#mintfullywrites

You roll your eyes, “We’ll find it when we get back, it’s not like you’ll be using it much.”

Simon shrugs as he reaches the last step of the staircase and watches you in your flurry daze. The emerald green, floor length dress hugging your body. A heat warms the lower half of his body. Christ, he couldn't wait for the night to be over and get you out of your dress later tonight.

“Price's gonna have our heads if we’re late.” You mumble incoherent words as you look in the kitchen and see his black case on the marble countertop. You reach for it, “Found it, babe!”

You click the home button to check the time and see 8:3––

Wait a second?

Simon comes into the kitchen, one shoe on and attempting to place the other. “Ah, thank you.” He presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Hold up.” You point as his phone, “Am I your lock screen?” You ask, biting back a smile. 

He freezes. 

A deer caught in headlights.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“And of all the pictures you chose that one?”

He shrugs and clicks the home button to look at the screen. It was a picture of you sprawled on top of the sofa, mouth agape and sleeping soundly. If you squinted, was that glisten at the corner of your mouth -- drool?

“I can change it if you want." He offers. But in reality he loved that photo. He loved how much you trusted him, enough to let all your defenses down.

“Love, that’s actually so sweet.” You smile and press a soft kiss onto his lips and pull the black KN95 mask up over his mouth. 

“Totally better than the one of you on my phone.” With a wink, you hurry out of the kitchen and outside to the awaiting car. It took a second for Simon to register what you were saying before he chases you soon after.

Rubbing your temples, you tell yourself this is for the best. Stability. Normalcy. That’s what you need. What you deserve, too. Maybe, in time, you’d even believe it. Sliding your key into the door, you frown. It doesn’t click. A chill slithers down your spine as you push it open, your stomach knotting at the sight of the dim light bleeding into the hallway from your bedroom.

You already know who’s inside.

Your breath hitches as you swing the door open, and there he is—Simon, sitting on the edge of your bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward. The faint gleam of metal catches your eye. Your engagement ring. It rolls fluidly between his fingers, like a an awful habit he never broke.

His gaze lifts, pinning you in place.

"Took it off, did ya?" His voice is eerily calm, but there’s something coiled beneath it, something ready to snap. "Wonder if he knows you still wear my name."

Your stomach tightens. You take a good look at him—really look at him—and the past five months apart have not been kind. His beard is thicker, his jaw sharper, his frame even larger than you remember. Like he’s been drowning in something darker than loneliness.

"Simon, I’m not in the mood. You can't be in here, shouldn't be in here." Your voice is firm, though your chest heaves with the effort to keep it that way. "Just because you refuse to sign the papers doesn’t mean we’re still together."

A slow, humorless chuckle rumbles from his chest. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets the ring settle in his palm before closing his fingers around it.

"That’s where you’re wrong, love."

He stands, and in an instant, he’s in front of you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. His scent—familiar, overwhelming—wraps around you like a pretty string tied in a bow.

His hand trails up your arm, slow, deliberate, until his fingers ghost over your pulse. His eyes drop to your lips, then flick back up, dark and unreadable. The silence was deafening. It was as if he knew the power he still had over you, or at least your body. Simon wedges his muscular thigh between your legs, and your hips buck ever so slightly.

You whimper and he smirks, knowing your body would never betray his.

"You think a piece of paper makes you any less mine?" His grip tightens, not enough to hurt—but enough to remind you just how easy it would be.

"Any less of a Riley?"

You swallow hard. He leans in, lips a breath away from your ear.

"Tell me, dove— and he honest, because you know I hate liars, did he make you feel anything at all?"

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It shouldn't have been like this. It was one mission. One last mission. That's what they always say, right?

Now the man who once knew you better than anyone now doesn't even flinch when you whisper his name.

"'m sorry," he mutters, his voice rough but distant. "I don't... I don't remember you."

Something cracks in your chest, but before the pain fully sets in, he speaks again.

"But I think I should."

Your breath catches.

Ghost leans forward, studying you like you're a puzzle he’s desperate to solve. His fingers twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

True, that he saw a pretty little thing walk into his forsaken hospital room and wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into her bones. Even through the cotton haze of sleep, something pulled him to her like a moth to flame.

"You'll remember me, Si. Eventually. Or so the doctors say..." You're rambling now because it seemed better than the heavy silence between you.

"You'll remember me because... You love me." You swallow hard, "You always have."

The gold wedding band on your ring finger glints against the hospital light.

It catches Simon's eye.

His jaw tenses, his breath uneven. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, "Did I tell you that a lot?"

Your heart clenches.

"No," you admit softly. "But you didn’t have to. I just knew"

Silence stretches between you. Would he remmeber you? Maybe not. The doctors never gave you a real answer.

Then, slow and deliberate, he lifts his hand and brushes his fingers against yours—tentative but protective. Like muscle memory.

Rusty looks up from the register, chewing on a toothpick. “Mornin’ to you too, Price.”

John doesn’t move. His bear half stirs under his skin, a low, uneasy roll in his chest.

Mounted where his pike once hung is something… bigger. Sleeker. Darker. A beast of a fish—broad through the body, scales catching the light like polished stone. A perfect catch. A dominant one.

His nostrils flare.

The shop smells different.

Not wrong. Just… new.

“Rusty,” John says slowly, voice dipping into warning. “Where’s my fish.”

Rusty grins.

“Well,” he drawls, leaning his elbows on the counter, “funny thing about that. Got ourselves a new resident in town.”

John’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah?” The word comes out edged.

“Moved in up past the river bend. Quiet type. Damn good with a rod.” Rusty jerks his chin toward the mount. “Caught that beauty last week. Biggest thing pulled outta these waters in years.”

John’s jaw tightens.

His bear bristles.

Male competition is the first, immediate thought—an instinctive, possessive spike. This is his territory. His river. His shop. His wall.

“And you just took mine down?” John growls.

Rusty snorts. “Relax. Yours is safe in the back. But when someone pulls in a catch like that, it deserves the spotlight.”

John stares up at the fish again.

Something about it hums. Not challenge exactly. Not threat.

Recognition.

His heartbeat slows — then stutters.

Rusty squints at him. “You alright there, son? You’re lookin’ a little… fuzzy around the edges.”

John exhales through his nose. “Who is it.”

Rusty’s grin widens, knowing. “She usually comes in ‘round now for bait.”

She.

The word lands heavy.

John barely has time to process it before the bell over the door rings again.

You step inside like a burst of sunlight cutting through pine and shadow.

Boots dusted with trail dirt. Jacket slung open, layers practical but soft. A fishing vest already half-loaded with gear. Hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of your face, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright.

You’re smiling—wide and toothy and unguarded, like the world has never once given you a reason not to.

John’s breath catches.

The shop changes.

His bear surges forward so fast it makes his skin prickle, claws itching beneath human hands. The air feels thicker, charged. Every sense snaps to attention.

You smell like river water and pine sap and something warm beneath it all—something that hits him low in the gut and curls there, possessive and awed.

Mate.

The word is instinct, not thought.

Your smile falters slightly when you notice where he’s standing—how big he is, how still. Your eyes flick up to the wall, then back to him.

Then realization dawns.

“Oh,” you say, soft and breathless. You laugh softly, embarrassed, turning toward Rusty. “You actually hung it up?”

Rusty grins. “Couldn’t not.”

Pink blooms across your cheeks.

John feels it like a punch to the chest.

Yours.

His bear practically purrs.

"I didn't mean to replace anyone's, Rusty..." You step closer to the counter, fingers fidgeting with the strap of your vest.

"It's no big deal, I'm sure the fisherman will be fine with it."

John finally turns fully toward you.

You’re smaller than him, but not fragile. There’s strength in the way you stand, confidence in your posture, even now—flustered, blushing, caught.

His eyes soften without his permission.

“That was one hell of a catch,” he says, voice rougher than intended.

Your smile returns, brighter somehow. “Thanks.”

And just like that, the tension shifts.

Not rivalry.

Not threat.

Claim.

Rusty watches the two of you with open amusement. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands once, “seems the river’s got good taste.”

John doesn’t look away from you.

Neither of you do.

Somewhere deep inside him, his bear settles—certain, satisfied.

His fish was never the prize.

You were.

The man was built for solitude. He moved through the apartment like he expected the walls to echo back military reports. Every footstep was silent, every cupboard closed with deliberate control. Even the air seemed to tighten when he walked through it.

And yet, somehow, you’d already started to care.

Which was its own problem.

Tonight, though, the problem was dinner.

You stood in the small kitchen, hair tied back, sleeves rolled, analyzing the ingredients on the kitchen counter, while the soft hiss of the shower told you Ghost had just gotten back from a shift. He never stays too long, perks of the job perhaps. You were trying to figure out what you could make with half an onion, butter, old rice, and some sad spinach leaves.

You were halfway through debating whether sautéed spinach could count as a real meal when the bathroom door opened.

Simon padded out, fresh shirt clinging to his chest, hair damp. The skull mask was off—just a towel-dry shadow on the counter. He only wore it outside, but somehow he still felt masked now. Guarded.

He paused in the doorway, watching you from the edge of the room.

“You cookin’?” he asked, voice rough from the steam.

“I’m… attempting to,” you said, lifting the questionable spinach.

On anyone else, the faint curl of his mouth might have been called a smile. “Looks like it’s losing the will to live.”

You snorted. “So am I.”

He hovered there, shifting his weight like he was debating something. Moments with Ghost always came like this—hesitation, calculation, the quiet battle of wanting something versus allowing himself to want it.

Then, in a voice softer than you’d ever heard from him, he said:

“Could make that thing you made your first night here.”

You blinked, “My… first-night thing?”

He nodded once. “The pasta. Creamy one. With the—” He gestured vaguely with a hand. “Stuff in it.”

You stared, “My garlic parmesan chicken pasta?”

His ears flushed, just a little. “Aye. That.”

You straightened up slowly. “You liked it?”

Ghost didn’t say yes. He simply looked away like the confession was too revealing.

And that was as good as yes.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Yeah. I can make that again.”

He was silent for a long beat. You thought he might retreat to his room the way he sometimes did when things felt too intimate.

But instead, he stepped fully into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge.

And your breath caught.

Because the shelves— once nearly empty —were packed. Heavy cream, fresh chicken breast, parmesan, garlic bulbs, parsley, the works. He opened the cabinet door to reveal the exact pasta you used, even the same chili flakes brand you had mentioned once offhand.

Your eyes dragged across the neatly organized rows. Everything you needed. All of it.

You turned to him slowly. “Did you buy all this?”

His jaw flexed. “Wasn’t much.”

“This is like sixty dollars of groceries.”

“A man’s gotta eat.” A pause. “And you make it… well.”

You swallowed.

He’d stocked the fridge with every ingredient for your recipe. Not because he demanded it. But because he quietly wanted it. Wanted something you made. Wanted you, in some carved-out, quiet way he didn’t know how to voice.

You stepped closer to the fridge, running your finger along the parmesan wedge.

“Simon,” you murmured.

He froze like his name struck him somewhere soft.

You turned back to him, a small smile pulling at your lips. “You could’ve just told me you wanted it.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. “Not used to askin’ for things.”

Your heart squeezed.

“Well,” you said, opening the pasta bag, “you can ask me. Anytime. I don’t mind.”

Simon’s eyes lifted. They lingered on you longer than usual, warmer than they should have for a roommate.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

You started cooking, pulling out pans, heating butter, filling the kitchen with scents you knew he remembered.

He lingered close—not touching, not speaking much—but present. Watching your hands like you were defusing a bomb, or maybe creating something he didn’t know how to have.

At one point, he reached past you to grab a bowl from the cabinet. His arm brushed your shoulder— barely, but enough.

You swore he held his breath.

When the pasta was done, you served him first. Habit. Care. Instinct.

He stared at the plate longer than necessary, then at you.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” you said. “I wanted to.”

Ghost swallowed, throat working.

“That’s worse,” he muttered.

“Why?”

He looked down at the plate, at the warmth, the comfort, the thing he hadn’t expected to ever have in a shared space.

“Because,” he said gruffly, “I’m startin’ to get used to it.”

Your chest fluttered. You sat beside him.

“Then maybe it’s okay,” you said. “If you get used to me.”

Simon didn’t answer.

But his knee brushed yours under the table.

And he didn’t pull away.

As sleep lulls over your body, you feel the weight of a man sprawl atop of yours. A large hand over your lips as your pretty lace panties are shoved into your mouth. A gag. The smell of something metallic — blood — fills your nose. It’s too dark to see anything. But you know who it is, it’s that tether.

You feel yourself grow wet with want and Simon’s hard cock press into your body.

You whimper.

“Shh” he coos, “I’ll give you a different reason to cry, love.”

Note: i made this vague because I feel like it could be any of them hahah

141: no one can hear you scream prank,

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