#hyperactivelyme

You didn’t know your boyfriend was coming back home tonight until you heard a hard knock on the door. The sun had already set long ago, you were settled on the couch with a good book and a cup of your favorite drink. You were forced out of your focus by a hard knock at the door. Immediately, you perk up, a little confused on who’s knocking this late in the evening. Setting your book down, you make your way to the front door. For a moment, you hesitate, and decide to peek out the window before opening the door just in case. Imagine the surprise on your face when you see Simon and Johnny standing outside the door. In a flash you’re at the door and throw it open in one swift movement. 

“Johnny?” you say, bewildered. Johnny has, what you presume to be, Simon’s bag of belongings slung over his shoulder. Your eyes dart back and forth from Johnny to Simon, who’s standing a few feet behind him looking at some nonexistent thing out in the distance. 

Before you can say anything, Johnny strides up to you, leaning down to whisper to you. 

“Lassie, listen here, he jus’ had a medical procedure done an’–”

Your face immediately morphs into concern. 

“What?”

“He was stabbed durin’ the mission. But there was a medical procedure done, stitches n’ all. 

The color drained from your face. “W- what–,” you take a deep breath trying to steady your racing thoughts. 

“No, no, don’t worry, he’s fine now, he’s just high off the anesthesia…”.

You nod your head at Johnny, mentally preparing to deal with this high behemoth of a man. You look over Johnny’s shoulder and simply say, “Simon.”

He whips his head around when he hears his name, eyes half-lidded. He stumbles over towards Johnny, then leans on him, placing most of his body weight onto Johnny. You stare straight at him, slightly confused. 

“Oi, who’s this li’l bird then?” he slurs.

Johnny stills, eyes flicking towards yours, his mouth agape. In a flash, he slams his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. 

Confusion washes over you, your eyebrows raised as Simon wriggles his eyebrows at you. 

“I–” 

Before you could say anything, Simon gives you the most goofy, silly, suave-looking grin, like he’s trying to flirt with you. You immediately regret looking back at Johnny, as his face is now contorted into something that looks like pain from trying not to laugh. That sight itself nearly makes you laugh, so much so that you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet. You try to put on your most serious face while Johnny is trying to compose himself by taking a deep breath. 

“A’right, Simon, here ya are,” Johnny squeaks out. You eye Simon wearily, worried about how severe his condition is just from seeing how completely out of it he looks. 

Johnny steps to the side, moving his arm to gently push Simon inside your shared apartment. Simon stumbles forward into you, nearly knocking you over because of his physique. You gasp, trying to find your footing as he leans his body weight on you. 

“Oh, sorry lovie,” Simon rasps, grabbing your shoulders tightly as he stands himself up straight. Well, he looks kinda lopsided. He dusts your shoulders off as if he dirtied them, then squeezes your arms gently before pulling away. Johnny is trying not to laugh, your face flustered even more.

Johnny had followed you inside, motioning to the bag he still had slung over his shoulder, an amused expression present on his face.

“I’mma leave this here. It’s all of Simon’s belongins’.” You watch as he sets it down on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you, Johnny. I appreciate you looking out for him,” you smile warmly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. 

“Ay, it's nothin’. I’ll be in contact with ya,” Johnny nods to you, smirking playfully at you for a moment, eyes darting between you and Simon. “Alrigh’, I’m leavin’ lassie. Good luck.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you one more time before pulling the door shut.

You move to lock the door behind him, sighing as the lock clicks. You turn back to look at Simon, leaning on the front door. 

“How are you feeling?” 

He looks you up and down, unmoving from where he is standing. Save for the slight swaying of his body. 

“‘M fine,” he grunts out quickly. “You’re very pretty, aren’t ya love?” his cheeks are flushed.

You push yourself off the door and move towards him, stopping a few feet away. You look straight into his eyes, and giggle out, “Thank you, Simon.”

He looks confused for a moment, mouth opening and closing, but tries to act suave. You think it's just the cutest thing that he’s just flirting with you like you’ve never met. You smile to yourself, knowing you’re going to have so much fun teasing him about it when the anesthesia wears off. Taking Simon’s hand in yours, you tenderly usher him further inside towards the kitchen. Dropping his hand, you go to pull out a water bottle and some painkillers that he is definitely going to need when he wakes up in the morning. He shuffles behind you on his unsteady feet, following you like a shadow. You turn around with the items in your hand, using your free hand to grab Simon’s hand once more. He immediately tenses at your touch, but he doesn’t let go.

“C’mon, big guy,” you say, guiding him through the hallway slowly enough so he can walk in a straight line. He stumbles a few times, murmuring nonsense to himself, eyes trained on the floor in front of him as he shuffles his feet. 

He stumbles a few times, prompting you to resort to slinging his arm over your shoulder, carrying the brunt of his weight as you move down the hallway. He leans on you, breathy chuckling escaping, vibrating against your body. 

“Yer too short for your own good, bird,” he slurs, chuckling at the sight of you trying to maneuver him. 

“Ah, well, nothing I can do about it,” you giggle.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets out a small “Heh.” You assume he’s too gone to even respond properly. 

You kick open your shared bedroom door, much to his surprise. 

“Oi, take me out to dinner first lovie,” he looks down at you with a lopsided grin, hair tousled and wild.

“You’re a rascal, Si,” you huff, an amused smile creeping up on your face. “Let’s lay you on the bed, okay?” 

He nods quickly, pushing you off him in an attempt to walk by himself. You watch him take a few steps, eyeing him carefully as you set down the water bottle and medicine on the bedside table. You turn the bedside lamp on, casting a soft golden glow in the room. 

“Simon, hold on.” You turn to him, gently pushing him down to sit on the edge of your shared bed. He shifts his position until his back hits the headboard, eyes half-lidded and cloudy. 

“Eh, pushy aren’t ya? Y’know, really, a dinner would be nice, love.” 

You smile, shaking your head. Kneeling on the bed next to him, you take the water bottle and place it softly into his hands. “You should probably drink some of that. I’ll be right back.”

You push yourself off the bed, making your way into the bathroom to wet a warm towel to clean his face and body. 

You come back through the door frame only to see him trying to get off the bed, feet planted on the floor, unsteadily pushing himself to standing. He takes a few wobbly steps towards you, smirking with his eyebrows raised.

“No, no, lay back down,” you protest, gently trying to push him back towards the edge of the bed. 

“No, I just wanna say, bird, you and I, we should really go out sometime, y’know,” he looks at you with a serious expression on his face, placing his hands on his hips. 

You look up at him, mouth open, the corner of your lip perking up into a bewildered smile. 

“Oh my god, Si,” you laugh. “Okay, okay, but only if you sit down and drink some water,” you say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest, feigning frustration. 

His smile is huge. God, it makes your heart flutter seeing him smile like this, like there's nothing else in the world that matters. 

He sits back down on the bed, moving back to rest up against the headboard. He places his hands behind his head, an exaggeration of himself relaxing. 

“Simon, I need to take your shirt off…” you trail off, motioning to the wet towel in your hand, already having an inkling of what he’s going to say back to you.

“D’ you now,” settling back into the bed, the biggest smirk you’ve ever seen crosses his face. “Well, bird, you've certainly got a way with words. Can't say I've met someone as bold and direct as you before.”

You look at him, open mouthed. 

“If yer speechless now, wait ‘til you see what's under my shirt,” he says matter of factly, slurring the words.

You couldn't help but smile at his bold comment, finding his charm and mischievous confidence strangely attractive. His garbled statements just contributed to the situation's humor.

You try to compose yourself by raising an eyebrow and responding, “Oh, is that so? You've certainly sparked my interest now.”

“Mhmmm,” he draws out, hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt, trying his best to tug it off his frame. His smirk widens, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone. “Darlin’', you have no idea what you're in for.”

“Simon, now is not the time,” you giggle. You reach forward, pulling him from resting on the headboard so you can help maneuver his shirt off his body. His skin is burning hot under your touch. When it finally slips off his form, with much struggle, you huff, placing it on the bedside table. 

You kneel on the edge of the bed next to him, grasping the warm towel tight as you begin to rub off any grime or dirt from his rough skin. As your touch caresses his skin, he shivers at the sensation, a subtle but noticeable reaction to your careful ministrations. 

A soft smile dances across your lips as you notice his reaction. You lean in closer, your voice filled with tenderness and affection, “Ticklish, are we?”

He chuckles, a deep rumble resonating across the air. “Just a bit, love.”

As you examine his hands, you notice their calloused texture, a testament to his tough being. You treat them delicately, soothing weary muscles and offering brief tranquility.

He sighs blissfully, his gaze locked on you, an unconscious expression of thanks and appreciation traveling between you. Taking care of his needs becomes a subtle gesture of love and dedication.

Finally, as you finish wiping away the last traces of dirt, you lean back slightly and examine his cleansed face. It now has a new luster to it, emphasizing the attractive elements that drew you in all that time ago.

“Thank you, bird,” he says as his fingertips brush over your cheek. You swear he’s almost cognizant, the way his fingers touch you.

You respond to his touch with a delicate kiss on his hand, your heart fluttering. “Always, Si.”

A devious light twinkles in his eyes as he looks into yours. “You know, love, I must confess that being pampered by such lovely hands has me feelin' a l'il spoiled,” he adds with a teasing grin. 

You rub your hand over his shoulder, massaging it slightly as your other hand moves to stow the towel away. You turn to the lamp, hand hovering over the button before you click it off.

“Ok, it’s time to sleep now, ‘kay?” you murmur, gingerly laying him down on his pillow. “Close your eyes.”

“You don’t have t’ tell me twice,” he chuckles, dragging you down with him. You’re careful to stay away from his injury, shifting slightly in his grasp. As the fatigue sets in, his eyelids begin to droop, weighted down by the day's exhaustion. His breathing grows slower and more steady, creating a beautiful lullaby that permeates the room. 

You watch, affectionately, as his features soften and his face relaxes into a serene expression. You move closer, snuggling into his good side, your hand comes to rest on his chest. He automatically draws closer to you, seeking refuge in your embrace.

His body relaxes fully as he succumbs to sleep's embrace, feeling safe and comfortable in your arms. You hug him softly yet firmly, savoring this private moment of vulnerability and trust.

You take sanctuary in the solace with each passing moment, savoring the weight of his body against yours, the rise and fall of his chest, and the softness of his breath against your skin. You gently trace your fingers through his hair, lulling him deeper into a deep slumber.

You continue to hold him until sleep takes him entirely, your love and dedication wrapping him like a warm, safe blanket. In this quiet time, you take comfort in the mere act of being together, knowing that you both greatly savor the time you spend together.

You flip the sign on the front door to OPEN and unlock the deadbolt, stepping back just in time for the early sun to glare through the wide windows and coat the dusty floorboards in gold. The town is still slow at this hour—just a couple of trucks rolling past on Main Street, a few joggers already red in the face from the heat. It’s not even 8 a.m.

You switch on the coffee machine, wipe the counter for the third time this morning, and glance out toward the mountains. Pale blue sky, no clouds.

You used to live in the city—horns, sirens, crowded sidewalks. There, the chaos was loud and obvious. Here, in this quiet mountain town, everything is different. You’d barely unpacked before the neighbors started explaining what to do “when—not if—the fires come.”

Now it’s your first fire season, and everything feels brittle, breakable. It makes you miss the city in strange ways. There, you knew what to be afraid of. Crime had patterns. Sirens had direction. But here, the danger is woven into the land. It's stunning and quiet, unpredictable.

You're broken from your thoughts as the bell over the door jingles, and you glance up. He’s here again. The firefighter.

A visiting firefighter, they said. Here for peak season, rotating through a statewide program. You’ve never caught his name, and he’s never offered it.

He comes in like clockwork every morning, boots scraping softly on the worn floor. He doesn’t say much. Just blinks at you, maybe gives you a slight tilt of his head.

“Morning,” you say, already reaching for the pack of cigarettes he always buys.

He nods. “Thanks.”

He lingers for a moment near the window, gaze sweeping across the empty street, then upward toward the tree-covered ridge in the distance. You don’t know what he’s looking for, but he watches it, waiting for something to rise out of the treeline.

You watch him as he watches the horizon. Sunlight slides over him—through the dusty glass, through the slant of his shoulders, through the rough edge of his jaw. And for a second, you forget how to breathe normally.

Everything about him draws your eye. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the weather-beaten look of someone who’s spent more time outside than in. He’s tan, but not in a beachy way—more like his skin is permanently sun-seared, browned by smoke and wind.

There’s a density to the way he stands—like his body knows how to brace for impact. His navy-blue fire department T-shirt pulls slightly at the shoulders, tucked into well-worn pants that are dusted with ash and dirt no matter how clean they start the day.

And then there’s the way he smells. Woodsmoke, faint sweat, a hint of cedar. You’re not even sure how you noticed that, but now you do every time he steps through the door.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. A harmless thing. He barely talks to you. You don’t even know his name.

You see there’s a tension in his shoulders that never really leaves, like he’s bracing for an alarm that will go off at any moment. His jaw flexes once, then stills. You wonder if the cigarettes help, or if they’re just a habit. Actually, it’s kind of ironic that a firefighter smokes cigarettes.

He turns back to you, eyes briefly meeting you under the brim of his cap.

His jaw ticks as he rifles through his wallet.

“Forecast said wind’s picking up,” he says, voice low, rough with sleep or smoke or both. He slaps down a few crisp dollars.

You nod slowly, mystified at his voice. That’s the most he’s said in a week. You take the bills without looking down, your eyes still on him. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Could tell this morning.”

He hums in acknowledgement and slips the cigarettes into his pocket, fingers moving absently, like he’s already somewhere else. His eyes drift back to the mountains, and you wonder if he ever really looks away from them.

You clear your throat. “You guys expecting something?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose, slow. Then, “Not yet. But the ground’s dry. No snowmelt this year. And this wind,” he glances at the windows, watching them shiver in their panes, “it's strong.”

You follow his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of every creak in the wood, every gust slipping beneath the door.

He tilts his head toward the back of the shop, where the stairs to your apartment sit tucked beside a rack of discount paperbacks. “You got a go-bag?”

You blink. “A what?”

His brow rises just enough for you to notice. “Bag by the door. Essentials. Papers. Water. One pair of shoes you can run in.”

His gaze is intense, threatening to smite you on the spot for even asking such a question.

“Oh,” you say. You haven’t even unpacked half your moving boxes. “No. Not yet.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something behind his eyes sharpens. Like you’ve confirmed something he already suspected.

“You should,” he says firmly. “Tonight.”

There’s a finality in the way he says it that makes you straighten up a little. You don’t know this man. But for some reason, his words land heavy. You nod before you can second-guess yourself.

He gives you one more look, long and unreadable. Then he turns toward the door, boots thudding softly across the wood. You watch the back of him—the strong line of his shoulders, the way his hand engulfs the door handle. The bell above the frame gives a soft jingle as he steps into the morning, the bright haze catching in his hair, turning it the color of gold.

You glance out the window toward the mountains—still blue, still untouched. But the wind pushes harder now, angling dust against the curb, rattling a loose sign across the street.

You reach for a pen and the back of a receipt. Essentials. Papers. Water. Shoes you can run in.

. . .

The bell over the door rings for the third time that morning.

You ring up another customer—Mr. Leahy, a retired school teacher, with mud-caked boots and a weathered ball cap. He’s chewing on a toothpick, mumbling about how they called off the prescribed burn over in Dry Hollow.

“Too windy,” he mutters, tossing cash onto the counter. “Said the margin was too tight.” He says it like it’s just weather. Like it doesn’t make your stomach twist.

You hum in response, but your gaze drifts out the window, watching the brittle trees sway in loose, lazy arcs.

Mr. Leahy leans closer, lowering his voice. “Planned burns don’t get canceled unless it’s serious. Means they’re worried something might get out of hand.”

You nod, though the knot in your stomach tightens. “So… what happens then?”

He shrugs. “You watch. You wait. And you hope you’re ready when it comes.”

Mr. Leahy shakes his head, shuffling toward the door. “Keep your go-bag packed, kid. This season’s already off to a bad start.”

The bell jingles behind him as he leaves, and the quiet settles back into the store.

. . .

You finally do it after dinner.

The dishes are still in the sink, soaking in gray water flecked with tomato pulp and basil. The sun hasn’t quite gone down, but the light through the window feels burnt-out and metallic. You keep glancing at it like it might change colors.

You open the hall closet, push aside the mismatched scarves and tangled umbrellas, and pull out the old hiking backpack you haven’t touched since you moved here. Dust clings to the top. You brush it off with the sleeve of your sweatshirt and sit on the floor, cross-legged like a kid, the bag between your knees.

You put your name and number on a piece of paper and shove it in the front pocket. You grab a few other essentials, shoving them inside your backpack with as much force you could possibly muster.

Finally, you zip it shut and leave it by the door.

. . .

It’s Saturday morning, and the air feels heavy, thicker than yesterday. The wind still rattles the loose shingles on your roof as you step outside, heading toward the new café on Main Street for a change of scene.

The sun is higher now, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalks and the worn steps of the old library. The air smells sharp, pine mixed with dust. It’s comforting, in a way. Reminds you of the holiday season.

You turn the corner near the school, halfway to the café, when you see him. At first, you don’t recognize him. He’s not in his usual dark fire station issued-t-shirt and boots—just a pair of black athletic shorts and a sweat-dampened gray tank top, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. He’s crouched by the side of the building, tying a resistance band to a railing.

His skin gleams with sweat, golden in the sun. His shoulders are broader than you realized. Defined, tense with effort. There’s a deep red mark along his collarbone from where a strap must’ve pressed into him earlier, and for some reason, it makes your chest go tight.

He’s focused, completely dialed in, looping the band around one hand and bracing himself against the railing as he pulls against it, slow and deliberate. No music. No grunting. Just the occasional steady exhale through his nose. Purposeful. Measured.

You slow down, surprised to see him.

He looks up and catches your gaze.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with something hard to name. Then he gives you a faint nod—the same one you get every morning in the store, but somehow more intimate now, like you’ve both been caught outside your roles.

“Hey,” you say, voice a little higher than you mean it to be.

He straightens, pulling the band free and letting it fall slack into his hand. “Hey,” he echoes, a little breathless. His voice is rougher now, lower from the exertion.

Your eyes flicker around, like you’re not flustered by the sight of him half-drenched in sweat, chest heaving slightly, hair sticking to his forehead in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. “Didn’t know you worked out here.”

He shrugs, wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt, which just briefly lifts enough to show the carved lines of his stomach. You immediately look away.

“Quieter than the station,” he says. “Easier to think.”

You nod, but you’re not thinking. Not really.

“Did you pack a go bag?” he asks, eyes sharp, waiting.

“Yeah, I did. Same day you told me.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

You shift, suddenly aware of the heat rising to your cheeks, the faint thrum pulsing in your veins. Good girl? 

The words hit a little harder than you expect. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s a tease buried beneath the seriousness. Like he’s testing you, seeing if you catch it.

You glance up, catching the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, just enough to make you wonder if he means it in a way that’s less about the go bag—and more about you.

You bite your lip, trying to wish away the heat creeping up your neck. “Well, I like to impress,” you say, voice a touch lighter than usual.

His eyes flash with something—amusement, maybe. Or challenge. He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like the words slipped out without much thought. But there’s a slow, deliberate ease in the way he leans back against the railing, that just-barely-there smirk still lingering.

“Impress, huh?” His voice is casual, low—like he’s playing it off. But also like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and maybe he’s enjoying the effect more than he lets on.

You catch the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way they hold your gaze a fraction longer than necessary, but then he blinks and shifts his focus away, like he’s suddenly too busy to indulge the moment.

“Coffee?” you offer, trying to bridge the quiet, and keep the edge of your own nerves in check.

Duke Simon Riley had gained his title through his distinguished military service, a feat that made him both revered and feared. His demeanor was hardened, his interactions brusque, and he regarded social gathering and balls with a thinly veiled disdain. He considered balls and galas a different kind of battle, one he navigated with nearly the same stoic resolve as he had the warfront.

Across the room, you move with effortless grace, the hem of your gown bustling around your feet. You are the embodiment of elegance and propriety, your every movement reflecting your strict upbringing. You were popular amongst the ton, your dance card nearly always full. You didn’t really mind, to a certain extent; yet, you’ve never had a dance partner who went past superficial conversation. It was something that irked you, but you had resigned yourself to it a long time ago.

Your father, a Lord, had made it a point earlier in the night to introduce you to the Duke. You glide through the sea of silk and satin, approaching your father’s proud smile in the corner of the ballroom. Next to him was the Duke; a tall, broad man. Quite handsome, you thought to yourself.

“Ah, here she is,” your father said warmly, taking your hand and leading you towards the Duke. “Allow me to introduce Duke Simon Riley. Your Grace, may I present my daughter.” 

You curtsy deeply as your father announces your title and name, your eyes fluttering open to meet the Duke as you offer a polite smile. 

Simon turns his steely gaze upon you, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. “My lady,” he said, his voice as cold and formal as his expression.  

“Your Grace, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard much about your service.”

“Indeed,” Simon replies, his tone clipped. “I hope the reality does not disappoint.” 

You tilt your head slightly, maintaining your composure at his bluntness. “On the contrary, Your Grace, I find the tales of your exploits quite fascinating. It must have required immense strength and courage.” 

“It required duty,” he said forthrightly, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And an ability to see through distractions.” 

Something in his tone struck you, a subtle but clear implication that left you momentarily speechless. You clear your throat, smoothing out of the front of your dress. “Well, we are all very fortunate that you were not distracted, Your Grace. Otherwise, who knows where we might be?”

Simon’s lips twitched, standing straighter than ever, but his eyes remained hard. “Yes, distractions can be dangerous. Such as a ballroom, where idle chatter and trivial pursuits often mask the true nature of one’s character.”

He eyed you up and down as he spoke, and you feel as though the wind has been knocked out of your lungs. You feel your cheeks heat up with anger at his veiled insult. 

“Your Grace, I must respectfully disagree. A ballroom is where one’s true character is often revealed; most often through grace, kindness, and the ability to navigate society with dignity.”

Simon raises an eyebrow, his expression unmoved. “It is easy to speak of ‘grace and kindness’ when one has never faced true adversity, my Lady. Perhaps your perspective would be different if you had seen the world as it truly is.”

Your temper flares at his condescension, your grip tightening on the skirts of your dress as you step closer. “And perhaps, Your Grace,” you hiss, “if you had ever taken the time to understand the world beyond the battlefield, you might see that strength and bravery comes in many forms. It doesn’t give you the right to belittle the lives and joys of others.” 

Your father steps forward, sensing the need to intervene. “Now, now,” he says, his tone conciliator. “Let not a misunderstanding spoil the evening.”

But the damage had already been done. Simon’s eyes remained fixed on you, eyebrows pinched and eyes cold. He had offended you greatly, swiping at your character even though he knows nothing of you. 

With a final cursory glance at him, you excuse yourself with as much dignity as you could muster, your heart pounding with anger and hurt.

As you walk away, you could feel Simon’s gaze boring into your back. You do your best to shake off your emotions, trying to regain your composure. An evening that had started with hope and lightness had turned bitter. And while the Duke might have won many wars, he would find that you were not one to back down easily. You were determined to show him that in the realm of society, you were just as formidable an opponent as he was in war.

A loud bang reverberates through your apartment, your peaceful sleep interrupted.

You open your eyes with a start, the volume of the sound causing your heart race and your breath catch in your throat.

You're silent for another moment until the sound of glass shattering causes you to jump. You sit up now, dumbfounded for a brief moment before unshakable anxiety takes over.

There's no way this could be happening to you right now.

You immediately leap out of bed, grabbing a stray hoodie off the floor, slipping it over your thin pajamas. Next, you grab your phone with shaky hands, trembling from the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through your veins. The sounds from outside your bedroom are starting to get louder. You swipe your car keys from your drawer, shoving them into the pocket of your hoodie.

In a frenzy, you grope under your bed for a baseball bat, struggling to steady your shaking hands as you grip it tightly. The rattling of your doorknob nearly makes you pass out in fear. Simon had told you multiple times to keep your door locked when you sleep, stressing to you that it wasn't safe to leave it unlocked, especially at night.

There was no way you could escape through the hallway. Lucky for you, your apartment is on the first floor of the building, meaning that you would be able to safely jump out of your bedroom window without injuring yourself.

You place all your things down quickly, unlatching your window from its locks. You heave it open with all your might, grunting as you hold it up to lock it into an open position. Grabbing your baseball bat first, you throw it out the window and onto the grass below you. Could never be too safe.

Suddenly, the person or people on the other side of your door start kicking at it, the flimsy wood shaking from the impacts. You bite back a scream, prompting you to jump out of your window, dropping onto the grass below you clumsily.

You don't bother looking back as you sprint to your car in the adjacent parking lot, throwing yourself into the drivers seat unceremoniously.

Without another thought, you dial 911. Running on pure adrenaline, you tell the operator your address and the urgency of the situation. The kind voice on the other end tells you that the police are on their way before you hang up.

You bite back a sob as your shaking hands type in Simon's phone number. You hold your phone up to your, chewing your finger as it rings once, twice, and the line picks up.

"Hullo?" a scratchy, sleep-ridden voice on the other end of the line rings out. His accent sounds particularly thick.

"Simon," your voice breaks, the adrenaline now worn off, leaving you a wreck.

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately, now sounding more awake. You hear shuffling on the other end.

"I- I think my apartment got broken into," you sob, fat tears now freely falling down your cheeks. "I'm so scared," you cry, bawling like a baby.

Simon's voice takes on a sharp urgency. "'M coming over right now. Where are you? Are you hurt?"

"I'm in my car, in the parking lot," you say tearfully, trying to wipe the tears from your face unsuccessfully.

"I've already called 911; they're on the way—" you add, clutching onto your phone.

The sound of a door opening and slamming shut crackles through the phone. "Be there in ten. Stay on the line, love."

"I'm scared," you cry again, your free hand trembling as you reach to make sure your car door is locked.

"I know, love, I know. Just hang in there. 'M on my way," Simon reassures you, his voice gentle. The ten-minute wait feels like an eternity as you sit in your car, sniffling every so often as you look out your car windows to make sure no one is coming towards you.

Sirens wail in the distance, the police clearly arriving on scene. Despite the growing fear gnawing at you, Simon's voice provides a source of comfort.

"The police are almost here," you breath into the phone, pulling your knees up to your chest.

"Good, I'm here," he grunts. You look up and see his truck hurtling through the parking lot, stopping abruptly right behind your car. He slides out of his car, rushing to the drivers side of your car.

The moment he reaches your car, you throw open the door and practically fall into his arms. Simon holds you tight as you fall into him, sobs wracking your body.

"Don't cry," he soothes, pulling you tighter against him. "'S alright, 's handled."

He cradles you in his grasp, running his hand over your hair as you sob into his t-shirt, fists bunching up the fabric. You cling to him as if he's your lifeline, the scent of his t-shirt grounding you ever so slightly.

"I've got you," he murmurs, rubbing your back.

Your sobs gradually subside into quiet sniffles, and you take a deep breath.

The distant wailing of sirens grows closer, indicating the police are here. Simon releases you just enough to glance over his shoulder at the approaching vehicles. "The police are here," you whisper, your voice shaky but relieved.

The flashing lights of police cars illuminate the surroundings as officers approach. Simon steps back, maintaining a protective stance beside you.

Two police officers approach you and Simon, asking for details about the break-in. You pull at the hem of your hoodie, trying to cover up your practically bare thighs from your tiny pajamas. Simon settles his hand on your lower back, encouraging you to speak to the officers. You recount the events timidly, telling them as much as you know. After providing your statement, the police assure you they'll investigate your apartment, but advise you that it's not the best to stay there tonight. For obvious reasons.

Upon their insistence of you spending the night somewhere else, before you could even open your mouth, Simon is insisting, no, demanding that you stay with him for the night.

"You're stayin' with me tonight," he declares, voice firm and unwavering.

You open your mouth, nearly telling him no, I'll find a hotel, but the look he shoots you suggests that you go with him.

With a nod of agreement, Simon leads you away from the scene, his hand on your back firm and reassuring.

As you approach his truck, Simon opens the door for you. He helps you up into the passenger seat, making sure you're settled before closing the door with a determined thud. Simon then strides around to the driver's side, the scent of him lingering in the air as he gets in. The engine roars to life, and you find comfort in the steady hum of the engine.

The drive to Simon's place is mostly quiet. He occasionally glances at you, concern etched into his features. You stare out of the window, the events of the night replaying in your mind. You shiver in your seat, thinking about what could have happened if you hadn't escaped through your window. Simon's hand finds yours, a silent gesture that makes your heart ache with gratitude.

As you pull into Simon's driveway, you're met with the warm glow of his porch light. The familiar sight brings a new sense of relief. It's not the first time you've been to his quaint home. Simon turns off the engine, and without a word, he's at your side, opening the door for you again.

He leads you inside, the click of the door shutting behind you echoing in the quiet house. Simon heads to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets. Moments later, he appears with a mug of tea, a small but comforting gesture. He hands it to you, the warmth seeping into your cold hands.

"Drink this. It'll help calm your nerves," he says, his voice gentle.

You take a sip, the familiar taste of chamomile offering a small respite. Simon sits across from you, watching as you try to steady your trembling hands. The silence between you isn't uncomfortable; it's a shared understanding that words might not be enough to mend the damage that's been dealt.

After a while, Simon breaks the silence. "I'll make up the spare room for you. Take your time. We'll deal with everythin' in the morning."

He disappears down the hall, leaving you alone in the living room. You look around his living room, eyeing his front door for a brief moment. You finish the tea and set the mug on the coffee table, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over you.

When you enter the spare room, you find it tidy and pretty bare. The scent of clean sheets and the comforting atmosphere of his home a stark difference from your own. You watch as he double checks the windows to make sure they're locked tight. He also shows you the lock on your own bedroom door.

"Everythin' is secure, 've triple checked it all," Simon states, turning from the window to look at you. His concern is evident in his eyes, and you nod in response.

"Thank you, Simon. I appreciate all of this," you say, your voice quiet.

He moves over to the wall, crouching down to plug a night light into the wall. He taps it a few times to make sure it works. When it flickers on, he grunts, satisfied. Pushing himself up to standing, he walks over to you.

He gives you a reassuring smile. "No need to thank me. 'S the least I can do. You get some rest. 'M right across the hall if you need anything."

With that, he leaves the room, gently closing the door behind him. You make sure to lock the door behind him as he leaves. You crawl into bed, pulling the covers over your weary body, exhaustion settling in.

You close your eyes, hoping that sleep will offer some reprieve. As you lay there, the events of the night replay in your mind. The fear, the vulnerability, and the violation of your home weigh heavily on you. Slight sounds make you jump in fear, and all of a sudden you start to breath heavily. You can't be in here, not alone.

You stumble out of the room, practically falling into the hallway. The dim glow of the nightlight casts long shadows, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Determined, you make your way to Simon's door and knock softly.

The door opens, and Simon appears, concern etched on his face. "Everythin' alright, love?"

You can barely form the words, your voice barely a whisper. "Can't stay in there alone."

Without hesitation, Simon opens the door wider, gesturing for you to enter. His room is dark, all lights off. You step inside his room, tugging your hoodie tighter around your body. You settle onto the edge of his bed, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to ward off the residual fear.

Simon shuts and locks the door behind him, plunging you both into darkness, save for the slight shine of the moon pouring through between a crack in his curtains.

Simon stands in front of you, looking down with a mix of empathy and concern in his eyes. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need. I don't mind."

"Thank you," you manage to say, the vulnerability in your voice more pronounced in the darkness of the room.

Simon hesitates for a moment before flicking on a small bedside lamp. The soft light casts a warm glow across the room, revealing a space that's both lived-in and comforting. You feel a bit more at ease.

He pulls a chair from his desk and sits across from you, leaving a respectful distance. The silence between you is filled with unspoken words, the weight of the night's events hanging in the air. Simon's gaze is unwavering, and you find solace in the fact that he understands what you need without the need for words.

As the minutes tick by, the atmosphere in the room becomes less tense. Simon breaks the silence, his voice a gentle murmur. "I don't want you to go through this alone. You deserve to feel safe, love."

You manage a weak smile, touched by his sincerity. "Thank you, Simon. You really don't have to be doing all of this for me--"

"Don't say that, I want to," he cuts you off gruffly, offended as if you would even suggest that you weren't worthy enough of his care.

His response hangs in the air, and you notice a flicker of something in Simon's eyes—a hint of frustration or something deeper. The unspoken tension lingers, causing you to shift slightly.

"I just... I don't want you to feel unsafe," Simon adds, his voice softer this time. He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, his gaze fixed on yours. "Or alone. Fuckin' hell, if you hadn't been able to get out of there..."

He stops, jaw ticking as he thinks. He can't even say it.

The room feels charged with unspoken emotions, and you sense a vulnerability in Simon that mirrors your own.

"Simon," you say softly, your voice a gentle reassurance, "I feel safe with you."

"I've... 've cared about you for a long time, maybe more than I should," Simon admits, his words hanging in the air like a fragile confession.

The vulnerability in his admission tugs at your heart, and you find yourself pushing yourself up off the edge of the bed, cupping his face in your hands.

"I've cared about you too," you confess, the weight of the unspoken finally lifted.

He looks up, meeting your eyes with a mixture of relief and adoration. Simon's hand reaches up to grasp your wrist lightly, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

"I never want you to feel unsafe or alone again. I can't stand the thought of somethin' happenin' t' you."

Your heart swells at the sincerity of his words, and you lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.

The conversation lulls, and for a moment, it's just the two of you in the sanctuary of Simon's bedroom. The emotional exhaustion begins to take its toll, and your eyes grow heavy.

He stands from his chair, grasping your upper arms gently, leading you towards his bed once again. Before he sits you down, he looks at you expectantly.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes," you nod, "I've never wanted anything more."

With your permission, he lays you down on his bed, following you into the bed with a contained eagerness. He drags you up until you're settled on a pillow. Simon slides into the mattress right next to you, pulling the covers up and over the both of you. You turn on your side to face him, eyes searching his face just before he turns off the lamp, plunging you both into darkness.

Simon's hand brushes against your forearm, seeking permission yet again. You scoot over until you're flush against him, cheeks heating up at the proximity. You feel Simon's warm presence beside you, his hand finding its place on your waist before he pulls you up against him, cuddling you. Simon's fingers trace patterns on your back, a soothing motion that pulls you deeper into relaxation.

"Get some rest. I'll be right here if you need anything, love," Simon whispers, playing with the ends of your hair.

"Thank you," you whisper into the darkness, your voice barely audible but carrying a depth of gratitude.

He tightens his grip on your waist, a silent affirmation that he's here for you, that you're not alone. The warmth of his touch and the gentle rise and fall of his breath provide a sense of security that eases the lingering tension in your body.

. . . 

The morning light begins to seep through the curtains, casting a soft glow in Simon's room. As you slowly awaken, the events of the previous night come back to you in fragments. You turn slightly to find Simon still asleep beside you, his features softened by the morning light. His arm is draped protectively over you, and a sense of peace settles in the room. For a moment, you simply revel in the quiet stillness, savoring the moment.

As Simon begins to stir, his eyes meet yours, and a sleepy smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Mornin’," he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.

"Morning," you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. The air in the room feels different, more relaxed.

Simon props himself up on one elbow, his gaze searching yours. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I thought I would," you admit, a genuine warmth in your voice. "Still kinda freaked out that people broke in to my apartment, but better."

He nods thoughtfully. "We should probably get up, check in with the police," Simon suggests, but there's a reluctance in his eyes to let go of the warmth of the bed.

You cuddle against him once more, hugging him tightly. His arm comes to wrap around your back, hand splayed across your skin.

"Yeah, we should," you say, pulling away gently as you push yourself out of bed.

"We're goin' together," he tells you. "And I will be installing a new security system in your apartment."

You manage a small smile. "I don't think you understand how much I appreciate you for this."

He sighs as he leads you to his small kitchen. "You never have to thank me for anything, love."

When he arrived at the front door of your shared apartment, he took a breath. He fumbled with hands for a moment, pulling his keys out and unlocking the door. He calls out your name as he kicks the door shut, setting his things down on the kitchen counter.

You were in the living room, sitting on the couch in your pajamas, engrossed in a book, the soft hum of music playing in the background. Hearing Simon’s voice, you looked up from the pages and a smile bloomed on your face. You spring up from the couch as he walks into the living room. The sight of him, battle-worn but alive, brought a sense of relief. 

“Hey there, big man,” you said, your voice a comforting melody. Simon turns towards you, a half-smile forming on his lips. His fatigue seemed to momentarily lift as he looked at the smile on your face.

“Hey,” he replied, the weariness evident in his voice. You closed the distance between you, and he wrapped his arms around you in a tight embrace. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the residue of whatever he was doing on mission slowly melting away in the comfort of your presence.

“Rough one, huh?” you ask, pulling back slightly to look at him. He nods, his eyes revealing a layer of exhaustion.

“Yeah, tougher than usual,” Ghost admitted. “But we got the job done.”

You led him to the couch, and he sank into it with a sigh, his body appreciating the respite. You disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water for him. As he took a sip, you studied his features, noting the subtle scars and bruises that adorned his face.

“Anything I can do?” you asked, genuine concern in your voice. Simon shook his head, appreciating the simple offer.

“Just bein’ here ‘s enough,” he replied, setting the glass aside. You sat down beside him, your presence a soothing balm to his aching body. You begin to run your hands down his arms, feeling the tension of his muscles under his clothes.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” you question softly, running your hands down his arm and to his hand, squeezing it in your grip.

He tilts his head over towards you, eyes drooping slightly.

“Sounds lovely,” he grunts, nodding his head.

You rose gracefully from the couch, giving Simon’s hand a reassuring squeeze before disappearing into the bathroom. You turned the tap, adjusting the water temperature to perfection, adding a hint of soothing helichrysum oil.

Simon, in the meantime, made his way to the bedroom, peeling off his tactical gear and clothes, revealing a body marked by the trials of combat. He finally slips his mask off, folding it neatly on top of his pile of clothes. He took a deep breath as he heard the water cascading into the tub. The scent of helichrysum wafted through the air, a fragrant promise of relaxation.

When everything was ready, you returned to him, gently guiding him towards the bathroom. The steam from the bath enveloped him as he sank into the warm water, the tension in his muscles slowly dissipating. You perch on the edge of the tub, watching him with tenderness and slight concern. 

As Simon closed his eyes, surrendering to the comforting embrace of the bath, you dipped a washcloth into the water and began to delicately clean the black paint from around his eyes. The touch of your hands was gentle, a welcome contrast from roughing it on base. 

“I appreciate this,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. 

A warm smile appears on your face as you carefully pour warm water over his head, letting it cascade down his hair and down his neck. Simon closes his eyes, feeling the comforting touch of the water against his scalp.

As you began to work shampoo through Simon’s hair, your fingers massaging his scalp, Simon let out a contented sigh. The stress and exhaustion of the mission slowly melted away, replaced by a sense of peace. Your gentle hands made him feel cared for, safe. 

“You deserve this,” you replied softly. “Let me take care of you for a change.”

The bathroom was filled with a soothing silence, broken only by the sound of water trickling and your quiet breaths. Your touch is tender, each stroke of your hands carrying a touch of affection. Simon relished in the simplicity of the moment, the way you were so gentle with him.

Simon opens his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at you. Your eyes meet his. You lean down to kiss him slowly, softly. 

When you pull away, Simon speaks, his voice softer now, “I missed this. Just bein’ home, with you.”

You smile, a mixture of understanding and love in your eyes. “I missed you too,” you whisper, your fingers tracing patterns on his shoulder.

Once the bath has worked its magic, you help Simon to his feet, helping him wrap a plush towel around his waist. The scent of the bath oil lingered on his skin, a comforting reminder of the care you’d provided for him. The two of you returned to the bedroom, where a set of fresh clothes awaited him.

Simon changed into sweats and a soft t-shirt, a welcome change from his heavy tactical gear. He settles onto the bed, groaning with relief as his back hits the mattress. You giggle as he lays silently in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Just as you’re about to grab a cup of tea, Simon is grabbing your wrist tightly, pulling you back towards the bed. 

“‘M sleepy,” he complains. “Can’t sleep very well without you.”

You lean down to kiss him on the cheek, gently pulling your wrist from his grip. 

“I’m just going to get you a cup of tea—”

“No, ‘ve already gotten enough princess treatment from you—” he grunts, sitting up from his position to manhandle you into bed with him. 

You sigh in defeat, arms coming to wrap around his neck as he pulls you on top of him. His hands travel up from your thighs to your waist, pulling you tight against him. He only removes his hands from you for a quick second to pull the covers up on the bed. 

The warmth of the bed enveloped both of you as you settled into the cozy cocoon of blankets. Simon’s weariness was evident, yet his grip on you was firm, as if afraid that if he let go, the world would pull him back into its relentless demands.

You chuckled at his antics, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You're stubborn, you know that?”

“Only to you,” he replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes, his hands still holding you close.

You snuggled against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. The room was filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the ambient sounds of the night outside. Simon’s exhaustion seemed to ebb away as he held you, finding solace in the simple act of being close.

You traced circles on his chest, your fingers moving rhythmically as if to lull him into a peaceful slumber. Simon’s gaze softened as he looked down at you.

“Y’know,” he began, his voice a gentle murmur, “coming home to you is the best part of any mission.”

Your heart swelled with pride at his words. “And having you here is the best part of my day.”

He smiled, a genuine, tired smile. Simon’s hands traced gentle patterns on your back. The lines of fatigue on his face were replaced by an expression of peacefulness, a quiet acknowledgment that, for now, the battles were outside and the peace was within.

“Tea can wait,” Simon mumbled, his eyes heavy with sleep.

You nodded, snuggling even closer. “Go to sleep, my big sleepy man.”

"Si- Simon, not now," you scold as you grip your book tighter, his fingers caressing your cheeks gently.

You had gotten up to go find another book, searching through the bookshelves methodically. Simon was trailing behind you like a lost puppy, fingers grazing your waist every time you stopped.

"Really, I'm busy," you say, not as firm this time as he starts to squeeze your flesh. You try so hard to ignore it, but you're slowly giving in.

"Are you?"

He grasps your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling your gaze away from the spines of books.

"Y- yes?" you squeak, your focus being pulled solely towards Simon.

Before you know it, he's kissing you, pulling your body flush against his. He had rucked your dress up, palming and squeezing your ass as he swallowed your kisses with his tongue. You groan lightly as you push yourself on him, his large hand grabbing your hips, trying to yank you against his thigh. 

A small moan escapes your throat as he kneads your skin, tongue shoved deep inside your velvety mouth. 

"Your majesty?" a voice calls out. Soap's voice. Oh fuck.

Immediately you start to shove Simon off you, pushing him back with all the strength you could muster up. He tilts his body in an instant, shielding you from view from the direction of the voice, just in case. You try to push him off again, but he refuses to let go, hands still firmly fastened on your hips. 

"What is Soap gonna think if he finds us like this?" you whisper yell, gripping onto his arm.

"Hmm...lucky king?" he responds quietly as he licks his lips, the lilt in his voice borderline cocky. 

Your mouth falls open at his response, and with feigned anger, you slap his bicep to let go of you.

"Simon! Now is not the time for jokes," you reprimand, your face growing warm, swatting his arm like an angered cat. 

"'S not a joke, but okay," he smirks at you, giving your ass a final squeeze before backing off. 

You smooth out your dress and hair as fast as you can, making sure you look presentable enough. Simon, the lucky bastard, looked perfectly normal. Clothes all in place, save for his slightly messy hair. He could write it off so easily as just forgetting to comb his hair, though. Why does he look so fucking perfect all the time, you think to yourself. 

"How do I look?" you whisper, patting your dress down a final time.

"Fuckable."

You just stand there. Horny fucking bastard. If your cheeks weren't warm before, they were on fire now. And his words definitely don't stop you from feeling a certain wetness between your thighs. You clear your throat loudly as you turn to move towards Soap's voice. 

"Goodbye, Simon," you say brushing past him, clutching onto your dress so you can speed walk away to Soap. 

Eh, she'll get used to that, he thinks to himself with a smirk, following behind you.

- - - - -