#forbidden

The road has been empty for miles, and still Ser Duncan the Tall walks close to your horse, as if something might leap from the tall grass and drag you down.

He is too big for the path. His shoulders brush low branches, and his boots leave deep prints in the dust. Every so often, he glances toward the treeline, hand resting near the hilt of his sword. No one told him to walk there. He simply placed himself between you and the world.

“Ser Duncan,” you say at last, “you need not glare so fiercely at every bush.”

He startles, as though you struck him. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon. I only meant…” He clears his throat. “There are wolves in these hills.”

“I have never seen one.”

“That’s how they like it.”

You smile at that, turning in the saddle so your silver hair slips over your shoulder. “And you will fight them all alone?”

“If need be.”

The answer is too quick. Too sure.

You ride in silence after that. The sun warms your skin, and the wind tugs at your cloak. You watch him from the corner of your eye: the long stride, the creak of his armor, the faint scar along his jaw. He looks like a storybook knight, if the book had been written by someone who knew hunger.

“You walk as if you expect the world to strike me,” you say softly.

He slows, then stops altogether. “It will, if it can, Your Grace.”

You guide your horse to a halt beside him. Up close, he is taller than you remembered, even from the saddle. When he looks at you, his face reddens.

“You do not speak to me like other men do,” you say.

“I don’t know how other men speak to princesses.”

“And how do you speak to me?”

He thinks for a moment. “As someone who must not fail you.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“You cannot guard me forever, Ser Duncan.”

“I know.”

“But you wish you could.”

His jaw works. “Yes, Your Grace.”

That is when you understand it is not only wolves he fears.

The sun was bleeding out across the horizon, painting the clouds in strokes of rose and gold when you finally stopped to make camp. As a princess, you were used to pavilions and featherbeds. Here, there was only the hard ground, a small fire, and the vast, indifferent sky.

Dunk moved with a quiet efficiency that spoke of years on the road. He unsaddled your horse, rubbed it down, and then began gathering wood for the fire, his large hands breaking branches as easily as you might snap a twig. He never once asked you to help, treating you as if you were made of precious glass.

You watched him, the way the firelight caught the planes of his face, the dust on his boots, the worn leather of his sword belt. There was a roughness to him that court knights lacked, something raw and real. It was… disarming.

“Ser Duncan,” you said, breaking the silence.

He turned, a piece of wood in his hand. “Your Grace?”

“You have not asked me why I travel alone.”

He hesitated, placing the wood on the growing pile. “It is not my place to ask.”

“But you must wonder.”

He looked away, toward the darkening woods. “I wonder about many things.”

“Such as?”

“If I’m gathering enough wood. If the wolves are truly gone. If the stars will hold.” He paused. “Not about princesses’ business.”

“I have no business,” you said, the words surprising even you. “I was… sent away.”

He didn't respond. He simply stood there, a mountain of a man framed by the last light of day, waiting for you to say more.

“My father wishes me to marry a prince from Dorne,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “I told him no.”

The fire crackled. A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks into the dark.

“Your Grace…” he began, then stopped, as if the words caught in his throat.

“You may call me by my name,” you said. “When no one is listening.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, you were not a princess, and he was not a hedge knight. You were just a woman and a man, alone in the night, with only a fire between you.

“I cannot,” he said, his voice low. “It would not be right.”

He turned back to the fire, stoking it with a stick, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched. He was fighting a battle with himself, and you were not sure which side was winning.

“Ser Duncan,” you said softly, “why were you in Flea Bottom the day you were found? You are not from King's Landing.”

He paused, the stick still in his hand. “My master, Ser Arlan, had business there. We were heading to the Tourney at Ashford.” He stared into the flames. “He died on the road. Before we got there.”

A silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken sorrow. You saw the ghost of the old knight in the young one’s eyes. The weight of a legacy he never asked for.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“He was a good man,” Dunk said, his voice rough. “Better than me.”

“I do not believe that.”

He finally looked at you again, and in the firelight, you saw something you had not seen before: a flicker of vulnerability. “Your Grace… a princess shouldn't be talking to a hedge knight about such things.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He struggled for the words. “Because it makes me forget what I am.”

You leaned forward, the silver-gold of your hair brushing against your cheek. “And what are you, Ser Duncan?”

“Just a man,” he said, the words barely audible. “From Flea Bottom.”

His honesty was a punch to the gut. You had been surrounded by lies and half-truths your whole life. Men who said what they thought you wanted to hear, who offered you words false and polished. But this man… this giant of a man with the calloused hands and the honest eyes… he was as real as the ground beneath your feet.

And it was terrifying.

And it was wonderful.

“A man,” you repeated, testing the word. “Just a man, who walks for miles beside my horse, who would fight wolves for me, who calls me Your Grace like it’s a shield against a truth he doesn’t want to face.”

He flinched as if you’d struck him.

“A man who smells of leather and road dust,” you continued, your voice softer now. “A man who blushes when I look at him too long.”

He stood up so quickly he almost knocked over the fire. “I should see to the horse.”

“Ser Duncan.”

He froze, his back to you, a statue of a knight in the flickering light.

“Stay. Please.”

He didn’t move. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing, see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He stayed because you asked him to. Because he would do anything for you.

The morning came gray and cool. Dew clung to the grass, and the air smelled of damp earth. Dunk was already awake, the fire rebuilt, your horse saddled and grazing peacefully nearby. He handed you a piece of dried fruit and a waterskin, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting second. You both pretended not to notice.

The path today was narrow, winding along the edge of a steep embankment that dropped away to a rushing river below. He walked even closer to your horse than before, so near you could feel the warmth of his body through your dress. His presence was a constant, solid thing, a wall of muscle and iron between you and the drop.

“You will wear yourself out, walking so,” you said.

“It is my duty.”

“It is not your duty to be tired on my account.”

He said nothing, but you felt the flex of his jaw as he clenched it.

Later, when you came to a fallen tree blocking the path, you foolishly attempted to guide your horse over it instead of waiting for him to clear the way. The horse shied, lost its footing on the slick moss, and for a terrifying moment, you were sliding sideways, heading for the embankment.

Then you were not falling.

You were in his arms.

One of his big hands was on your back, the other gripping your waist, holding you as easily as if you weighed no more than a feather. He had moved faster than you could think, stepping into the path of the horse, planting himself like an oak, and pulling you from the saddle.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the pounding of your own blood in your ears, the smell of leather and sweat and the cold river air, and the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. His face was inches from yours, his blue eyes wide with a fear that was quickly replaced by something else. Something that made your stomach clench.

“Are you hurt, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

You shook your head, unable to speak.

He set you down as if you were precious porcelain, taking a quick step back, his cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon.”

“Don’t,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Don’t apologize for saving me.”

“I should have cleared the path sooner. I was not thinking.”

“You were thinking of my safety. That is enough.”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “The ground is uneven here. It would be better if you walked, Your Grace. I will lead the horse.”

You wanted to protest, to say you were not some delicate flower who could not navigate a little rough terrain. But you looked at the steep drop, at the way the horse was still nervously sidestepping, and you knew he was right.

You nodded, and he offered you his arm.

His arm was like a tree trunk, solid and strong beneath your fingers. The rough wool of his tunic scratched your skin, a startlingly real sensation after years of silks and velvets. You walked behind him, your hand on his arm, your other hand clutching the reins of your horse, feeling the warmth of him seeping into you.

The silence was thick with unspoken things. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held himself rigidly, as if he were afraid of breaking.

“You have strong hands,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He stumbled, catching himself quickly. “They are just hands, Your Grace.”

“They are more than that. They caught me.”

He stopped, turning to face you. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his face. “It is my duty to protect you.”

“And is it your duty to blush when I thank you?”

A deep red crept up his neck, and he looked away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Seven hells.”

You laughed, a genuine, unexpected laugh that seemed to startle him as much as it did you. “You are not like the knights at court, Ser Duncan.”

“I am not a knight at court.”

“No. You are… better.”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes searching yours, and for the first time, you saw not just a guard, but a man. A man who was lost, and lonely, and so very good. And in that moment, you felt a pull towards him, a dangerous, irresistible pull that scared you more than any wolf or embankment ever could.

You reached up and touched the scar on his jaw, your fingers tracing the rough, puckered skin. He flinched, but did not pull away.

“Where did you get this?” you asked softly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering the memory. “A fight. In Flea Bottom. I was… younger.”

“Who did you fight?”

“A man. Much bigger than me.”

You smiled. “I find that hard to believe.”

“He had a knife.”

“And you?”

“I had my fists.”

You let your fingers linger, feeling the rough texture of the scar. “You must have been very brave.”

“No,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Just stubborn.”

Your fingers stilled on his jaw. “There is a difference between the two, Ser Duncan. Bravery is knowing the danger and facing it anyway. Stubbornness is… something else. Something harder.”

He finally met your gaze fully, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw a flicker of something you hadn't seen before. Not fear, not duty, but a spark of curiosity, of genuine interest. “What is it, then?” he asked.

“You don’t care for glory,” you said, your thumb gently stroking the line of his jaw. “You don’t care for praise or recognition. You care about doing what is right, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts you. That’s not stubbornness. That’s honor.”

He swallowed hard, and you watched the movement of his throat. “My master… Ser Arlan… he said a knight’s word is his bond. His shield is for the weak. His sword is for those who cannot defend themselves.” He looked away, toward the river rushing far below. “I’m not very good with words, Your Grace. I only know how to do what he taught me.”

“You are doing it beautifully.”

He blushed again, that deep, honest red that started at his neck and crept up to the tips of his ears. It was the most endearing thing you had ever seen.

As you walked, the path became even more treacherous. The ground was loose and gravelly, and your fine leather slippers offered little purchase. You stumbled, and before you could fall, Dunk’s other arm came around you, steadying you. His grip was firm but gentle, and for a moment, you were completely enveloped by him, your back pressed against his chest, his arms circling your waist.

“I have you,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Your Grace.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, frantic beat. You could feel the solid strength of him, the warmth of his body, the steady thrum of his own heart against your back. It was more intimate than any dance, more thrilling than any kiss.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.

He held you for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before slowly releasing you, but he kept one hand on your arm, a reassuring presence. “We should find a place to camp soon,” he said, his voice a little rough.

The road eventually led you not back to the wild, but to the lights of a small inn, a welcome sight after days of rough travel. Its sign, a weathered depiction of a crow perched on a branch, creaked in the evening breeze. The place was called The Blackbird's Rest.

The common room was warm and smelled of roasting meat and spilled ale. Dunk, with his imposing height and worn armor, drew every eye as he led you to a corner table. He was a wolf among sheep, but he seemed unaware of his own teeth, so focused was he on you.

He pulled out a chair for you, a courtly gesture that seemed at odds with his rough exterior.

“What will you have, Your Grace?” he asked.

“Whatever is warm,” you said, a weariness settling over you that had little to do with the journey.

He ordered a simple stew and bread for you both, along with a mug of ale for himself and a cup of wine for you. As he spoke to the innkeeper, you noticed the way he held himself, straight-backed and proud, despite the dirt on his boots and the worn state of his armor.

The stew was surprisingly good, and you ate with a hunger you hadn't realized you possessed. Dunk watched you as if your enjoyment gave him some small pleasure.

“After this,” he said, when you had both finished, “I will see if there are stables for your horse, and a place for me to sleep.”

“I will have a room prepared for you,” you said, assuming it would be a simple matter.

He shook his head. “That is not necessary, Your Grace. A bed in the stables is all I need.”

“Nonsense. You have been walking for days. You deserve a proper bed.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but then the innkeeper’s wife, a woman with a kind face, approached your table. “Pardon me, my lord, my lady,” she said, her eyes darting between you. “It’s a busy night, what with the harvest festival in the next village. I’ve only got one room left.”

Dunk’s face fell. “And the stables?”

“Full to bursting, I’m afraid.”

He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “We will take the room,” you said, before he could speak.

“Are you sure, Your Grace?” he asked, once the woman had gone.

He carried your small chest of belongings up the narrow stairs himself, despite your protests that the innkeeper could do it. The room was small, with a large bed taking up most of the space, and a washstand in the corner. He set the chest down by the door, then turned to face you, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I will sleep on the floor,” he said, before you could even ask.

“Ser Duncan, there is no need-”

“There is every need, Your Grace.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “You will take the bed.”

You sighed, knowing it was a battle you would not win. “Very well. But at least take some blankets.”

He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of his head. “I will see to the horse. And wash. The stables have a pump with cold water.”

“Do not be long,” you said, the words out before you could stop them.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I will be as quick as I can.”

When he was gone, you opened your chest, the fine fabrics of your dresses a stark contrast to the rough-hewn wood of the room. You chose a simple nightgown of soft linen, then a maid from the inn arrived with a large tub of steaming water, which she placed on the floor near the fire.

“My lady,” she said, curtsying. “My lady sent me up to help you.”

You thanked her, and soon you were sinking into the hot water, the steam rising around you in fragrant clouds. The heat seeped into your tired muscles, and you sighed, closing your eyes.

The maid began to wash your hair, her fingers working through the long, silver-gold strands. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the room, a luxury after days on the road. You let your mind drift, thoughts of your father, the Dornish prince, and the life you had left behind fading into a pleasant haze.

It was then that the door creaked open.

You opened your eyes, and through the steam, you saw him.

Ser Duncan the Tall, standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from his wash at the pump, his face clean for the first time since you’d met him. He had changed into a simple tunic and breeches, the worn fabric clinging to the powerful lines of his body.

And he was staring at you.

Not with the lustful gaze of a courtier, but with a kind of wide-eyed, breathless awe. As if he had stumbled upon a goddess bathing in a sacred pool.

Your own breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still, to meet his gaze without flinching. There was something in his eyes; something raw and utterly captivating.

“Thank you,” you said to the maid, your voice surprisingly steady. “You may go.”

The maid curtsied, her eyes darting between you and the knight, and then she scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

You and Dunk were alone.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The steam rose from the water, cloaking you in a veil of white.

“Your Grace,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “I… I did not mean to intrude. I thought you would be… dressed.”

He didn't move, though. He stood there, a statue of a man, trapped between the desire to flee and the overwhelming need to look.

“I am not dressed,” you said, a hint of amusement in your tone.

A deep red crept up his neck, but he still didn't turn away. “I should go.”

“Stay.”

The word was a whisper, but it was a command nonetheless.

He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat a testament to his struggle. “It would not be proper.”

“Nothing about this journey has been proper,” you countered, your voice gaining strength. “You have saved my life, carried my burdens, and walked for miles to keep me safe. I think you have earned the right to stay.”

He looked down at the floor, at the rough wooden planks, as if they might offer him an escape. “Your Grace… a man should not see a princess… like this.”

“Then don't look at a princess,” you said, your voice softening. “Look at me.”

He looked up then, and the raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes stole your breath. He looked at you as if you were the only woman in the world, as if you were water to a man dying of thirst.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he took a step forward.

He didn't come close enough to touch you, but he was no longer in the doorway. He was in the room with you, a part of this private, intimate space. The air crackled with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

You watched him, your heart pounding in your chest. You saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way his breathing grew shallow.

The water sloshed gently against your skin as you shifted, turning your back to him slightly. The motion was small, but it felt monumental. You were offering him your trust.

“Ser Duncan,” you said, your voice soft, “would you… would you finish washing my hair? The maid left before she was done.”

For a moment, he didn't move. You could see the struggle on his face, the war between what was proper and what was suddenly, terrifyingly possible.

“Your Grace…” he began, his voice rough.

“You promised to obey,” you reminded him, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That is not the kind of obedience I meant.”

“I know,” you said, your tone gentle. “But I am asking you. As a woman, not a princess. Please?”

He looked at you for a long, silent moment, and then, slowly, he nodded.

He knelt by the tub, his large frame folding with grace. His knees sank into the rough wooden floor, and you could feel the warmth of the fire radiating from him. He dipped his hands into the water, then hesitated, his fingers hovering just above your hair.

“You have beautiful hair, Your Grace,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“And you have gentle hands, Ser Duncan,” you replied, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers finally made contact with your scalp.

His touch was surprisingly light, almost hesitant. He had the hands of a warrior, calloused and strong, but he handled you as if you were the most precious thing. He worked the soap into a lather, his fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made you want to lean back into his touch, to lose yourself in the sensation.

“You are not looking at me,” you said, your eyes closed.

“I am,” he said, his voice strained. “I am looking at your hair.”

“Look at me, Duncan.”

He paused, his hands still in your hair. The use of his name, without the honorific, hung in the air between you, a bridge you had just crossed, and there was no going back.

Slowly, he raised his eyes.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and the world seemed to shrink to the small space between you. The fire crackled, the water lapped against your skin, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw a reflection of yourself that you had never seen before.

“Why did you refuse the prince from Dorne?” he asked, his fingers resuming their work in your hair.

“The same reason I refused the lord from the Reach, and the prince from the North,” you said, your voice soft. “They wanted a princess. Not a person.”

“What is the difference?”

“A princess is a prize. A thing to be won, to be displayed on a lord’s arm. A person has thoughts, and fears, and dreams of her own.”

“And what are your dreams, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice so low you could barely hear it.

“Call me by my name,” you said, turning your head slightly to look at him. “And maybe I will tell you.”

He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat a testament to his struggle.

You told him, and he repeated it, as if testing the shape of it on his tongue. It sounded different when he said it. Not like a name, but like a prayer.

He rinsed your hair, the water cascading down your back, warm and clean. Then he picked up a towel, and with a gentleness that brought tears to your eyes, he began to dry your hair, his hands moving with a care that spoke volumes.

“My dream,” you said “is of a life where I am not a prize. Where I am loved for who I am, not what I am.”

He stopped, the towel still in his hands. “Any man would be a fool not to love you, Your…,” he started, then corrected himself. “Any man would be a fool not to love you.”

“Would you?” you asked, the question hanging in the air between you, a challenge and a plea.

“I…,” he began, then stopped, as if the words were too heavy to speak. He simply looked at you, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw an answer that was more honest than any words could ever be.

Your fingers tightened around the rough edge of the soap as you held it out to him. His gaze dropped from your face to the offering in your hand, then back again.

"Wash my back, Duncan," you said, your voice a breathy whisper.

He took the soap, his calloused fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a shiver through you, a current that traveled up your arm and down your spine. He knelt again, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you leaned forward, presenting your back to him.

His hands were hesitant at first, tracing the curve of your spine with a gentleness that belied their strength. Then, lathering the soap, he began to wash you. His touch was firm yet reverent, as if he were touching something sacred. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the water, the slight roughness against your skin. It was intoxicating.

You leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping your lips. You could feel the tension radiating from him, a palpable thing that filled the small room. You knew this was as hard for him as it was for you.

"Have you been with many women, Duncan?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

His hands stilled on your back. "No, Your Grace," he said, his voice strained.

"I told you to call me by my name," you said, turning your head to look at him.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "No," he said, meeting your gaze. "I have not."

"Why not?"

"Knighthood… it's a vow. Not just to a lord, but to something more. Something higher. I have tried to live by that vow."

"And this?" you asked, your gaze drifting down to where he knelt. "Does this break your vow?"

He followed your gaze, and you saw the unmistakable evidence of his desire, a hard ridge straining against the fabric of his breeches. He blushed, a deep, mortified red.

"Your Grace… I am sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I cannot control… I am only a man."

"I know," you said, your voice soft. "And I am only a woman. Not a princess. Not a prize. Just a woman, in a tub, with a man she desires."

His eyes widened, and you knew your words had struck him with the force of a physical blow. He looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time, not as a responsibility, but as a woman.

He finished washing your back, his hands moving with a new urgency, a new purpose. Then he stood up, the water dripping from his hands onto the floor.

"I should go," he said, his back to you.

"Don't."

He turned, and the look on his face was one of such raw, unadulterated longing that it made your breath catch.

"I am not good enough for you," he said, the words ripped from the depths of his soul. "I am a hedge knight from Flea Bottom. I have nothing to offer you but my sword, my shield, and my life. You deserve… you deserve better."

"You are the best man I have ever known," you said, your voice unwavering. "And that is all I have ever wanted."

He looked at you, a storm of emotions warring in his eyes. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Yes, I do," you said, rising from the tub, the water streaming from your body. "I am asking you to see me. Not as your duty, but as your equal. As your desire."

You stood before him, naked and unashamed, a goddess of fire. And he looked at you, and in that moment, you knew he saw you. Truly saw you.

He took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing before you, a towering monument of a man. He raised his hand, as if to touch your face, then let it fall to his side.

"Your…," he began, then stopped, the word catching in his throat.

You reached up and took his hand, placing it on your cheek. His skin was rough and warm, a startlingly real sensation. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, and you felt him shudder.

"Dunk," you whispered.

He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the clean scent of him, the faint trace of soap. His blue eyes were dark with a desire.

"May I?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

You answered him by closing the small distance between you, pressing your lips against his.

His lips were surprisingly soft, hesitant at first, then more demanding. It was a kiss of a thousand unspoken words, of repressed desires and a desperate, aching need. It was the kiss of a princess who had never been truly kissed, and of a hedge knight who had never allowed himself to truly love.

You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp brown hair. He was so warm, so solid, so real. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against your breasts, the rough fabric of his tunic growing damp with the water from your skin. He was so tall, you had to stand on your toes, and as he sensed your struggle, he lifted you, his hands cupping your bottom, pulling you flush against him.

You gasped into his mouth at the sudden contact, at the feel of his hard length pressing against your belly. He was huge, a powerful, virile man in the prime of his life, and the evidence of his desire was both thrilling and a little terrifying.

He carried you to the bed, never breaking the kiss. He laid you down on the soft linens, then stretched out beside you, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you.

"You are so beautiful," he said, his voice a whisper. He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, then the hollow of your throat.

The fur of the bed was a soft, warm cocoon against your naked skin. He knelt beside you, his gaze intense, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of you.

"Duncan," you said, your voice a breathy whisper.

He was a warrior, a man who had faced down death without flinching, but here, in this small room, with you, he was undone.

"I am not good enough for you," he said, his voice cracking. "You deserve a prince. A lord."

"I don't want a prince. I don't want a lord," you said, your voice unwavering. "I want you."

You reached out and took his head in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You are good, Duncan. You are kind. You are the most honorable man I have ever known. And you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen."

He trembled under your touch, a fine shudder running through his large frame. He was completely, utterly at your mercy.

"Tell me what you want," you said, your voice soft but firm.

"You," he said, the word a choked sob. "Gods help me, I want you."

"Then have me," you said, and you pulled him up for another kiss.

This kiss was different. It was not hesitant or questioning. It was a kiss of a man finally giving in to a desire he had fought for so long. His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the softness of your thighs.

You arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips. You could feel the heat building between you, a fire that threatened to consume you both.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.

Then he kissed a path down your neck, his lips trailing fire across your skin. He nipped at your collarbone, then moved lower, his mouth closing over one of your nipples.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed. He was strong, so strong, and the pleasure was almost overwhelming. He suckled you, his tongue swirling around the hard peak, sending the pleasure straight to your core.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, desperate for more. With your free hand, you fumbled with the laces of his tunic, your fingers clumsy with need. He helped you, pulling the garment over his head, and you gasped at the sight of him.

His chest was a landscape of muscle and scars, a testament to a life of hardship and violence. You reached out, your fingers tracing the jagged lines of an old wound.

"Duncan," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

He captured your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss. "It is nothing," he said, his voice rough. "They are just old hurts."

"They are a part of you," you said, your gaze unwavering. "And I want all of you."

He looked at you, a raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes. Then he kissed you again, stealing the very air from your lungs. His hands roamed your body, learning every curve, every hollow, every secret place that made you writhe beneath him.

He was a quick study. He learned the language of your body, the way you arched into his touch, the way your breath stopped when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He was a knight, and he was determined to master this new form of combat.

He moved lower, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire down your stomach. You tangled your fingers in the fur beneath you, your hips rising to meet him, a silent plea for more. He understood.

He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. You were already so wet for him, so ready, and when his tongue finally made contact with your core, you cried out, a raw, primal sound. Pleasure.

He was surprisingly good at this, a natural. He explored you with a focused intensity, his tongue delving, swirling, and stroking. He found the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, and when he sucked it into his mouth, your vision went white.

"Duncan," you cried, your hands fisting in his hair. "Gods, Duncan."

He doubled his efforts, his tongue working with a relentless rhythm, pushing you higher and higher, until you were teetering on the very edge of oblivion. You shattered, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

He didn't stop, not until you were a quiverin mess, your body limp and sated. Then he moved back up your body, his kisses hot and demanding. You could feel the desperation in him, the raw, aching need.

His breeches were still on, a final, flimsy barrier between you. You fumbled with the laces, your fingers clumsy with desire. His hips jerked against your hand, a choked gasp escaping his lips.

"Please," he groaned, the word ripped from the depths of his soul. "Please..."

You finally managed to undo the laces, and you pushed the fabric down, your hand closing around his hard length.

He was magnificent. Hot, heavy, and impossibly hard, he was a testament to raw, masculine power. He was huge, a beautiful, intimidating sight that made your core clench with anticipation.

He was panting, his chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He spread your legs apart with his powerful thighs, his body trembling with a need so intense it bordered on pain.

You guided him to your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he buried himself inside you.

You both cried out, a shared gasp of pleasure and relief.

He was so hot, a living flame inside you, and you couldn't stop your hands from roaming all over him. You explored the hard planes of his back, the powerful muscles of his buttocks, the crisp hair on his chest. You felt a fire building in your lower belly, an ache that only he could soothe.

He was so big, and you were so small, and the sensation of him filling you, stretching you, was almost overwhelming.

He held himself still, letting you adjust, letting your body accept him. He looked down at you, his blue eyes dark with an emotion that went beyond mere desire. It was reverence, adoration, a love so pure it made your heart ache.

"Gods," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Gods, you feel... you feel so good."

You pulled him down for a kiss, your tongue tangling with his, tasting yourself on his lips. You moved your hips, a silent invitation, and he began to move.

His thrusts were slow at first, a deep, steady rhythm that built the fire in your belly until it was a roaring inferno. He watched your face, learning what you liked, what made you gasp, what made you cry out his name.

"Dunk" you moaned, your fingers digging into his back. "Please... harder..."

He obliged, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. He was a powerful man, and he was using every ounce of that power to pleasure you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal rhythm that spoke of a need as old as time itself.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting all of him. He was so big, so strong, and the feel of him moving inside you was the only thing you needed.

You shifted, rolling him onto his back without breaking your connection. He looked up at you, a moan of surprise escaping his lips, but he went willingly, a knight yielding to his queen.

You sat up, straddling his hips, and the change in angle sent another jolt of pleasure through you. You began to move, a slow, sensuous rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head.

"Gods," he groaned, his hands finding your hips, his grip tight. "Gods, you are... you are magnificent."

You rode him, your body undulating, your silver-gold hair cascading over your shoulders. You were in control now, a goddess of fire and moonlight, and he was your willing worshipper.

He watched you with a mixture of awe and adoration. He reached up, his hands covering yours where they rested on his chest.

"I am your knight," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Till the day I die. I am at your service... and at your mercy."

"Then show me," you said, your voice a breathy moan. "Show me how a knight serves his princess."

He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips hot against your skin.

"With my life," he breathed, his hips rising to meet yours. "With my sword... with my shield... with everything I am... I am sworn to you."

He kissed you, a deep, possessive kiss that claimed you as surely as any vow. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples, pleasure spreading through your core.

You rode him harder, faster, the fire in your belly building to an unbearable crescendo. You were so close, teetering on the very edge of oblivion, and you knew he was too.

He could feel it too. He could feel the tightening of your body, the desperate flutter of your heart. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close, and with a final, powerful thrust, he sent you over the edge.

You shattered, a scream of ecstasy tearing from your throat. Your body convulsed, wave after wave of pleasure washing over you, leaving you breathless.

He followed you moments later, a deep, guttural groan ripped from the depths of his soul. He held you tight, as he poured himself into you, a silent offering.

For a long while, you lay tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged. He was still inside you, a warm, heavy presence that was both comforting and deeply intimate.

You shifted, trying to move off him, but his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Stay," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Just for a little while."

You relaxed against him, your head pillowed on his chest. You could hear the reassuring beat of his heart, a rhythm that soothed your frayed nerves. The fur beneath you was a soft, warm cocoon, the fire in the hearth a low, crackling glow.

This was peace. This was what you had been searching for your whole life.

You drifted off to sleep, feeling warmth in his arms, a contented sigh escaping your lips. He watched you, a faint smile on his face, as you slept. He had never felt so... whole.

He knew this was a dream, a fleeting moment of happiness in a world that was determined to tear him apart.

But for now, in this small room, in this inn, with you in his arms, he was the luckiest man in the world.

Author’s Note:

Hiiii! I was honestly scared I’d lost my ability to write, but I sat down today and this came out. It’s a little rough around the edges, but I’m just so happy to be here, putting words into the world again. Thanks for reading. ❤️‍🔥

The thought almost seemed baffling, especially when he described it to the rest of his task force. He could hear Johnny's voice in his head - "Fuckin' hell Simon, when did you decide to become a daddy?" The snickers coming from his other teammates, met with a sharp glare from him. He didn't expect it himself, he never saw himself as a family man, nor did he really want to become one. Raising a brat at his age? If he wanted a kid he should have attempted a few years ago, but now it felt like he was a bit too 'old' to decide. Nonetheless, when the lady he met at the pub talked about her daughter, he stiffened. He thought about turning away, not showing up to the next date, either ghosting her or telling her it wouldn't work out. But he didn't. He sought it out, and the outcome? What a fucking mess. The reason he was up so early, not because of insomnia this time, but the urge to leave and get away for a while. He wished that Price would hit him up, asking him to return to his job and get deployed. He didn't run from fights, but he ran from nagging women. Especially ones that threatened to cheat on him with some bloke over something so petty - coming home later than expected, not answering his phone cause he was out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere, shooting shit with Johnny and sharing drinks and stories.

It was a goddamn mess. Amanda wasn't even home, she decided that last night, she'd have fun of her own. And so, Simon woke up in an empty bed, came out to have a cig, and now...

A black Lexus is350 pulls beside his house, and here his girlfriend comes out, wearing a tight dress - the same one he approached her in at the pub. It's a short burgundy dress, that perfectly complements her pale skin and dark brown hair. Her makeup is smudged and she's walking up his driveway barefoot and holding her nude colored heels, her phone and purse tucked underneath her arm. Maybe she's so hungover that she doesn't even notice that Simon is sitting on the front porch, watching her. "Where 'ave you been?" He asks lowly, and she stiffens hearing his voice. She keeps her head low, "out." Her answer makes him want to roll his eyes. "Yeah?" He stands up, tossing the cigarette butt and blowing out the last bit of smoke. When he gets closer, he notices a purplish hue on her neck. His eyes narrow, "what the fuck?"

Her hand shoots up to cover her neck, "what are you doing?" He doesn't answer, his hand wraps around her wrist tightly, yanking it away from the obvious hickey. "You fuckin' serious? You that petty?" He sneered, and she scoffs in return. "Don't act all mad now. You've been fucking distant, and now you want to act like I'm still yours? Fuck off Simon." He blocks her path before she can make it to the front door, trying to hold back his anger but failing. It's always shown in him, the hardest feeling to hide out of all of them.

Hard to mask the clench of his jaw, tightening of his fist, the way his eyes narrow, staring right through her very being. "You're a fuckin' slut, you know tha'?"

Amanda decides that she shouldn't stay here. When she finally makes it past Simon, she walks to their shared bedroom and grabs her things. She doesn't bother to wake you up, she just packs a bag and leaves, getting in her car and getting the fuck out. Your mom's lack of accountability has always been her biggest issue. It's what caused the dispute in the last relationship, part of the reason why your dad had signed the divorce papers. Thankfully you two still kept in touch, but she was salty about that fact. By the time you wake up, you're heading out from the hallway and finding Simon, or your 'step-dad' making himself a mug of tea. "Good morning...where's my mom?" You yawn, grabbing a mug from the cupboard, starting up the coffee machine.

Your living situation has changed rather quickly, but you have adapted well to it. Your mom still had that apartment, but rarely would you two stay there. You thought her decision to move in with this guy, or rather move into his house was a rash decision, that she should have given more thought but didn't. Nonetheless, you were now here with him, and he wasn't an obnoxious person, obviously. He didn't say anything, standing still and drinking from his mug, his broad back facing you. When he sets down the mug, his voice lacks any emotion. "Left. Cheated on me with some fucker." Your eyes widen at the news. Not that it was unlike her, but for something to happen within a year into the relationship? You sigh, "I'm...really sorry." He glanced at you, "not your fault." He murmured, glancing back down into his mug. When you step closer, you notice a sheen layer of sweat across his skin. He's got grey sweats, that hang slightly low on his hips, just enough to give you a good visual of that pronounced V-line, the slight happy trail and otherwise trimmed chest. He's well built - tall, broad back and shoulders, muscular, that tapered waist that lots of men aimed for in the gym.

And, like any other man who's been in the military, he's very active. His garage is a makeshift gym, which you found out when accidentally walking in on him, shirtless and working out. "Oi." He says, nudging you. You blink, after realizing you've been staring at him, and you quickly look away. "Sorry, were you saying something?"

He almost smirks, but holds it back. "No. Just wonderin' why you're staring at me like I'm a piece of meat." Your eyes widen, "I'm not!" You quickly say, and he steps closer and it interrupts whatever you're going to say next. " 's alright. I'm used to it," he says, in a way that sounds both sarcastic but probably true. He's really good looking, especially at his age. You roll your eyes, "you're full of yourself. I was not...I was just thinking about what you said." Your footsteps circle around the island counter, reaching the fridge and pulling out the pumpkin flavored creamer. His nose scrunched at the sight but he fixed his face. "What? That she cheated?" He says gruffly, sipping his warm tea.

"yeah. I'm still sorry." You say, pouring just a tad bit of creamer into your mug. He looks away. "Don't worry 'bout it." There's a prolonged silence, between the sounds of you sipping your coffee and him sipping his tea, or the chirping of birds outside. It's almost 9 am, which means that Simon's been awake for about 3 hours and 40 minutes thinking about what to do next. Breaking up should've been the automatic solution, but something was stopping him from making that choice. Was it you? His gaze wandered over to you next, watching you sit at the island counter, scroll on your phone and drink your coffee. He doesn't know why he's always doing that - looking at you in that way. Assessing you. Judging. From the outside, you don't seem that different from other girls your age, you like shopping, hanging out with friends, like any other. But there are things about you that make him think you're innocent. When you don't understand the banter between him and your mom, certain dirty jokes. You just tilt your head and look up at him like you're so confused, like you want him to teach you.

Simon's not like that. He doesn't go for girls that young. Legality wasn't an issue, he just felt that eighteen still wasn't an adult, nor was nineteen. He had no issue dating women his own age, he felt that it was appropriate. But your charm and innocence, it was slowly drawing him towards you, like he was a bloody fish and you were the fisherman, slowly reeling him in, with your smiles and laughs, the way you're unaware of your own beauty. And a part of him thinks that it's just his mind fucking with him, or trying to get a sort of revenge, to have something to rub in her face. But it didn't feel like that. Conversation was natural between the two of you, he found himself talking to you more often than not. Before, he didn't pay much attention. You were already 'grown', it wasn't like you needed a parent. A stranger acting like your father, when you already had one in your life. That role wasn't for him to take. So he laid back.

It's another morning. Him and Amanda haven't spoken since, ignoring each other, avoiding at all costs. She was rarely home now, almost forgetting that she dragged her own daughter along in this. Simon notices this distance and tries to fix it by leaving the house more, maybe she won't feel so suffocated and will come back for you. But instead, when you tell him that she hasn't come back or called, his blood boils. When he brings it up to her, it leads to another fight, and somehow he's kicked out of his own fucking room. Before he can walk to the couch for the night, you poke your head out of your bedroom. "Simon." You whisper, and he turned to see you, looking up at him so innocently. "Yeah?" He says lowly, watching you motion for him to come inside. He pauses, but makes the decision to come in. Closing the door behind him, he finds you in pajamas - a light pink colored spaghetti strap tank top, grey short shorts that are so short they look like underwear. He wasn't very modest himself, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing on top.

"What?" He asks gruffly, muscular arms crossed over his chest, the action making his biceps bulge deliciously, a pretty vein popping from the muscle. "Sleep in here," you say, patting your queen sized bed. He looks reluctant. Knowing how this looks, you quickly reassure him. "I'll sleep on the floor or something, you should take the bed." He scoffs at that answer, not liking how nice you're being to him. "Hell no. M' takin the couch tonight." He says, watching you. All you do is shake your head, the action messing up your pretty hair. Fuck.

"Don't shake your head, you'll get yourself dizzy..." He mumbled, stepping closer. He glanced around the space, what used to be his guest room had turned into a room for you. Not much had changed, besides the pink bedding, stuffed animals, and vanity. "I won't. Why are you guys fighting?" You ask, sitting next to him. The size difference between you two makes him pause momentarily. "You." He says bluntly, not bothering to sugarcoat things. He looks at your face, he knows that look, you're getting ready to apologize. He scoffs and cuts you off. "Don't say sorry. I was tellin' her how she needs to be around you more. She takes everything I say the wrong way. We fought. End of story."

Something inside you feels warm, at the idea of him fighting for you. Seeing you smile suddenly, he feels the urge to replicate it. He doesn't. "What?"

"Nothing...that's just really sweet of you." At that, he scoffs again, but reaches out and messes up your hair, his fingers lingering in the soft strands a bit too long, sliding down to cup the side of your face. The sudden position feels intimate, the two of you looking at each other. His gaze drifts down, admiring the cleavage from your tank top, the way your thighs naturally squish together. Fuck, he shouldn't...

But then you start to lean in, and he finds himself drawn in, unable to stop. His stubble scratches at your soft skin, his lips are soft against yours. Your hand rests on his large arm, squeezing as you two deepen the kiss, becoming more needy, heated. His tongue's against yours, and he groans deeply, losing himself in the kiss. His dick is instantly hard, and he guides your hand to it. At your small gasp he smirks finally, "feel tha'?" He murmured, and at your shy nod he pushes himself into your palm, while his hand on top of yours pressed your hand down, giving him the much needed pressure. "Fuck..." He groans, "Fuck." Suddenly he takes your hand off his crotch, standing up immediately. The two of you are breathing heavily, looking at each other with a deep need. But he knows this isn't right, fuck.

"I want it." You suddenly say, standing up, pulling him closer. "Fuck me," he says, knowing he can't hold himself back any longer. "You're makin' it hard for me love..." He warns you, his brows furrowed. "I only want to make you hard." Your words catch him off guard. "This ..this isn't anything like a revenge." He says, looking at you, "you understand, yeah?"

To show him that you in fact, do understand, you pull him close again, and kiss him. The kiss leaves you both panting, licking each other's tongues, his mouth trailing down your jaw. He pushes you back onto the bed, unbuckling his belt, kicking his jeans off, until he's in his boxers, in between your opened legs. Using your hips, he pulls you up and closer into him, kissing you hard, pressing his dick against your own clothed pussy. Your shorts are so thin that he can feel that cunt throbbing for him, and it makes him pull back, pressing open mouthed kisses down your neck, down to your cleavage where he yanks down the top of your tank top, freeing those perfect tits. "Been wanting this so fucking long." He says, sucking on one of your nipples, a hand clasping over your mouth to keep you from making noise. The other hand squeezes your other tit, before he switches, and then tears off your tank top. "Simon..." You pant. "Yeah?" He says, kissing your belly, then kissing you right through your shorts. "I...it's my first time."

He stops completely, looking up at you from between your legs. He sits up, still kneeling between your legs. "It is?" He almost looks worried but it's hard to tell, he's a master at hiding how he truly feels. "No, I'm just messing with you." You giggled softly, and he lets out a grunt. "Not funny." A sudden, yet hot kiss right to your clothed cunt stops your laughter, making you push your hips up into his mouth. He groans, licking and sucking through your shorts. "Wanna taste this pretty cunt...make you fuckin' cry and beg for more," he says, deliberately teasing you and knowing it. The look on your face has him so fucking hard, the way your brows are furrowed with frustration, the part of your pretty lips, letting out pretty noises and frustrated whines. "Look at you..." He says, slowly pulling your shorts down, purposely leaving your panties on. He internally admires the lacey white, leaning down and licking through your sheer panties, making your hands tug down at the straps. "Stop." He grabs your wrists, sitting up on his knees again. He grabs a hold of his belt, the sound of it swishing out of the denim loops makes you lift your head to see, and now he's restraining your hands above your head, buckling them together. "You look so fucking innocent. And look at you...spreading your fuckin' legs for me. You want me to eat this pussy?" He asks, licking your bikini line, and you quickly nod. "Yes Simon, yes..." Your hips push up, but he holds them down.

He spanks your cunt, making your thighs tuck up to your chest, a whimper escaping your mouth. "Not Simon. Sir. You got tha'?" He grabs your neck, and you nod quickly, "yes sir."

"Good." He says, tearing your panties off, the noise of lace ripping makes you almost cringe. "I'll buy you more. And rip those off too." He says, wasting no time, spreading your pussy open, eyes glinting at how wet you are. He runs his finger up and down your slit, the light, wet squelching making his cock throb. "Such a dirty fucking girl...getting wet for your step-daddy." He says mockingly, watching how you try to tuck your thighs closer to hide how wet you are, like it's embarrassing. He pries them open, leaning down and licking as stripe up your pussy, sucking on a lip before his tongue delves in between your folds, eventually making its way up to your clit, sucking on it hard.

Your moans get silenced by a rough palm, his eyes warning you to stay silent, but it's nearly impossible when his mouth is making you feel so fucking good. You whine against his palm, his fingers squeeze your face enough to shut you up. A finger rubs against your weeping slit, prying inside you, curling up and hitting your sweet spot, your pussy soaking his face as you cum hard. It feels hot and warm, a gush between your legs as he sucked hard on your clit. You panted heavily, removing his hand off your mouth, "fuck..." You panted, watching as he stood up, his cock rock hard in his boxers. "Take em off." He orders you, letting you catch your breath before you sit up on your knees, kneeling by the edge of the bed as you pull down his boxers, his cock bobbing as it's released from its confines. His large hand tangled in your hair. "Want me to be rough with you?" He asks, seeking permission, wanting to see what you liked. Seeing you nod so eagerly, he doesn't hesitate. He smacks you, not hard but not softly, before grabbing your face. "Spit on it," he instructs, holding the base of his cock, stepping closer and pushing the pink tip to your lips. You gather the spit in your mouth, before spitting on his length. Once he's satisfied, he tightens his grip in your hair slightly, "spread it around with your tongue. Fuck, jus' like that...nice and slow," he groans, feeling the warmth of your tongue, sliding up and down his length, tracing a vein on his cock. He lifts his dick slightly, letting you lick underneath. "Fuck baby...lick it up, slowly." His hand tightens, watching as you lick up the length of his cock again, your tongue wrapping around his tip, making you suck. He pushes himself slowly into your mouth, slowly thrusting, trying not to groan. It was so fucking hot but also taboo, fucking his own step-daughter like this... Watching his dick disappear into that pretty mouth.

You moan around his cock, relishing in the way he fills your mouth so fucking good. It was hard to hide the surprise on your face, he was fucking big and thick. "Fuck yeah..." He groans, "take that dick," he hisses, fucking your mouth urgently. You suck him deep, obediently, looking up at him and holding onto his hips. He pulls you off his cock with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting to his length and tip, "suck on my balls too," he says, watching as you obey immediately, sucking and licking on one, making his eyes roll back. He groans as you suck your way back up to his cock, slowly pumping the base while sucking on the tip, taking him in deep again, letting him fuck your mouth. "Good fucking girl," he praises, grunting quietly as he cums hard into your mouth. "Swallow it." He says sternly, squeezing your cheeks together after pulling his cock out of your mouth. When he sees your throat bob, he slips a thumb in.

"We can't fuck right now. You won't be able to be quiet," he murmured into your ear, kissing your jaw. The way he's so confident in his own abilities, it's so fucking hot. "What makes you so confident?" You say, almost defiantly. He lays you down slowly, "you want me to show you, love?"

He didn't lie. Your hands, or his replacing yours, weren't enough. You were moaning into his rough palm, your legs spread open, with him pounding into your pussy, his heavy balls smacking your ass as your pussy sucked him in deep. He was groaning lowly, "so fucking tight." "Dirty fucking girl, taking her step-dads dick. Be quiet, your mom's gonna wake up." He warns into your ear, while pounding into you harder and faster. His cock fills you up so well, stretching your pussy out deliciously. It's so hard to stay quiet, it almost makes you wish you hadn't challenged him, but at the same time it feels so fucking good you're in pure ecstacy.

"feels so good, fuck, I'm so full," you moan, almost sounding incoherent with his hand slipping on and off your mouth, a hand smacking you when you don't keep your promise of staying quiet. "Stay quiet," he hisses, "I fucking ..can't," you say in between pants, eyes rolling back when his thumb rubs over your wet clit, creating a delicious, squelching sound, adding to the noise of his heavy cock fucking you deep.

"I told you..." He says, his jaw clenched as he feels himself getting ready to cum. Your pussy squeezing him hard lets him know you're so close, and he hits that spongy spot inside of you so right. He can feel you pulsing, your pussy squeezing him as you cry out, your orgasm hitting you hard. He groans, burying himself deep inside of you, pounding you fast and hard as he cums, filling you up so deep. Your pussy pushes his cock out, leaving a thick stream of cum leaking from your hole. "Fuck." He grunted, spreading your lips open, "such a pretty fucking pussy. Could be balls deep in this every fucking night."

The feeling of his cock popping out of your pussy makes you whimper at the loss, suddenly feeling so empty from the loss of this. Simon notices and leans down, kissing your neck and murmuring into your ear "I'll be back soon."

Amanda didn't bother to ask why. Why was he blatantly ignoring her long after their fight? Was he still mad about her cheating? Should she tell him the truth?

She was so anxious, she couldn't think. She couldn't come home. But, she couldn't afford to leave either. She couldn't just move back to her apartment and prove her ex-husband right, that she couldn't keep a man and that she couldn't find stability without him. But could she endure this for any longer? Acting like she was keeping busy at work, when in reality she was taking the thirty minute drive to another man's house? And Simon, he was smart. He should have known her cheating didn't stop that one night. Fucking hell, maybe it had started before then and he had just noticed. But now, he was no better than Amanda. Fucking her daughter, someone who shouldn't even be thinking about a man his age. He was fucked up, everything was so fucked up. He couldn't admit that to her. The one thing, he wasn't strong enough to do.

After Simon realized that he was no longer better than Amanda, he was torn. Torn between breaking up with her, or keeping this 'relationship' going just because. It was pointless to keep it going, two people cheating on each other, no love left. Just empty glances at each other, going back to friends. He should break it off with her. Amanda doesn't want that.

The apartment the two of you used to live in, it was gone. She didn't have the funds for it, nor did she want to move back into the area. Then it meant using Simon for his house. If her daughter was safe under a roof, clothed and fed, nothing else should matter, right? Amanda was oblivious. She wasn't home to see the signs. And that was a good thing.

Simon was worried about getting caught, not for the reason of hurting Amanda's feelings, but potentially ruining your relationship with your mom. He didn't want that, seeing that she wasn't around much regardless, he didn't want to make things worse. If anything, you could live with your father, who treated you right, but then it leaves another issue - how would he feel seeing a man nearly his age, coming to see his daughter? Knowing Amanda's boyfriend was fucking his precious little daughter?