#twbs

You freeze in the front door, bags of groceries hanging off your arm and your work bag still slung over your shoulder. The kitchen’s around the corner so you can’t make out who it is, but you track their shadow across the floor, wary.

There’s a gun in the nightstand beside your bed. You look between the kitchen and the bedroom, wondering if you can sneak in to grab it.

Or you could just leave.

Fuck that. This is your home.

All the planning comes to nothing, though, when the man sticks his head around the corner.

“‘Bout time, I’m starvin’.”

“Lt.?”

He’s already ducked back into the kitchen. Feet feeling like lead, you walk after him. 

Something’s happened. You must have gotten into an accident on the way home, and your brain is making up things to cope. You’re about to wake up in a hospital bed.

But you don’t wake up. You walk into your kitchen, and Simon Riley’s leaning against the counter, slurping up a massive helping of chow mein directly from the container. There’s a plastic bag on your kitchen table, and the smell wafting from it would have been enough to tempt you inside if not for the fact that your lieutenant was apparently the one to have brought it in.

You stare. 

The last you’d known, Riley had gone dark somewhere in Eastern Europe. That had been two weeks ago. Now, his clothes fit a little looser and there are deep bruises under his eyes. His hair’s mussed, like he’d just taken his mask off, and you think there’s still a little grease paint around his nose.

Sighing, you set your groceries down. “Did you at least get me something?”

He points at the bag with his chopsticks. You edge into the kitchen, watching him out of the corner of your eye like he’s a live grenade. When the most offensive thing he does is chew too loud, you drop your guard a little and pick through the offerings.

His hair’s still long, though. Odd. I would’ve thought he’d have trimmed it by now.

“Bamako…Bamako…” He divvies out the files as he speaks, handing one to you and another to Kyle, “and Johnny’ll be with me. Abuja.” Johnny takes the last folder, already flipping it open to scan the first page.

You open yours, too, but only so the motion hides the way your eyes follow the lieutenant as he moves through the room. He hadn’t so much as glanced at you when he walked in, and he isn’t looking at you now.

Kyle taps your knee with the corner of his file. “Looks like it’s you and me.” He looks back at Riley. “When do we leave?”

“Not for a couple of months, yet.” He points at their files. “Read ‘em, get familiar with everythin’ inside. Initial meetin’s on Thursday.”

“Aye.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turns sharply on his heel, like he’s going to leave. Frustration bubbles up in your throat. Because there’s no way this prick is going to walk out without another word, like he hadn’t slept on your sofa and left hair in your soap not five nights ago.

“Wait!”

The room freezes. Johnny and Kyle both look at you curiously—of course, they don’t know. Riley himself pauses at the door with his hand on the knob. He doesn’t turn around when he speaks.

“Sergeant?”

Sergeant. Like you’re just another face in the ranks. 

Chin lifted, you chew over your words. You hadn’t had anything planned to say when you let your annoyance get the better of you. Beside you, Kyle’s stomach growls, and you blurt out:

“Wanna get lunch?”

That gets his attention. Riley turns slowly, looking at you like you’re mad. In the silence, Johnny lets out a nervous titter that he stifles quickly when Riley cuts a sharp glance in his direction. 

“Lunch?”

“You know.” Gaining a little confidence now that you’re actually being acknowledged, you nod encouragingly. “That meal between breakfast and dinner.”

A low growl emanates from under the mask. Kyle saves you from the incoming fallout when he pipes up. “You know, it’s a fair point, sir. Coming in here to give us work and no incentive? It’s just not done.”

“Your leave request is gonna be another thing not done, Garrick—”

But Johnny cuts in, unable to help his laughter now. “He’s right, Lt.! And we’re proper starvin’ in here.” He stands up and grabs his hat and wallet. Kyle follows, smirking.

You stand up, too. Presenting a united front, and all that.

Riley’s eyes flick between the three sergeants, finally settling on you. You give him a winning smile but hope your eyes telegraph your real thoughts: be nice to me or I'll throttle you the next time I catch you in my flat.

Rolling his eyes, he wrenches the door open. “Fine.”

Johnny whoops and follows him out. 

Alone with you now, Kyle tilts his head. “Lunch?”

You shrug. “I was hungry.”

Kyle snorts, like he doesn’t buy that at all.

“How about an ale, Lt.?”

“Drink, Johnny, and I’ll have Price send ya back to Bayelsa.”

Johnny puts his hand to his heart. “Ye wouldn’t.”

Riley doesn’t look up from his plate. “Would.”

You take a large spoonful of soup to hide your grin. 

The pub around you is small and cozy, one of the only ones close enough for a quick lunch break. It’s run by an old couple and their kids, who’re friendly to their majority-military customers. 

At a table across the room, you see a couple men you know from training exercises. One of them catches your eye and waves. You wave back.

When you turn back to your table, Riley’s watching you.

“Friends of yours?”

“Kind of.” You take a sip of your water. “But not like, friends, friends. They don’t crash at my place or use my shower, or anything like that.”

Johnny isn’t paying attention, too busy wolfing down his sandwich, but Kyle gives you an odd look. Under the table, something nudges your foot.

Licking his fingers, Johnny washes his last crumbs down with a long swallow of his fizzy drink. “What’s everyone got planned for the weekend?”

“Goin’ to London,” Kyle says. “Haven’t seen the family in a while. If my leave’s approved.” He gives Riley a meaningful look.

He grunts. “I’ll approve yer bloody leave. Christ.”

“Well, I’ve got a date.” Johnny announces it with the air of a man who’s just climbed Everest. Twice. “Pretty lass from finance. Takin’ her to the Weir Gardens.”

Riley’s eyes crinkle at the corners a little. “Romantic, Johnny.”

You prop your chin up on your hand. “It is sweet. The trails are so pretty!”

As you talk, something twists in your stomach—envy. Blinking, you realize you’re a little jealous of Kyle going home to family and Johnny having a sweet date with a girl he likes.

All you’ve got is a man who demands your attention when he feels like it, then pretends like you don’t exist. Like the world’s biggest housecat.

“Thank you, bonnie.”

You smile, but drop your eyes back down to your soup, feeling a bit glum.

There’s that nudge at your boot again. Chin still in your hand, you look up at Riley. He watches you back, eyes still soft at the corners. It gentles his entire face and gives him an almost tender look that you’re not accustomed to seeing on him.

“What’re you doing, sergeant?”

“Ah. Nothing planned yet, sir. You?”

“Hmm. Might drop by a friend’s place.”

You don’t look away, even as Kyle starts peppering Johnny with questions about his “pretty lass”. 

Why haven’ you asked me to leave?

You’d been too afraid to answer that question the night he’d asked it, but you know now. You didn’t ask him to leave for the same reason you’re jealous now of Kyle’s family and Johnny’s date.

You’re lonely.

And maybe humoring your emotionally constipated lieutenant isn’t the right way to go about absolving that. 

But right now, he’s the best you’ve got.

So you hold his gaze and press back against his boot with your own. 

On Friday night, you lay awake in bed, listening for the telltale creak of a floorboard or squeaking of a hinge.

Nothing comes. 

It’s disappointing, and you’re angry that you actually feel let down. Normal people don’t feel sad when the man who’s been breaking into their apartment decides not to.

You fall into a restless sleep, waking at every sound.

The knock on your door comes exactly at 11:00 a.m. on Saturday.

Really? You’re in fuzzy slippers and your sleep shorts, ratty old t-shirt hanging off your shoulders. Well, he gets what he gets.

When you open the door, Riley’s standing on the other side, a paper bag from Tesco’s tucked in the bend of his elbow. He looks you up and down, a slow slide of eyes over your bare legs and arms. 

Scowling, you pull at the hem of your shirt. Arse.

“Some notice might have been nice.”

“I gave notice.”

You step aside and he breezes in, bringing the faint odor of cigarette smoke with him. “What, ‘might drop by a friend’s place’? Most friends elaborate.”

“‘M not most friends.”

“Clearly.”

Riley doesn’t need to ask where the kitchen is—his feet find the path on their own like it’s already been well-worn. 

As he starts taking things out of the bag, you try to peer around his massive shoulders. “I’m picking up on a theme, here.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“You keep bringing me food.”

“Fastest way to a person’s heart is through their stomach.”

You snort. “Is that what you’re after?”

That he knows exactly where you keep your knives should frighten you more than it does. “Sure. It’d look nice in my office.” At your scoff, he looks at you over his shoulder. The warmth is back in his eyes, the same creases at their corners you’d seen at the diner. “I’d get ya a glass jar and everythin’.”

“A man after my own heart.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’.”

For all his faults and numerous flaws, Simon Riley can cook.

When your plates are both empty, you lean back from the table, feeling uncomfortably full. Riley, ever the paragon of etiquette, had unbuttoned his pants to make room for seconds. 

At the sight of the thick trail of hair on his stomach, you’d nudged the milk bottle over just enough to block your sight line. Just because you’d seen it before didn’t mean you wanted to stare at it while you were eating.

Good food and a full belly have softened your tongue, but you realize that if you aren’t scratching at him, you have nothing to say. When you’d still been eating, you’d tried several times to start a conversation, and floundered over every possible topic.

Because, really, what does one say to their monster of a lieutenant when they aren’t at work and he isn’t being a bloody nightmare?

Gratitude. Gratitude is a safe bet.

“Thank you for making lunch.” 

He inclines his head slightly.

“And thank you for knocking.”

His lips twitch. 

“Don’t get used to it.”

The dishes cleaned and leftovers put away, Riley drops another bomb.

“Thought we might go somewhere.”

You make a point to look at his pants—still unbuttoned—and then down at yourself. He rolls his eyes.

“Put on different clothes, obviously.”

“Do I get any say in this?”

He’s already fishing his keys from his pocket, and the sight sends you scrambling for your closet. “You can pick the place,” he calls.

Bastard has the audacity to even sound magnanimous about it.

The Hereford Cathedral seems like a neutral enough place to go. You’ve both seen it already, and, it being a popular tourist spot, it comes with built-in entertainment.

“I think he’s married. Three kids.”

“Two kids.”

You and Riley sit side-by-side on one of the benches, people-watching. The poor soul currently under review is a middle-aged man with a t-shirt tucked into his shorts, wearing beat-up old trainers and high white socks.

As you watch, a woman about his age walks up with two teenagers in tow, both looking like they’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Riley smirks. “Two kids.”

You huff. “Alright. What about that guy?”

He follows your nod to the man lurking by the corner of the cathedral. After a few moments of intense scrutiny, he hums.

“He’s a nose picker.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“‘M not the one pickin’ my nose, am I?”

After struggling with yourself for a few seconds, you give up. “Ten quid says he flicks it.”

Riley laughs, a real, deep laugh that echoes over the grounds. The sound of it sends goosebumps down your arms. 

The sun is warm, and the air carries with it only a slight chill. The wind moves the grass and shakes the leaves, and rumples the ends of Riley’s curls. Without thinking, you reach up to smooth them down.

You freeze when Riley turns to look at you. Wearing a mask, his expression is difficult to read, but you think his eyes look kind.

Still, you take your hand back. Stupid.

“I’m sorry.”

He looks back at you a minute more before focusing his gaze behind you. 

“What do you think of her?”

You turn to see a woman—American, by the sound of her accent—walking toward you and wearing the brightest neon pink shirt you’ve ever seen.

Your fingers still tingle where they’d touched Riley’s hair.

“I think she wants someone to notice her,” you say quietly. 

If he hears, he doesn’t answer.

The ride back to your flat is quiet.

At the cathedral, it had been simple. You’d spoken to him indirectly by focusing on others. And when you weren’t people-watching, the fine weather and scenery had made it easy to pretend to fixate on something else.

Now, there’s just the two of you in Riley’s car.  At least the smell of cigarette smoke gives you an excuse to roll the window down, and the rush of air stifles any possible conversation.

In the car park, you put the window up. Riley turns the engine off, and the two of you sit in the encroaching twilight.

You’re about to hit him with some typical date line—I had a great time, thanks—when he pulls the mask off.

“You should invite me up.”

You stop fiddling with the seat belt buckle and look up at him. “Oh, is that how it works? You make me lunch and take me to church, and I’m just supposed to invite you upstairs?”

He blinks, slow and thoughtful. “No.” But before you can feel any sense of relief, he tramples over it. “You should invite me up because ‘m great in bed.”

What? You can’t help it; you laugh, tipping your head back and closing your eyes. The sound feels obnoxiously loud in the cab of his truck. 

“Who told you that?” And what made you think that saying it would work?

Riley looks affronted. “Plenty’a birds.”

“Oh, yeah?” You dab at the corners of your eyes, still giggling. “Why didn’t any of them stick around, then?”

He doesn’t answer. The longer the silence stretches on, the more you start to feel like you’ve made a misstep. You’d meant the comment to be teasing, but apparently you’d missed that mark and sailed straight into cruelty.

When he speaks, each syllable is ground out. Harsh. Like he’s chewing on rocks instead of words.

“This isn’t easy fer me.” He waves a big hand carelessly around the car. “I’m not used to…to talkin’ and hangin’ out outside o’ work.”

It’s getting darker outside. The interior light of the cab has gone off, and you can’t make out his expression clearly. 

You cross your arms. “So, what? You start breaking into my flat? Do a few nice things for me so I’ll sleep with you? Is that supposed to be fair to me?”

“No. I thought—” He cuts himself off. One hand runs through his hair, and you’re struck with that desire to touch it again. 

He covers his face, just for a moment, then drops it heavily back on the steering wheel.

“Forget it. Doesn’ matter.”

“It does matter.” You unbuckle your seat belt so you can turn to face him. The questions from the night he’d slept on your couch hang between you. Why are you here? Why haven’t you asked me to leave?

“Simon.”

That gets his attention. He looks down at you, eyes dark in the settling nightfall. You look back up at him, leaning over the center console.

“What do you want?”

The creak of old leather draws your eyes to his hand on the steering wheel. He’s got it in a death grip, white knuckles visible even in the low light. He wipes his forehead with his other hand.

“I don’t want anythin’—”

“That is such fucking bullshit, Riley. Tell the truth! What do you—”

Fingers hook into your collar, dragging you halfway into the driver’s seat. You land practically on his chest, bumping your head against the underside of his jaw. 

Riley manhandles you until you’re in his lap, upper half leaned against the driver’s side door, legs draped over the storage console.

He still has your shirt clenched tight. So close, you can smell old cigarettes, a hint of sweat, and something uniquely him, dangerous and deep. Little tremors wrack his frame, and his hands are unsteady.

A first, for such a world-class sniper.

He takes your chin in his other hand. His hold is hard and unyielding, but you trust him, your lieutenant. If I told him to let go, he would.

There’s a puff of warm air against your neck as he hunches over, murmuring his secret into your jaw.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

You throw caution to the wind and do what you’ve been wanting to do for the past several hours, plunging your hands into his hair. The rake of your fingers over his scalp makes him shudder, and when you tighten your hand to pull, he looks up.

“Halle-fucking-lujah, finally. A bit of honesty.” Then, to repay him in kind, you grant him an admission of your own: “I don’t want to be alone anymore, either.”

It doesn’t help, either, that you’ve politely turned down any interested man that’s come sniffing at your heels.

He’s not going to be the next victim in the long line of rejected suitors.

No—he’s going to take what he can get, and ask forgiveness later.

Before you had come home to find him in your kitchen, Simon had taken his time cataloguing your apartment. 

Some things he lets alone. Once he’s figured out where you keep your weapon—the nightstand, really? Not very practical—he leaves your bedroom to prowl around the other rooms of the flat. 

There isn’t much to see. A nondescript spare room with a full-size bed and dresser, which is mostly empty except for some junk you’ve crammed in the top drawer. One bathroom, a living room with a couple of chairs and a sofa, and a tidy little kitchen. 

On his way back to the table, Simon pauses by the television. There are photos on the table behind the couch, their frames a variety of shapes and sizes but all featuring a common theme.

He picks one up, feeling uncharacteristically fond. It’s a picture of all of them—you, him, Kyle, Johnny, and Price—along the banks of the Shatt al-Arab. Basra, if he remembers right. Another photo beside it shows Johnny and Kyle perched cheekily on Price’s desk at Stirling Lines, each holding one of the captain’s treasured Cohibas. Neither Simon nor Price himself is in that one. He eyes the cigars. Wonder if Price knows about that.

Simon puts it back, taking care to prod the frame into the exact position it had been in before going back to the kitchen. He’s just starting in on one container when he hears the front door open.

When their plane touches down back at Brize Norton, Simon can still smell the oil fields of the Niger Delta.

He, Johnny, and Kyle regroup briefly in the hangar before going their separate ways. It’s an hour-long drive back to Hereford, enough time for Simon to sit behind the steering wheel and dwell on how much he really doesn’t want to go home.

He can’t think of his own barren flat without thinking of how cozy yours had seemed in comparison. And once the idea of you comes into mind, he can't let it go.

Maybe he doesn’t have to go home.

You’ll be cross. 

But he can deal with that.

It’s dark at your place, but he doesn’t need the lights. He leaves his bag by the sofa and edges into the hall. 

Your door is partially open. Simon pauses beside it, listening, but hears nothing more than your deep breathing. He moves on down to the bathroom, flicking the light on and shutting the door behind him.

The shower is pure bliss—after six weeks of wading through mangrove forests in Nigeria, he’d forgotten what it’d felt like to be clean again. The water washes the filth out of his hair and clears away the last of the paint around his eyes, sending a steady stream of dark water down the drain. When he steps out, steam clinging to his skin and fogging the mirror, he rolls the door shut and then promptly stubs his little toe on your bathroom vanity.

“Fuck.”

Outside the door, there’s a rustle of clothing. “If I open this door and it’s you in there, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Simon slings one of your little towels over his hips and opens the door to spare you the trouble of breaking it down. On the other side, you scowl up at him, one hand on your hip and the other wrapped around the grip of your Walther.

When you look up at him like that, like you could kill him if he gave you the chance, he thinks you’ve never looked lovelier.

"Gonna shoot me?"

"I might."

You wouldn't.

He brushes past you and hears when you follow him down the hall to the living room. As he digs through his bag, he lets the towel slip, studying your face in the reflection of one of the picture frames. You’re watching him, you sly thing. Smirking, he tugs on a pair of boxers and the last clean shirt he has.

The first thing he notices when he turns around is that you’ve set the gun down. Empty-handed now, you sit across from him, eyes darting between Simon and his bag.

“You came here straight from the airfield?”

“Yeah.”

He runs a hand through his hair. He’d been aiming to get it cut tomorrow, but the way your eyes follow his fingers as they card through the messy waves, he thinks he might just let it grow.

Loyal to the core, you ask about Johnny and Gaz. And then, a little less sure of yourself, you ask about him.

Simon almost laughs. He hasn’t been alright since he was a boy. But that’s why he’s here on your couch, isn’t it? That’s why, instead of taking you out for a nice dinner someplace, he’s sneaking around your flat at odd hours to catch you unawares.

“Yeah, ‘m alright, love.” 

You bristle at that, the little endearment sliding under your skin. But exhaustion is creeping in, the long hours in the cramped jumpseat of the C-17 catching up to him. Simon lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. “Put that light out ‘fore you go.”

The lamp switches off, and the yellow glow beyond his eyelids disappears. There's no creak of couch cushions or rustle of fabric. Even with his eyes closed, he knows you're still sitting across from him, watching.

He waits.

“Why are you here?”

Because he doesn't know how to do this. Because he's only ever in the company of others forced to be there.

Simon turns over to look at you, picking out your shadow in the dark of the room. Turns the question back on you to make you doubt your motives instead of questioning his.

“Why haven’ you asked me to leave?”

You go back to bed without answering, your footsteps soft on the hallway rug. Simon listens to them fade back into your bedroom before he closes his eyes again.

Back when he’d given you, Johnny, and Kyle his personal number, Simon had cheerfully added one caveat—if ya call and it’s no’ an emergency, I’ll kill ya. Slowly.

You’ve made an executive decision that this qualifies as an emergency.

You start by opening your messages, but hesitate. Texts can leave a paper trail. They can be read. And ignored.

You press the call button and give yourself another pour. Heavy-handed, generous.

The phone rings a few times, then goes to a default voicemail message. The person you are trying to reach is unavailable…

You snort. Don’t I know it.

Tossing your phone from hand to hand, you pace in circles around your kitchen. Your footsteps echo and the vinyl floor creaks—there’ll probably be a complaint from your downstairs neighbors in your future.

That’s a problem for tomorrow. As you see it, right now, there are two possibilities. 

One, Simon’s high out of his mind on painkillers and actually asleep. 

Two, he’s fully awake and actively avoiding you.

It’s crushingly humbling to know that both are equally possible. 

Do you call again? A spiteful little voice in your ear says yes, and you jab the call button again with a vengeance. 

This time, he picks up on the first ring. Fully alert.

Bastard. He did ignore me.

“Simon.”

He doesn’t respond for a long moment, and you’d think he’d hung up if not for the quiet sound of his breathing. Then, he says your name.

Your determination teeters, but you jut your chin out and stand your ground. Cut straight to the chase.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?”

“This number’s only supposed to be for emergencies, sergeant.”

Anger flashes in such a blistering wave you think you might burn up on the spot. So it’s sergeant again, is it? 

“Oh, fuck off, lieutenant. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

There’s that long pause again. You get the feeling that he’s choosing his words carefully.

At least, he’d better be.

“You didn’t need to know.”

The words land like a slap, and you raise one hand to your cheek, breath catching, to feel for the imaginary bruise. “Why wouldn’t I need to know?” You remember Johnny in the office. “You told MacTavish.”

His sigh crackles over the phone, distorted and broken. “Johnny’s m’ partner. He had to know I was bein’ replaced.”

“Your partner. What’s that make me, then?”

You wish you could take the question back the moment you say it. Not only do you not know the answer, you’re not sure if you want to know.

For the first time, you realize you may have overplayed your hand. He tells you he doesn’t want to be alone, and that means…what exactly? That you’re together now? That he owes you answers?

He’d never actually committed to anything.

Stomach dropping, you steamroll on before he can answer.

“You—you insert yourself into my life, you tell me you don’t want to be alone, but it’s okay for you to leave me alone? Why?” Your throat closes around that last word, and you’re surprised at how your eyes suddenly burn. “Because you feel like it?”

There’s silence on Simon’s end of the call. He’s so quiet, you have to pull the phone back from your ear to check that he hadn’t hung up.

You’re afraid that you can read his response—or lack thereof—loud and clear. 

“It’s fine. You can forget I called.” Trying to tamp down the humiliation crawling up the back of your neck, you wipe at your eyes. “Actually, please forget I called. I hope you’re doing alright.”

When you hang up, Simon still hadn’t said a word. 

Sniffling and feeling astronomically stupid, you take the rest of your glass to the sink and pour it down the drain.

You wake to a clatter at your bedroom window. There’s a man there in silhouette, a broad block of shadow against a deep blue sky.

“Simon?”

“Me,” he confirms weakly, stepping down to your carpet.

The night air from the open window chills your bare legs, but it doesn’t stop you from swinging them out of bed. You hurry across the floor to grab him by the shirt collar, dragging him the rest of the way inside.

While he gets his bearings, you lean out to look down at the walls below. There's not a handhold in sight. 

You close the window and turn back to him with raised eyebrows.

“How did you even climb up here?”

Leaning heavily on your dresser and breathing hard, Simon grimaces. 

“Poorly.”

Lecturing Simon about how big of an idiot he is makes it easier to order him to take his pants off. He sits on your couch again, legs stretched out in front of him while you kneel beside his thigh to inspect his injury.

It’s a deceptively small wound, left open to heal from the inside out. But Simon hisses as you prod at the skin, and moves gingerly when he settles deeper into the cushions. 

“How long?”

“Four weeks of leave. Then physio.” He sighs. “‘Nother eight weeks.”

His gallant appearance at your bedroom window has mollified you enough that your lips twitch. “Sounds like light duty. For the record, I like my tea with extra sugar.”

He snorts, slanting a flat look your way. “What kind of biscuits should I bring?”

“Dunno.” You prop your elbow on his good leg and rest your chin in your hand. “Something Johnny doesn’t like.”

“What about Garrick?”

“Kyle knows how to share.”

Simon smirks and doesn’t argue, squirming again to find a more comfortable position.

You bite the inside of your cheek and consider your options.

He fits on your couch, technically, but there’s no room for him to stretch out. That’s fine for an annoying lieutenant who’s been making a nuisance of himself, but Simon’s injured now. And only here because I called him, you realize with a twinge of guilt.

“I think you need to sleep in a real bed.”

His face gives nothing away. But the soft lighting of the room lends a warm cast to his dark eyes. 

“That an invitation?”

“An invitation to sleep,” you clarify. Simon hesitates, and you widen your eyes sweetly. “Problem? I thought you said you were great in bed.”

The warmth in his eyes darkens to heat. He leans over, and being suddenly thrown into his shadow reminds you of where you are—kneeling at his feet.

Silly, you think, a bit muzzy. Silly to think that just because he’s wounded, that it makes him less dangerous.

Without a means of dignified retreat, you hold still when he reaches.

But his touch is soft. His hand glides over the top of your head, almost petting, then slides down the curve of your cheek. Fingers ghost over your lips. You open your mouth, slide your eyes shut, but Simon’s already moved on, smoothing his hand in a downward arc. His palm passes over your throat, brushing your collarbone and stopping just short of slipping under the collar of your shirt.

The sound you make is a cross between a moan and a whine. The featherlight touches are too much. Not enough. You open your eyes, and Simon’s there, leaning closer. 

He wears a cunning little smile, a trace of knowing in his expression. “Gettin’ up anytime soon? Or were we gonna sit on the floor all night?”

Oh. And if you weren’t so tired, if the last traces of wine weren’t still curling through your veins, you would snip back. Try to maintain a semblance of equilibrium.

But your skin still tingles where he touched it, and all you can do is blink slowly up at him as he stands.

You find your voice when he reaches down to help you up.

“I should be helping you.”

“Don’t need help,” he replies, so quick it’s almost snappy, and the syrupy contentment that had been ebbing over you dissipates into thin air. You curl your lip, but you're saved from having to argue when he takes a step and immediately falters.

Simon looks at you and grumpily amends, “I need some help.”

“Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

Arranging him in your bed takes a little invention and a lot of patience. You drag in a cushion off the couch to wedge under his injured leg. A few spare blankets get rolled up and tucked in along his sides to keep him from rolling over in the night.

When all’s said and done, Simon is left looking put out and very fussed over. You admire your handiwork from the safety of the doorway and smirk. 

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Riley?”

He scoffs, shoulders and back still straight even when he’s half-sunk into a mountain of pillows. “Your hospitality’s lackin’.”

“Lacking how?”

“It’s no’ obvious?” He lifts his chin. “Where’s my goodnight kiss?”

He’s put on a haughty air, but his fingers tap a nervous rhythm on top of the covers. Is he demanding…or asking?

You can be ruthless, but you spare him the cruelty of having to explain himself. This time. 

Instead, you linger in the doorway and pretend to think it over. When you walk into the room, each step is slow and deliberate. By the time you sit gingerly on the bed at his side, Simon’s practically vibrating, coiled to spring.

His eyes close when you bend down, and you brush a light kiss at the corner of his mouth.

A frustrated groan works its way out of his chest. He opens his mouth to protest. 

Smiling, you silence him with a real kiss. One of his hands moves instantly to the nape of your neck, dragging you deeper and holding you down, sending a thrill of arousal through you. And danger.

Because this is your bed, not the cramped seat of a truck or the impersonal desk in his office. He’s got you half-draped over him, boneless and sweet, when just three hours ago you’d been sniffling back tears over a stupid fucking phone call.

He still hasn’t committed to anything, but you’re half-certain your heart would beat its way out of your chest if it could, just to land itself in his open palm.

"Stay," he commands when you draw back, big hand squeezing the back of your neck.

You slip out of his hold and guide his hand to rest on his chest. The sheets rustle when you stand, and you leave behind an empty space at his side.

"Sleep well. Call if you need anything."

You're halfway out the door when he says, "I should have told you I was back."

Simon's words pull you up short. The urge to look back is tempting, but you look straight down the hall instead, keeping your back turned. For all the other events of the night, the memory of the phone call, and his silence, is still painfully fresh.

"You don't have to tell me anything."

His gaze is a heavy weight on your neck as you close the door behind you.

Something wakes you suddenly in the middle of the night.

Running water, intermittent splashing. Like someone’s letting it puddle in their hands and splashing their face with it.

You sit up in bed. This time, the gun’s within reach.

Steam curls out from under the bathroom door as you pad into the hallway. The water stops as you creep along the wall, and you hear the shower door roll along its track, then close. There’s a thump and a low curse in a voice you recognize.

Again, really?

You stop outside the door. “If I open this door and it’s you in there, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Don’t open it, then.”

If you go in, you’ll have to shoot him out of principle. Turning around and going back to bed is also an option, but you’re not keen on giving Riley a victory in your own home. 

He saves you from having to choose when he opens the door himself, draped only in a towel. Your towel. It’s comically narrow around his waist, barely reaching down to the tops of his thighs, and you silently thank God that your years of being around a bunch of shameless men has made you immune to whatever they sling around between their legs.

He smirks down at the gun in your hand. “Gonna shoot me?”

“I might.”

“Was jus’ havin’ a shower.”

“It’s my shower, dickhead!”

There’s really no space for him to slide between you and the wall, but he makes room anyway. His bare chest is still wet—your sleep shirt catches between you as he passes, and comes away damp. A wave of humidity follows him out. It gives the air in the hallway a heavy, warm feeling, weighing your steps and clouding your thoughts.

At least he turns the light out behind him.

Light from the street seeps through your curtains, striping the living room in pale orange. Riley’s silhouette passes in front of the window, a flicker of a shadow, and you feel through the dark for the closest switch.

The table lamp glows to life, and you set the gun beside it at the same time that Riley drops his towel.

Bastard. He’s doing it on purpose. 

The knowledge doesn’t stop you from looking. 

There’s a bag—one he must’ve brought with him—set beside the couch, and he kneels to start pawing through it. The dim lighting is kind to his features, softening the scars on his torso and legs and giving his skin a warm cast that’s so different from its normally pale hue.

He pulls on a pair of boxers and an old sand tee, then sits down on the couch with a groan.

Looking between him and the bag, you connect the dots. “You came here straight from the airfield?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s long enough now for him to sink his fingers into, curling over his ears and across his forehead. On his cheeks and chin is the shadow of a beard.

“Soap and Gaz alright?”

“Lads’re fine.”

You sink into one of the chairs opposite the couch. He follows the motion, eyes heavy. He looks the same as he had in your kitchen. Stretched thin. Beaten down. 

“Are you…” You pause. Bite the inside of your cheek. “Are you alright?”

Riley gives a wry smile. “Yeah, ‘m alright, love.” The pet name puts your back up, but he sprawls back against the cushions, closing his eyes. “Put that light out ‘fore you go.”

Annoyance quashes the warmth that had begun to bloom in your breast. You remember that this man had woken you up in the middle of the night to use your bloody shower and, apparently, commandeer your sofa.

You switch off the lamp. After your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can just make out his shadow. Bolder with the lights out, you lean towards him over the coffee table and ask the question that's been on your mind since you stepped into the hall.

“Why are you here?”

He’d been facing away, but rolls over now to stare at you. His eyes are two knife points in the dark.  “Why haven’ you asked me to leave?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.