. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’s amazing at what he does.”

“What does he do?” You inquire. She levels you with a look of Seriously, you haven’t figured it out? You roll your eyes. “It’s obvious he is some kind of special ops; he is silent when he walks which is how he got his codename, and the man has been in the military for quite a while. So of course, he is good at whatever he does. What does he do?”

“Counterterrorism, mostly,” she easily advises.

“Cool.” You sip your lemonade as she munches on some snacks.

You stay the day at Raphael’s and Wolf’s.

When you return home, you find a decently large package on the porch. Picking it up, you find it surprisingly weighty. It has your name and address but you don’t recognize the sender. You unlock and enter the house. Putting everything away like usual but locking the front door too. You take the package to the kitchen table, take out your knife from your calf and carefully slice it open.

Your eyes widen and gasp at the items inside: books. Not just any books but the rest of the paranormal romance series you’re reading. “What the fuck?”

Digging out your phone, you call Raphaela.

“Hey,” she greets.

“Did you buy me books or something?” You ask her.

“No,” she answers. “I’d tell you if I did. Why?”

“I have a package of paperbacks of what looks like the rest of that paranormal romance series I’ve been reading. The rest of what’s been published,” you explain in disbelief. Ralphaela laughs into the phone. You glare at the books waiting for her to finish. It takes a little while. “You don’t yet?”

She exhales and chuckles. “Yeah.”

“What so funny?”

“Simon got that for you,” she apprised.

“What!?” You look back at the books, pulling them out one by one. They’re brand new, not even used. “Why would he buy me books?”

“You really are dense,” she exasperatedly said. Your heart pounded in your chest. Why would he buy you books? She remained silent, waiting for you.

You whine. “Just tell me. I’m still kind of buzzed from earlier.”

She chuckles at you. “Ok. Sweetie, he’s taking care of you.”

You look at the stack of books, trying to wrap your head around Simon taking care of you. “What does that even mean?”

She snickers. “You’re still high.”

“Shut up.” You just stare at those books. “How is this ‘taking care of me’?” That’s when you remember Simon’s words when he came into the bathroom that night and his terrible American accent repeating her words. “How serious is he taking this?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and find out,” she teased.