Archive of Our Own

Simon’s gait has a certain rhythm to it.

A slow and purposeful thump, thump, that has an intermittence of sorts between each step, because he favours his right leg. Doesn’t help that he’s still recovering, that his ribs still tighten with each breath he takes, his ankle clicking whenever he puts too much weight on it.

However, even through the noise of the rain pelting the roof overhead, even through the gusts of wind that rush in your ears, Simon knows you’ve heard him arrive.

Few people have access to the rooftop, and you definitely don’t have the seniority to be here—you shouldn’t even have the key. Perhaps you consider it your little secret. Perhaps you think he hasn’t noticed the key missing from the ring he keeps in his bedroom, back at his flat.

How he’d seen you leaf through the keys on his dresser until you found your prey, small and squared, “Hereford Rooftop” engraved on the handle. Snatched it and pocketed it quietly, biting on a smirk, as he slept soundly. To your knowledge, at least.

On the other hand, Simon had to shuffle under the sheets to hide his snort.

Nevertheless, he’s behind you now, hovering like the ghost that he is, and as you puff a cloud of smoke from between your lips, he decides to make himself known.

“Won’t ask how ya got here.” Though he knows.

You look behind your shoulder, profile dark with the contrast of moonlight behind you.

He sees you bite on your lip, barely hiding a smile. Cheeky, bordering on adorable. His boots bring him to you before he can even realize he’s walking.

“Good, ‘cause I wouldn’t tell you.” You reply, all smug.

He props his elbows on the railing beside you, hunching over it. Fingers clasp loosely over the darkness beneath.

“How d’you find me anyway?” You ask, puffing on your cigarette.

He gives you a sidelong glance.

“Put a tracker on ya,” he replies, then, like it’s normal.

He knows you wouldn’t put that past him, unable to even out whether to believe him or not. And just as he predicted, the only thing you manage to do in response is to give him a side eye that holds questions you don’t seem ecstatic to say out loud.

Simon’s lips twitch.

“Takin’ the piss,” he says finally. His hands go for his pockets, and he plucks a ciggie of his own. “Johnny saw ya goin’ upstairs. Put two ‘n two together.”

You deflate. Bring the cigarette to your lips again. 

Simon follows your hand, rough knuckles ruined by the harsh winds and not the kindest of jobs: rubbing of synthetic leather, friction against punch bags, and all that jazz. The orange butt of the cigarette softens between chapped lips, a faint sheen of balm unevenly spread over them—not enough to mend cracks, but just enough to soothe the burn.

“Came here for a chat, then?” You ask, leaning the side of your head on his shoulder.

It’s unexpected. 

Touch-starved as he may be, there is still deep-rooted discomfort whenever his hunger is fundamentally fed. Sex he can endure. It’s a physical need: your hands on him when he’s practically buried in your guts are a natural necessity for your balance.

But when your touch isn’t inherently sexual, that’s where he struggles. 

When you linger nearby, fingers in his hair or cheek on his shoulder, he can’t fathom why. You have so many possibilities, so many spotlights ready to point your way, that he fails to understand why you would want to wander in the dark instead. 

Why you, unbelievably patient, put up with a path so ruthless, with a wall so thick and bricks much too heavy to tear.

He shuts that voice. Stabs it ruthlessly, using the gentleness of your head resting against him as the sharpest weapon. He shows it off, flaunts it around— look at this. Look at what I can have.

But Simon’s one old dog and sometimes doubts still rankle his bones. He shakes it away with one imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. Slowly, he relaxes, bringing the lighter to the cigarette now tucked between his lips. He uses his other hand so the arm you’re resting on can stay comfortably still. 

“Not really.” He replies.

Soft smoke billows from both your lips. It merges in front of your eyes, a fleeting cloud that disperses in the rain.

“Saw the papers on my desk,” he drawls. “Extended leave, eh? Plannin’ a trip?”

The countryside stretching just at the outskirts of the HQ steals the show. Dark clouds unable to completely shroud the full moon, twinkling lights of the city at the horizon, blinking through the sheer curtain of drizzle and fog.

He silently thanks nature for going all out this evening. Means you can be focused on these bits and pieces of beauty it offers, instead of gauging the obvious nervousness etched in his eyes.

“Nah,” you reply, shrugging. “Just need some…”

A beat.

“…humanity. Some quiet.”

Simon forcibly tears his eyes away from the horizon and lets them linger on the top of your head.

He sighs. “Reckon there ain’t much o’ that in here, no.”

His cigarette, tapped with tiny raindrops, is dropped into the darkness below the railing because he doesn’t fancy a smoke as of now. He’s only lit it to have a reason to stay, a habit that makes him forget, sometimes, that he doesn’t need to fake it anymore.

Simon keeps quiet, then, in case you feel the need to elaborate. 

“I miss having breakfast in bed,” you say, words muffled by the ciggie snug between your lips. “Miss going grocery shopping and complaining about the prices.” 

A puff of smoke. 

“Miss having a chat with my neighbour—she’s a proper gran, Grace. Full of wisdom and shite.”

You chuckle, and Simon’s lips twitch because it’s as infectious as they come.

“Always tells me I’m too young to be this sad.” You wave your hands like you’re not fully on board with it. “I tell her I’m not sad and she just says—” 

And there you mimic what he thinks is her voice, going all croaky and high-pitched.

“—‘not in the way you think’.”

You scoff, then. But it’s sweet, like you’re not really mad at her for saying that. Maybe just miffed because she perceived something you’ve been trying to conceal, and it’s not always welcomed to have someone tear down the walls, rip at the curtains.

Simon knows a thing or two about that. 

“Bet she’s a good laugh,” he replies, trying to fit some humour in the wistfulness coating your words.

You nuzzle his bicep with a breathy chuckle, and that’s a small victory on his part.

His hand goes to the small of your back, thumb brushing the divot of your spine through your shirt. You relax further into him, and he loves to feel how soft you go whenever he turns gentler too.

“She is.” You say fondly, flipping the finished cigarette into the darkness below.

Simon follows it with his eyes.

“Wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

He can feel you stiffen; the softness he coaxed out of you suddenly gone. He doesn’t blame you—too many times he’s waxed lyrical about you, guiding you out of your own armour because it’s easier to pierce flesh if there is no shield in the way. 

What a fucking bastard he’s been.

He reckons he’s gotta work thoroughly to fix his mistakes, to show you he’s not keen on doing them all over again.

“Yeah?” You say, cautious like you’re tiptoeing in a landmine.

“Aye,” he replies. “Might as well bring ya that breakfast in bed you were talkin’ about. Proper five-star service.”

A divot in your lip forms under the bite of your teeth. Gentle and pensive, much like the line drawn between your brows. You’re quiet, and he lets you digest it. 

“Wake ya up with it.” His eyes fall on your hands, curled around the railing in a death grip. "Coffee or tea—your pick. Though I’m hopin’ it’s tea. Last thing you need’s more bloody caffeine."

Your shoulders tighten in the curl of his arm. He releases the hold as you subtly move to the side. Cold seeps through the crack parting between you and him and further ventures inside his bones.

Your acting is good. If he didn’t know you, he’d think your smirk, although weak, is an honest one. Still, it takes one subtle look in your eyes to gauge the truth—you’re careful, protected. Doesn’t blame you for it, though he loathes to see you trying to mask it, taking his quip in stride: dismissively waving your hand at him, scoffing to pretend a chuckle. 

“We both know you make shit coffee, Riley.”

“Could learn,” he offers gently.

You sigh and unwind, recognizing that he caught on much more easily than you were expecting. Your hand drops, his heart with it. “What is this, Simon?” 

He’s seen this already, heard you ask him that same question. But at the time, he didn’t have an answer for it—too lost, too confused. Undeserving. Reluctantly he admits, afraid too.

You’re the one who’s scared, now. You soothed his heart before, repeated his name like a prayer, and made promises rationally impossible to keep. Lent your ear to listen, cherished his fears and fought them for him. Took it upon yourself to be strong enough for two, in combat for a love you weren’t even sure reciprocal. 

He’s never had that, never knew what it meant to have someone fight for him. He thought himself too wretched to waste time on—food gone bad, poisonous. He’s been that for you: he has poisoned you.

He reckons it’s time for him to be the antidote too.

Simon’s voice is a gentle rumble. “M’fixing it.”

You glance upwards. Your eyes meet.

He turns to face you, and you straighten your spine, looking upward through your lashes. Big palms come to cradle your cheeks.

“You said you get it, yeah?” Simon whispers, somewhat lost in the patter against the roof.

Your answer is a careful nod.

“Then let me.”

Silence lingers, then. Gentle eyes sharp like knives, cutting through the layers of him, and he allows himself to be shredded open—as long as you see. See through the grooves in between each brick, see the landscape stretching behind it. How it’s not as desolate and barren as it was before you fought to see it flower.

You break through with a sigh and turn your eyes ahead. His hands slip back to rest on the railing, and he finds himself following the line of your gaze: the lights in Hereford blink back, waiting quietly for your words to break through the silence. Similarly, Simon dithers with bated breath.

Your voice reaches him. “Breakfast, you say?”

Simon thinks breathing has never been easier. 

He hums in reply. “Mhmh.”

“In bed,” you state.

“In bed,” he confirms.

You shift your head his way. Your lips twitch and your eyes turn soft.

“Could make a full English,” he adds quietly. Contrary to yours, his smile is there, however faint. He reckons it must give him some sort of look that inspires yours, because it’s then that you bloom.

“You’re gonna burn the eggs again, aren’t you,” you say with a drawn-out sigh that sounds surrendered and annoyed, but he knows you’re anything but. 

He snorts. “Think I’ll bring my pans ‘round. Keep yours safe tha’ way.”

His hand returns around your shoulder, and he pulls you in. You wrap your arms around him just as securely. Gingerly, you rest your chin on his chest and look up. 

Being blunt and direct is his specialty, so he does just that.

“Fancy some company, then?” He asks. “During this extended leave o’ yours.”

You cock your head.

His heart starts thrumming when it takes you a while to give him a proper answer that isn’t the curious look in your eyes, like you’re studying him inside out. Fucking hell, he knows he looks anything but the man you’re used to: it’s not a ruse he promises, cross his heart and hope to die and all that. However, he doesn’t know how to tell you without sounding like a pining sod that this is what he wants to be when the mask is off and the guns are holstered. Comes easy as anything now that he’s let his guard down around you.

“I would love that.” You say.

His sigh is staggered, cough abrupt as he clears his throat to get his voice back.

“Alrigh’ then,” he murmurs, straightening his spine. “Consider it done.”

True to his word, that same night, Simon begins to pull enough strings to grant you extended leave. He was never one to beg and almost drops out of this mission when the brass forces him to.

But then the images of what could be start reeling before his eyes: to witness you wear the dress of domesticity, arms out of that bleak uniform and stuffed into comfortable PJs. Your lips around the mugs he washed, sipping on the tea he made. Hands holding grocery bags and not knives, mouth mindlessly complaining about the prices and not bellowing orders, or murmuring Yes, sir.

Simon begs .

And when it doesn’t work, he threatens—and that one never fails.

In less than a week, Simon has documents signed left and right.

In less than two, Simon is resting on your sofa with your head on his thighs and your favourite movie playing on the telly.

𓇬

It’s barely morning.

The sun bathes your kitchen, casting long shadows at his feet. The blender sitting on the counter reflects kaleidoscopic sunlight—inexplicably beautiful in its mundanity. The kettle bubbles right next to it, soft crackle of water rising at the top. 

His wrists crack when he curls his fingers around the lip of the counter and leans backwards. As the water boils, he takes the scenery around him as it is: sanctuary of quiet in the chaos, what his life could be if he allows it—what it could’ve been, had he been brave enough before.

The sun is gentle still, cottoned by the early hours. Slices of sunlight cut through the darkness. Soft ticking of the clock above the fridge. Breeze brushes his stomach from the window left ajar, the flutter of the curtains preceding each featherlight touch.

He pours the water into the mugs. Lets the tea steep—a handful of minutes he spends observing your habits. There, Simon realizes there’s so much to learn about people just by looking at their kitchen.

You have six of everything. Six mugs, six glasses, six forks and knives—excluding sharper ones for cooking. Everything is in a set of six . A far cry from what his house offers: singles everywhere, there. Not many people come over, and when they do, it’s not to stay for dinner. Only you’ve had the pleasure, and that night he’d sneaked out to buy some cheap dishware at Tesco under the guise of getting a pack of ciggies. 

But you—you like people. He can see it in the flowers sitting at the centre of the table, too. They’re fresh: you change them every few days. Bright colours now that it’s summer, but he can imagine the purples of winter pansies that would fill the vase during colder months. They make the room inviting, like they’ve been set for people to admire and then bring home as a memento of the evening spent together. Pressed inside books, dropped in water-filled glasses. 

Simon plucks a primrose and pockets it. Might stuff it in his wallet later, bring a piece of you in the back pocket of his jeans.

As he scoured your kitchen for tea, he found a cupboard filled to the brim. Black tea, of course. Green tea, matcha, jasmine, lavender, oolong, too—whatever the fuck that is. Quite pricey as well, the label still glued to most of the boxes. Nevertheless, you seem to buy based on taste. Yours, perhaps, but those of eventual guests too.

These are signs of what he knows already: generosity. 

You’ve always had that. That… selflessness that makes you comfortable to be around. He knows you, even as you mask the cashmere of your heart under the inviolable shell of the admirable sergeant that you are. You opened up for him with the ease of a peach, mature softness crushed under his thumbs. He hasn’t been gentle either; he took greedy bites and left when your taste became cloying, when your syrup threatened to invade his blood and turn him soft, too. 

He's done fighting it: his mantra, repeated daily. There’s peace in that. 

But still, it isn’t the care with which you prepare your place for others that strikes him. 

It’s how part of it he feels. 

There are roots growing around him, undeterred by the last shreds of fear still clinging to his bones. Comfort of his bare feet against the floors, of the padding of yours down the hallway. Third door to the right, that’s where you’re coming from. He could draw the blueprint of this place with his eyes closed, knows it by heart already, even if these are his first days in it. 

As expected, your voice rings crystalline from the doorway.

“Tea’s gonna taste like dirt.”

When he lifts his eyes to you, something scratches his brain just right. 

You’re leaning against the kitchen door, arms folded in front of your chest. Sleeping shorts and a white ruffled t-shirt. Your cheek is still dimpled with the folds of the bedsheets, a testament to the blissful rest you got. 

His lips twitch. 

Yeah, he spaced out and forgot about the tea. Cry about it.

“Mh. S’my own special brew.”

Struggling to mask amusement, you push yourself off the door and slowly walk to him, swinging your hips in a lazy gait that hypnotizes him.

“What’s the special ingredient?” You ask innocently. Your fingers come to dance on his chest. “Overthinking?”

He snorts.

“Yer a right laugh ain’t ya.” He mutters, but not unkindly. “Spaced out is all. S’early.”

You nod in mock understanding. “Just another Tuesday for Simon Riley.”

In spite of the snort he yields, you couldn’t be more wrong. His regular Tuesday has never been even remotely close to this. 

No, he doesn’t recall a single day of the week in which he woke up because sunlight tickled his face and not because the alarm blared him awake. Not a single Tuesday in which the flat he was in didn’t feel like a cold coffin as soon as he opened his eyes.

You wrap your arms around him, sneaking your hands in the space between his biceps and his sides. Your fingers clasp at his back. Simon’s lips drop instinctively on the crown of your head. 

You smell of sleep. Of linen and citrus of your shampoo, still warm from the bed. The scent of smoke lingers on your hair, cigarettes you shared on the balcony before you guided him to bed last night. And there, at the base of it all, like a footnote left written imperceptibly small—you smell of him. Of hints of gunpowder from work and spices of bodywash, of pungent nicotine staining his fingers and herbs of black tea brewing in the mugs.

No, this isn’t a regular Tuesday by miles. 

He mimics your stance, wrapping his arms around you as well.

“Yer not gettin’ breakfast in bed if you keep trailin’ after me every time I get up, y’know.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I like to make sure you’re not, like, making a run for it.”

Simon snorts. “I’d be a hell of a lot quieter.”

“Mh,” you hum. “So it’s in the plans?”

“Sure.” He nods towards the window with a smirk. “Drop’s not even that bad, is it?”

It steals a laugh from you, one that warms him like the kindest of suns. You nuzzle his chest, and his lips pull in a smile you can’t see.

“You could always use the door,” you say, voice muffled and vibrating against his shirt.

“I’d miss the theatrics.”

“’Course you would.” You mumble as your shoulders shake in giggles. “What else to expect from someone who chose Ghost as his callsign.”

He clicks his tongue. “ Behave .”

“The elusive Ghost, lurking in the background. His enemies fear him, the man with the bloody Halloween prop on his face—"

Simon bends his knees and, with impressive speed, hooks his fingers at the back of your thighs. 

Suddenly, you’re airborne, giggly and light. A mere gasp is what you offer when your feet leave the floor, but you’re just as ready to curl your legs around his hips. The surprise is barely there, as if you were expecting him to do it—perhaps wishing he would.

He swivels on his heels and plops your ass on the counter.

“I said, behave .” He rumbles, but there’s no hint of threat in it whatsoever.

In fact, you don’t falter in the slightest.

“If only they knew,” you say theatrically, brushing your nose with his. “How easy you are to trick.”

“Fuck’s sake.”

“A pair of tits and you lose it.”

Simon’s eyes soften with a sigh. "You don’t quit do you.”

“Never.”

He pinches your thigh until your nose scrunches. He loves to see how appreciative your eyes turn. Bit mocking too, but in that kind way of yours.

Your fingers travel up his sides, and he shivers. When his eyes inevitably land on your lips, magnetised, he’s dying to dive in and steal a kiss, but you ask a question before he can even register his wish.

“How’s the bruising?”

It’s been a few weeks since he came back. 

The desert is the worst place to get lost in: too hot during the day, too cold at night. The darkness is so thick you can feel it lick at your skin, and Simon would be lying if he said the memories didn’t haunt him just as much as even darker ones still do.

However, the sand scratching at his lungs like shards of glass, the cold biting at his fingers and toes, the sun ravaging his skin… They’re all nightmares incomparable to the dread clutching his chest every time the wind swept over a dune.

In truth, it was unfathomably easy to imagine your corpse being unveiled from under it.

He’s seen you looking like death warmed over with a tube shoved down your throat already. He’s seen you with a bullet in your stomach, with blood soaking your clothes—it took almost nothing to graft that face onto one of the countless dead he’s witnessed, the dead he’s caused.

Your limbs bent unnaturally, the ashen hue of your skin, the glassy look in your eyes. The blood— so much fucking blood , caked and thick and oxidised black. Coagulated sand beneath you, hair torn from your scalp: pink matter, shards of ivory bone. A fat tongue filling your mouth, the muscles in your face slack, your body putrid and tumescent. 

The image reappears again, quick like the flash of a camera, sharp like a blade. So vivid he almost smells it: death.

Shivers wreck him. Subtly, he loses his balance and holds you a little tighter, placing his hands at the slopes of your waist. His forehead knocks onto yours, and he closes his eyes. Breathes, inhales the citrus and the linen and the cigarettes, whirlpool of gunpowder and spices and tea, and sighs.

Chapped lips and rough stubble rise up your face in tender brushes, until he finally lands on your eyebrow, where a slit bisects the hairs into two perfect halves—remnants of what could’ve been so much worse if your PPE had been buckled in wrong. The scar is small but still thick under his kiss, just as thick as the fear that had clotted his lungs weeks back, as he waited— hoped — for his radio to come to life and breathe your voice through comms.

You squeeze his hand on your hip, and he realizes he must’ve spaced out for longer than intended. Or maybe you noticed the darkness that had suddenly taken hold of him, attentive as ever, and subtly tried to bring him back to you.

Simon sighs and breathes it all away. Lets the syrup of you invade him, soften him up again.

Gently, you ask, “Alright?”

However, he prefers to answer the previous question—much easier to put into words how his body is faring, instead of the complexity of his head.

“Breathing’s good,” he replies quietly, brushing his lips to your brow. “S’just a bruise. Looks worse than it is.”

You mindlessly trace his knuckles with your fingers. Considerately, you let it go and focus on the answers he’s willing to give you. 

“Yeah, it’s just a bruise,” you reply with a cheeky grin, “but it’s on you.”

He scoffs. “Throwin' my words back at me, that ain’t—”

“Ankle?” You bat your lashes.

He sighs and rolls it a couple of times to show. “Functional.”

You scrunch your nose in a pleased smile. Gently you tap his forehead. “Head?”

His smile flickers back to life, faint as it may be. Quick and sharp, sarcasm back home on his tongue. “Lost it. Saw those tits.”

Now, you flick his forehead. Simon’s heart soars even as his head flinches back.

“ Head?” You ask again, brows rising to your forehead to reinforce your insistence. 

Simon’s smile warms. His answer is kind, this time.

“Quiet.”

You roll your eyes fondly, and even though you’re trying your best to look tough, he can tell his answer has affected you. Made you happy, he hopes.

“Sap.” You say, curling your nose in a smile.

He pinches it between his knuckles until you pretend it hurts. 

“Done with the inspection, sarge?”

A glint suddenly sparking in your eyes tells him that instead of smothering a fire, he fed dry, burning wood to it.

He can feel the tips of your fingers brush against his sides until they find the hem of his shirt. You toy with it, trying to act clueless with the bat of your lashes.

Minx.

“Actually—” Your tongue peaks out to wet your lips. “I think there’s still something else I gotta check.”

Simon cocks a brow. A hum rumbles in his chest when your hands shift the attention to the elastic of his waistband.

“Is there now,” he purrs.

You leave a kiss on his jaw. And then lower, to the racing pulse in his neck—blood in a waterfall, rushing down to where your hands sweetly promise to go. 

“Mhmh.” You nod your head, brushing your nose against the slope of his neck. “I gotta be thorough.”

Your tongue peeks out, licking a stripe. Simon fists the back of your shirt, abandoning all subtlety. His neck pliantly tilts to leave you more room to explore. Rapidly, his skin sizzles at every brush, awakened by you— nails stroking teasing lines just above his pants, wet tongue soft and insistent, breath warm huffing from your nose.

It's instinctive, really, for his hands to slide to your front, inching upwards, until he’s tracing the underside of your breasts. 

“Hands off, lieutenant.” You rumble against his skin. A bite, gentle, to where his shoulder meets his neck, to steel the seriousness of your order. 

“Inspections are done while standing at attention, aren’t they?” You purr.

It makes his cock twitch. 

“Don’t think you have the seniority to order me ‘round, sergeant.” However, his hands obey and clasp behind his back. 

You hum. Simon can feel your smile hidden in his neck, teeth smooth to his jugular.

“Don’t have the seniority to do lots of things,” you prance. “And yet.”

He could grab you and toss you on the table. He could bend you over and rip the shorts off your legs, move your knickers to the side, and plunge where he knows you’ll be wet by then. He could , but he doesn’t. Curiosity, maybe, or, more truthfully, genuine enjoyment in seeing you have your fun.

Simon sighs. “And yet,” he whispers after you.

And yet here you have him, bending and breaking for you on a whim. 

You tap his thigh, right where it creases to meet his hip.

“Wider, L.T.”

And Simon complies, shifting his weight until his legs are further apart.

Then, your inspection starts. Your fingers hide under his shirt and brush his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You test the flesh rising upwards, right where his bruises heal slowly. You’re gentler there, but still covetous. Nails trace the ridges of his ribs, journey to his chest. Your thumb grazes his nipple, rounds it with its pad, and Simon takes a breath that shakes up his throat. 

He's a ball of tightened muscles and burning nerves, tough at his biceps and corded at his forearms. Harder than ever between his legs, where your hand finally lands, and warmth envelops him when you palm his crotch. 

It’s not been long since he last fucked you. However, this might be the first time he doesn’t have his hands on you. He curls them into fists, faintly trembling at his tailbone, and when you graze your nails over his shaft, right above his boxers, he collapses forward with his head in the crook of your shoulder and his palms flat on the counter for balance.

Instinctively, his thumbs hook at the hem of your shorts, but that stops you in your tracks.

“I said hands off, lieutenant,” you say sharply, as though you were truly in the four walls of bloody Pirbright and not in the quaint kitchen of your flat. “Not done yet.”

Simon feels his cheeks grow in a smile, entertained by your antics but not any less frustrated. He could grab you and fold you like cheap paper in his arms—he could, but he wants to see where you’ll take this, and so he finds himself following orders as if you had any right to dispense them.

“Don’t take it too far, will ya?” He concedes, and his hands return clasped behind his back. 

“Trust me?” You croon, voice warm and wet against the shell of his ear. 

Sometime in between your words, you’ve already started teasing the elastic of his boxers. Hooking a finger and tracing around its edges, gently snapping the band in place. Always quite there but never truly where he wants you. 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Trust ya.”

He could . He could grab your wrists and pin them both to the cupboard overhead. Keep you still as he devours you in a kiss, while his offhand crosses the barrier between your clothes and your cunt. Dip inside because he knows you’re wet; won’t hurt a tick, really. Fuck you on his hand until you’re creaming around two fingers—three if you’ve been good and moaned in his mouth for every orgasm he ripped from you. 

He could , but aren’t you just a treat, with this teasing twinkle in your eye and your hand so close to his cock, and so he leaves it to you. Trusts his body in your arms.

You tap his thigh. “Look up, c’mon.”

Reluctantly, Simon lifts his head from your shoulder, and the same aversion that had roused is quickly schooled into place when he meets your eyes. Gorgeously heavy, crinkling at the corners with a healthy balance of fondness and arrogance alike. Suddenly, he realizes how much he likes it, when you’re the one holding power—won’t tell you though, lest your ego grows too big. 

It’s already been fighting for space with his own—years of this, really. Won’t deny he enjoys it, always has.

Your fingers tease the band of his briefs before dipping in, until your whole palm encircles his shaft. You tug downwards, peeling back the foreskin from the head of his cock, and his body erupts in goosebumps. Simon’s mind blanks, swirling with thoughts that do not make sense, and he doesn’t care to tie the pieces together either. His eyes flicker when your hand returns up, gently gliding his foreskin to stave off overstimulation. 

He inhales sharply. Smacks his lips as he straightens his neck, as if that could help the tightness of the muscles there.

White-knuckled, his hands crumple into fists against his back. Diligently, he follows your order— hands off —but his fingertips itch to touch you, a sliver of you, anything to quell the absence so contrastingly tangible between his fingers. 

So, he admires you with his eyes, dancing about the curves and angles of your face. Pupils blown and just barely concealed, long lashes fanning your cheeks when your gaze lands on his mouth—a look of abandon, heavy lidded and slack. Parted lips he wants to kiss, soft teeth biting into the flesh. 

Teasingly, you bring your hand just below his mouth, leaving his cock to weep precum in the tight fit of his boxers.

“Spit,” you order. 

And Christ, Simon follows it like a pup who’s just been told to sit. Collects a dollop of spit in his mouth and lets it fall onto your palm in a thin rope. He keeps his focus on you. Watches how the black hole of your pupils eats at your eyes, following enraptured as his mouth puckers and spits. 

As a reward, you kiss the corner of his lips, tasting the grunt that escapes when you encircle his cock once again. Your motions are more bearable now, as the mix of arousal and saliva keeps your gliding soft and wet. 

There, your hand finds a pace that’s soothing and earth-shattering all the same.

He wants to fold into you, be weak and crumble into your arms. Touch you, press his forehead to yours and hold on tight—nails digging into the flesh of your ass and not the skin of his palms.

It’s genuinely driving him insane. Bloody closest thing to madness he’s gone through in recent times—trying to hold it off feels impossible when you’re clearly so good at touching the right spots, finding the best pace. He holds your gaze, drinks your lust with his eyes and bottles it, multiplying the overwhelming stash of it he already has in store. 

That’s enough to almost make him come undone. He bites back a groan as he shifts his hips backwards, slightly away from your grasp.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, throat tight.

You lean forward, lips jutting just enough to brush with his mouth.

“Worried you’ll cum on my hand?” You whisper, starting a deliberate twirling movement with your hand once it’s reached the base of his cock. 

He bites his own teeth. Nostrils flare in an irritated huff.

“Now tha’d be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

Your chuckle is light, breathy. “Mh. Much better when it’s inside me, isn’t it?”

Simon groans. Eyes rolled back at the thought. “Fuckin’ hell swee’heart.”

Subtly, his gaze falls to your lips. There’s a curve etched at the corners, a soft wrinkle hinting at a smile—it’s like a hook, he thinks, and he’s a starving prey standing right before a feast. And by God, you got him. You got him good.

He tests the waters first, landing a brief peck. 

“What are you doing?” Your voice cracks, losing the sharp edge of authority.

“You said hands off.” He shrugs his shoulders, hands clasped behind his back clearly proving his point. “I’m listenin’, ain’t I.”

He kisses you again, featherlight. Your lips morph before him, blooming in a smile that tastes of his victory. 

“Guerrilla tactics,” you quip softly. 

“Nah,” he hums. “Just resourceful.”

It’s you who kisses him now. Still briefly, still not enough to satiate the beast that’s rearing its head in his stomach. The smack of your lips when you pull away echoes in his ears—he fucking thrives on it, can barely wait to feel your tongue in his mouth and fist the back of your head to keep you from ever moving away.

“Not fair at all, lieutenant.”

Simon captures your lower lip between his teeth. Bites gently into it, until he can hear you suck in a breath. Watches transfixed how it bounces back in place when he pulls away, still keeping close enough to see the indents left by his incisors, the dry flecks of skin dusting the flesh.

He’s gonna die if he doesn’t kiss you again. 

“Wha’ was tha’ saying?” he muses, angling his head so that your mouth can better slot in with his. “All is fair in love and war.”

You chortle, leaning forwards so your lips can brush when you speak. “Calling this war sounds a bit dramatic.”

Words roll off his tongue seamlessly.

“Never said t’was war did I.”

Your hand twitches. It’s minuscule, really, but he feels the sudden rigidity of it against his cock, until you fall completely still. It feels somewhat wrong to get off when you’re trying your hardest to mask sudden shock. Slaps him right in the face that you’ve never really had a proper chat about it, and by God, isn’t this the worst fucking moment to bring it up.

Or maybe the best. 

Then again, he should listen to his gut and shove it down his throat for the time being; no sense in talking feelings when you have your hand in his pants. There’s a chance you might peg it to the ecstasy of sex, to a bit of a bribe so he could have you on your bed afterwards. Turn you soft like he did in the past and slide his cock right back home.

Fucking hell. Right back home, eh?

Once again, you have to snatch him out of his own head, as your offhand rises to cup his cheek.

“Reckon’s love, then?” you dither, with that breath of hope stuck between your teeth.

Silence lasts a handful of seconds, not a moment more. It’s not heavy, not tense. It’s filled with the motions of the day: lives around you both starting to wake. The rumble of an engine, the chatter of neighbours around the breakfast table, whines and giggles of children passing nearby. Sounds travel through the crack of the window and envelop him in a hug that warms him to the bone.

A sense of belonging: grounding and tangible, taking the shape of you—brushing his jaw and breathing in his mouth.

Briefly, he licks his lower lip, throat suddenly dry. “An’ what else, no?”

He kisses you, pushes forward until you’re forced to crane your neck. The cotton of his briefs snaps against his cock when you take back your hand and use it for balance. Simon doesn’t waste a moment and hooks his arm around the dip of your waist.

He pulls back. Looks at the plump of your lips glistening with spit before returning his focus to your eyes.

“M’gonna fuck you now.” He whispers, chest heaving and tight. He nods his head slowly, making sure you understand. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, fuck —” you gulp. Nod vigorously. “Yeah. Yes. God, yes.”

The rasp in your voice scratches his stomach, travels straight to his groin. Simon sucks in a sharp breath before every ounce of control in him breaks.

He needs to feel you in all your warmth and softness, splay his hands where the muscles harden and then pillow at your thighs. His arms envelop you fully, hands settled on your rear to lift you up.

You gasp. Just like before, when everything was inside jokes and mindless banter. Now there’s true surprise in there, followed by the softest of chuckles. “Careful—your ankle—"

“C’mere.”

He captures your lips and swivels on his heels. Loses his balance in the sudden rush to take you to the bedroom and accidentally bumps your ass against the table behind you. The vase resting in the centre rattles but thankfully never falls—though it earns him a playful slap on his shoulder.

“Careful, my vase ,” you giggle to his lips.

“Buy ya a new one,” he replies, words warbled against your mouth.

It only takes Simon a few more steps before he has you on the bed. Too quickly, honestly, and he recognizes it too. He lands you on the mattress with a muted thud, perhaps with too much force—a clumsiness in his actions he has rarely experienced, so blatant and youthful that not even his early days in the army have witnessed.

You chuckle at it, both because it’s funny and because you’re happy . He can tell, he can feel it—yours and his, working like a hand untying the nauseating knots tangled in his guts. Peaceful, like a breath of fresh air journeying crisp down his throat. 

“Lieutenant Riley!” You’re giddy when you say it, propping yourself on your elbows. Your legs open pliantly when he crawls to you, slotting his waist in between.

“Told ya ‘s Simon when we’re here.”

Clothes come off in a clumsy hurry, as you follow his lead and take off his. His cock springs free—reddened and wet at the tip. When he bends down to you, it sits heavy on your stomach. On instinct, his eyes fall on it: droplets of precum oozing out, dripping to your belly. A sight for sore eyes, especially the image his brain concocts of where this’ll lead. 

Fucking fill you with it.

He noses your throat, following the line of your neck up to your jaw. Soft laughter bubbles out of you, and he can feel it shake in your neck—he smiles against it, bites your lobe and kisses the shell of your ear until your giggles turn breathy and wet.

“Simon,” you echo through your smile.

His fingers brush your breast, thumbing at your nipple just briefly, before his lips follow the same path of his hand. Tongue down your collarbone, open-mouthed kisses on the fat of your tits. He pinches one nipple between two fingers, and lavishes your other one with his mouth. 

Simon can feel you turn putty in his hands—breathy moans and burning skin under his fingertips. His palm explores, tracing lines down the curves of you: the ridges of your ribcage, the skin of your stomach, until it finds a harder patch of flesh. Bumpy and jagged, thicker and coarse to the touch. 

He remembers it so vividly, the sheer horror of that sudden shot. Your body violently recoiling, slammed to the floor in a crimson puddle—safe somehow, by the will of some God he now trusts, tucked in a bed with a tube down your throat.

He lingers there, grazes his thumb along its perimeter, before his mouth follows the worship. A kiss lands where your nerves are frayed, where scar tissue has lost its sensitivity. 

“Say it again,” he breathes to your skin.

You sigh deliciously, oblivious to the switch in his eyes. Crow’s feet born from smiles now folded by one ancient concern he’d kept crammed in his guts.

“Simon,” you say. 

His mouth opens around the injury, tongue tracing the dotted lines of old sutures. Heavily, he sighs on your skin when he feels your fingers thread through his hair. 

“My girl,” he breathes, reverently traveling downwards. 

He bites into your belly, hard enough to make you hiss and pull his hair in retaliation. Stinging scalp burning so good he can only grunt to your skin to release the tension. 

His hands find the plush of your thighs, settling on the curves in between. He pushes your legs apart, hooks his fingers behind your knees, and lifts them over his shoulders. 

Face to face with your pussy, Simon traces its edges. He kisses your labia, your slit, a mere nudge of his nose to your clit. Your muscles tense under his palms, breath snatched in your throat—he knows your tells, knows you’re directing him with your fingers through his hair. Caresses down his temple, down his cheek.

Simon’s tongue lands flat on your clit. Your fingers cramp, hand fisting the sheets. He licks once, and the taste of you travels right to his dick; nothing stops him from grinding against the mattress, so he does just that. The roughness of the sheet is uncomfortable, but there’s the sight of you arching off the bed that’s enough to push him to go further.

It’s not the first time Simon’s been in this position, but the motives have changed. He loved eating you out for the sake of turning you soft enough to make it hurt less when he’d slide in—small act of mercy in his selfishness. To show off, too. Give you a reason to choose him for a fuck instead of some other bloke who could’ve probably given you the same thing without the additional damage.

He sucks on your clit, tip of his tongue teasing the flesh more and more until your fist lands with a thud on the mattress. Until your mouth finally gives in and pliantly opens, sweetest sounds leaving your lips. His eyes follow the curve of your belly and the bounce of your breast, falling soft to the sides, and finally land on your face.

That . That is why he does it now.

Neck craned forward, chin to your chest. Hair tousled by the sheets, brows tight and focused, eyes glossy and heavy with pleasure and love. Love, he hopes you see— knows you see, because your thumb goes down to brush his cheek.

He pulls back only to replace his tongue with his fingers, drawing lazily around your clit just enough to make them wet, so they’d glide down smoothly to your slit until your hole. He circles around it and drives them in.

Your mouth parts in an oval, lips shining with spit.

One finger only at first, buried to the knuckle. Easily he finds that spot you like, and you prove him right with the broken moan you let out.

“Fuckin’ hell, Simon,” you pant.

He hums, something deep from within his chest. Slides a second finger in—the stretch is delicious, it seems, because you cry out again, propping yourself on your elbows to have a better view of him.

His mouth returns on you, and that seems to be what does you in.

“Oh Christ,” your head collapses backwards as he properly works you inside out.

That’s why he does it. Squirm for him, arch your back off the bed, fist the sheets, and break apart on his tongue. Have him suffocate there, crush his head between your thighs. 

You look gorgeous, always, but never as much as when you’re sweaty and breathless and panting his name.

Simon presses his tongue to your clit, licking a fat stripe up to your curls.

“Can’t wait to see ya cum like this,” he heaves, vibrating with excitement at the thought. 

You huff a chuckle. One hand clutches the sheets for dear life. The other one rests atop his head, fisting his hair.

Glossy eyes return to lock with him. You smile, speech still warbled. “Yeah? Think yer— fuck— good enough?”

Simon chuckles too as he fingers your cunt, scissors inside and presses upward. The more he insists, the wetter your noises become. 

“Smartarse,” he smirks. “Don’t you dare, now.”

Breaths snags in your throat, voice cracked and wet. You challenge him anyway, because that’s who you are, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Dare what, L.T.”

“It’s Simon,” he says. A kiss lands soft on the apex of your pussy. “S’Simon for ya. Always has been.”

Gently, his tongue trails around your clit again, precise circles that tease and never touch. With his eyes, he follows the curve of your smile, how it softens even as tremulous as it is. 

“Simon,” you breathe. “My Simon.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you got tha’ right.” His chest grows tight. “ Yours .”

His mouth wraps around your clit and he sucks. Sucks until your moans are all that echo in the room—fuck it if someone hears. He’s home now—no more hiding in his barracks, no more run-ins at the HQ gym, or in the blind spots of the rec room. 

It’s home.

“Fuck,” you groan. 

Yes.

“Si—fuckfuckfuck—"

Yes yes yes—

You go silent, shallow breaths hitching in your throat. He’s insistent and relentless, pushing and sucking until your thighs shake on his shoulders. 

Your breath is released all at once in a loud groan—cream around the base of his fingers, liquid pooling on his palm. You clench rhythmically around him, tight like a vise—it’s a harrowing job to keep his fingers moving, but he pushes through. Your clit pulses on his tongue, arousal coating his chin, as his own cock drips and aches at the friction it’s put through while he properly fucks the mattress. 

You look even more gorgeous when your back arches off the bed and your thighs clamp against his ears. Sounds reluctantly muffled. Alas, worth it all.

You taste of heaven.

He pulls back enough to take out his fingers and prolong your orgasm, sliding over your clit. Thankful for the view he’s given now, as he catches his breath, watching you trying to find yours while your chest swells rapidly, shallow cries that sound like music.

“St—” You heave, “Stop, oh my G—”

But he doesn’t.

“Simon, fucking hell— god —” You snatch his wrist and pull it away from you.

He chuckles but obliges, done with his teasing. Counterweight for all you’ve done before. Feels fair.

“Hands off?” He quips, cocking his head between your legs.

You gasp. Shock paints you briefly, but you meet his joke with one hell of an irritated look—even as sweaty and breathless as you are. 

“Oh fuck off ,” you say with a chuckle.

There’s a pool under your ass, staining the sheets. You look wet and open, and his cock is still hard. However, those are thoughts that vanish when you guide him upwards, hand at the nape of his neck. When you lock your thighs at his waist, bring his mouth to yours.

He tastes you as you taste yourself on him—a fair exchange of sorts. A kiss that’s grateful and tender more than hungry and lustful.

Your hand snakes down his chest, teasingly traveling downwards. 

“Don’t throw my own words at me ever again.” You breathe into his mouth, apple-cheeked and smiling.

“Can’t help it. ‘m a learner,” he replies, just when your hand finds his cock—throbbing in your palm, embarrassingly wet with precum. “And yer a good teacher.”

You give a few pumps to lubricate it, before guiding the head to your pussy. Easily as predicted, he slides in. No resistance, no painful stretch. You welcome him like that’s where he was supposed to be all along.

“Oh f-fuck ,” you cry. His gaze takes in your face as it morphs for him: crinkles at the corners of your eyes, mouth agape and bitten by his teeth.

Simon’s mouth hangs open, head quiet and filled with you only. His cheek leans against your own, nose nuzzled on the side of your head as he inhales you—citrus, cigarettes, gunpowder and tea. Him, imperceptible and yet so obviously present on your skin. Pungent note in your sweetness.

Unmoving, he stays buried inside you, cradled within your arms as he exchanges the gesture and fits his palm beneath your head. 

He can hear you sob quietly when his hips start moving, and your arms encircle him fully, until your chests are welded to one another. A growl rumbles in his ribcage when he drags his cock backwards. You’re impossibly wet still, and each time he bottoms out there’s a fat squelch resounding in his ears—and God, he can still taste it on his tongue.

Teeth sink into your neck and muffle his grunts. He can only pull back a handful of times before he feels his orgasm approach, so he decides to stop instead. Punch a gasp out of your mouth when he drives his cock forward and plugs you full, flush to you. 

He rolls his hips deep , coarse hairs on his pelvis pressing to your swollen clit. You moan into his shoulder in that way that cracks in both pleasure and oversensitivity. Trembling himself, he lifts his face to kiss you, clumsily needing to smash his lips to yours—but he stops. The coil in his lower belly slackens as a weak tremble rankles his spine.

His eyes fall onto that blasted scar. It reaches just above your lid, and he instantly loses himself in a melting pot of what-ifs that almost make him forget where he is. You could’ve lost your eye, you could’ve lost your head. 

You could’ve died .

And just when his gaze turns intense, veiled by a darkness that has no place in this predicament, you blink.

Simon breathes, comes back to his senses. His cock throbs, wrapped within your walls—velvety soft and scorching hot. His cheeks burn red, eyes cast heavy as his breath drops on your lips, almost liquor thick. 

Perhaps you know, must’ve followed the trajectory of his eyes and how they had lingered on the thicker stretch of flesh on your brow. Gently, your hand lands on his jaw, traces the outline.

“Don’t go there,” you whisper. “Stay here, will you?”

Your legs stretch and curl around him, locking at his tailbone. He’d beg for you to keep him there forever, if he could find his voice, but it’s stuck somewhere in his chest— stay here. Stay.

Simon merely hums; body frozen stock still, tangled with yours. 

“Got scared,” he croaks. “Tha’ day.”

Something lodges in his throat, perhaps scraps of the man he once was, trying to stop him from revealing too much. And still there’s an even stronger fist wrapped around his stomach, urging him to vomit everything out. Simon’s not one to ramble, not one to give in; however, this time, the latter finally wins.

His voice is measured and slow. Heavy like rocks grinding together, lighting a fire on dry wood. Nevertheless, the raucousness of it betrays the calm he wants to convey: panic so tangible he knows you feel it too, as your eyes grow heavy with water.

“Got so fuckin’ scared, pet. Thought I’d never see ya again, like tha’ last time—” he gulps. “—thought ya’d have to go through all tha’ shit again, with the surgeons ‘round ya an’ the fuckin’ machines blarin’ —"

“But I didn’t—" 

“—But I wouldn’t’ve turned my back on ya, love. Not this time. Not makin’ the same fuckin’ mistake twice . Woulda stayed, yeah? Soon as I made it outta tha’ hell. Watch yer six from a bloody chair next to yer bed—" 

“I know ,” you breathe, voice wet like your eyes, and sincere like no other. “Simon, love—"

Trembling, you cradle his face in both hands. You search for him, clawing away the panic that shrouds his vision—and you manage, though barely, letting light shine through.

“It’s alright.” You breathe. “It’s in the past, all that. We’re past all that.”

Simon leans into your palm, stubble scratching your skin, and with a grave sigh he breathes the dread away. 

You drink it in your mouth, placing the softest kiss.

“I’m here ,” you say. “Are you?”

A fucking million-dollar question, so of course it’s you who asks it. Share his same stories, you do: matching callouses on knuckles, plethora of scars tightening the skin. 

Clever as ever, knowing him deep to the bone marrow.

Simon’s mind’s rarely where his body is—he’d wager you’ve seen that plenty. The dissociation, that thick veil dropping before his eyes. There were moments when he’d have chosen the barrel of a gun over your presence—because you made him feel alive, and for a man long used to being dead, that’s the worst outcome possible. Hope is a beautiful, horrible thing, and you brought plenty of it: stuck between your eyes, glued to your fingers, coating your tongue.

But he’s got his eyes on your face and you’ve got his face in your hands. Your head cradled in his palms and his waist locked between your thighs.

Clicking in place.

“M’here,” he breathes. “No place I’d rather be.”

His kiss is open and soft. Quiet reigns, occupies the room and wraps comfortably around you. 

Gingerly, he palms the sheets, lifting himself on his knees while taking great care not to slip out of you. Once found his balance, his hands trace your body and settle on your hips, canting them upwards and lifting your ass off the bed. You reach behind you and blindly grab a pillow, and he helps you stuff it under your lower back. 

Pliantly, you mould for him, let him guide you in the position he desires, hissing through your teeth when his cock inevitably pushes upwards. With a tilt of his head, he silently instructs you to place your legs on his chest, and that you do, comfortably hooking your ankles on his shoulders.

He holds you steadier than ever, watches the dewdrops on your lashes, the redness of your eyes, and your arms splayed above your head.

Looking like a dream.

There, he wraps his arm around your thigh, reaching with his thumb to your clit. He’s featherlight, soft circles that reignite the flame. You choke on a breath when his hips start moving, and he follows suit with a grunt when delicious friction finally strokes his cock again. Fingers curl around your shin in a loose grip as he turns his head to drown his noises on your skin, pressing his lips to the arch of your foot.

“Lemme look at you,” he whispers as he finds a gentle rhythm. “Christ— fuck —lemme look at you.”

Simon fucks you slow. 

Rolls his hips each time he bottoms out, flattening the pad of his thumb to your clit—increasing pressure that makes you fist the sheets. 

Simon fucks you as he watches you like a hawk, following your hands as they grip his forearms and dig red lines on the ink. Focuses on the space between your lips, on the sweat blooming on your chest as it glistens under strips of sunlight peeking through the blinds.

Enraptured, he listens to you. Sweet, mellow cries—as if this is too private for anyone else to hear, contrastingly from before. Quiet breaths and rare moans break your mould, and barely any noise comes from him; stole his breath away you did. Can’t even find his voice, heavier than ever, buried deep down in his chest.

Your pussy tightens again, seemingly sucking him in. He’s found a pace you like, so he keeps going at it, forgetting the soreness of the muscles in his thighs—unimportant even before, though more so now that your belly is fluttering again, in that way he recognizes.

“Like that,” you slur, speech warbled and wet. 

Mindlessly he echoes you, though he’s focusing on something else entirely. On the rolling of your eyes, the weight of your legs on him, the breathy murmurs from your lips.

“Yeah, jus’ like that, love. Perfect.”

When you cum it’s a sight for sore eyes, perhaps even more than before. He can tell it’s not as strong, though it’s more drawn out. Something he built with you, something that shatters you thoroughly: trembling thighs, curling toes, stiff back against the bed. You struggle to take a breath, chest frozen in place as you focus your eyes to the ceiling, the O of your mouth wide to force the air in. 

He replaces that. Folds inwards and onto you, slotting his lips with yours. Breathes oxygen into you as he fucks his cock just as deep, fighting against the hot tightness of your cunt that wants to spit him out. Scrambling, your arms wrap around him, and your fingers find his hair. 

Your hips meet his thrusts, frantic just like his own as he loses the rhythm he set for you and finds one he prefers most. Gruelling and rough, ploughing in until he can feel you take a breath in the form of broken cries. Until the tightness of your cunt translates into familiar stiffness at the base of his cock, taut belly, and strangled throat. The wetness of you splashes the curls on his pelvis, and it’s not long before his own cum joins the mess you both created.

Simon cums with a grunt of your name. Desperate fucks follow it, curses and prayers poured into your mouth as your chest heaves to drink them all in. His ears ring and cotton, his name falling sweetly from your lips barely makes it through.

Unceremoniously, he collapses onto you, flat to your chest. Your legs slide down his hips, and your nails leave the dents crossing his back—scratches turn caresses, coaxing his floating soul back down in the cradle of your arms.

Purple kisses blossom on his throat, salt of his skin home on your tongue. He falls asleep while you cradle him on your chest. As the fog dissipates, he hears it before succumbing to fatigue.

“My Simon,” you breathe.

Yours . 

𓇬

It must be well into the day when he wakes up. The sunlight is not as gentle as previously that morning, and judging by how groggy he feels, he’d wager it must be much past midday.

Bedsheets are uncomfortably draped over his back, clinging to the wetness of sweat perspiring from his skin. Still, he doesn’t move. Opens his eyes instead with tired blinks, and takes in the environment around him. 

Curtains drawn, windows closed. Blades of glaring sunlight fight their way through the cracks of the blinds, slicing the bedroom in onyx and gold. A book on his nightstand with the receipt he uses as a makeshift bookmark peeking out a couple of hundred pages in—black ink fading grey, though he’s confident he can read it like it’s still the same day he got it, when you jumped on the Humvee in high heels and a frown from a date gone horrendously bad.

Still drowsy, he turns his head the other way and finds a much better sight. Cheek to your pillow, eyes shut, your face is drowned in linen softness. There’s a sheen to your forehead that tells him you must’ve suffered the heat as much as he did, but you must have been just as tired and never bothered getting out of the bedsheets.

While his arm still tingles, he reaches for your cheek and brushes his knuckles against it. You’re tangible and warm, and that grounds him enough to understand that you’re finally resting —weapons holstered, the fight is over.

You were right. The walls around him are too high to climb and too thick to tear down. And you never managed, he reckons. Though he should’ve known better than to underestimate you: not once have you proved his scepticism right—not as a sergeant, not as a human being. Clever soldier, clever woman.

Because where you couldn’t climb, where you couldn’t break, you went through. 

Turned yourself liquid before his eyes. Like water you fitted through the cracks between the bricks and made it inside where he rotted away, and yet you watered the earth: unshakable, undeterred, stubborn, wonderful.

Some pieces of you never made it through, still stuck in the walls and now part of them until the day he finally goes—and he’d bet even after that. They’re his most beautiful part, he thinks: crystals in between eroded bricks. Like water, they let the light through, scatter it inside of him where he’s never witnessed warmth.

“Love you,” he tests it on his tongue first, quiet but no less confident.

Your lips twitch in your sleep, and maybe asleep you never were. 

And maybe, he knew that.

You stretch yourself awake, nuzzling your face in the pillow to hide a smile—Simon hates that you do that. He pokes at your side beneath the bedsheets to make it bloom instead, and that earns him a giggle drowned in linen.

Beaming, you return your eyes to him and scoot closer. He welcomes you eagerly in his arms, bending his head so the tips of your noses can touch. 

“I love you,” he breathes to your lips.

And without even waiting for a heartbeat, you reply in kind.

“I love you.”

When you kiss him, he inhales you whole, closing his eyes to focus on touch and smell alone. Your lips are dancing slowly, your skin is humid and hot under his palm, grazed by callouses and the kindest touch he can manage.

You smell of citrus and gunpowder, of linen and spices, of lingering cigarette smoke and herbal black tea. You smell of you, and you smell of him.

And he thinks, for a fleeting moment, that if he only holds you closer, he might carry you in his very skin like you do with him. So he follows the pull of instinct, cradling you entirely—hands sliding down your back, lips kissing lips.

Simon decides, with unshakable certainty, that he will never let go again.