You’d woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before… like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.

"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.

You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "…shit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.

He shrugged. "I’ll drive."

And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.

Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse… and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like he’s in a dentist’s waiting room.

Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesn’t even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you t’ put it on the calendar."

Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.

Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.

Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.

“Oh!” the doctor says, pleasantly startled. “I… wasn’t expecting a guest today.”

Simon finally looks up. Nods once. “Ma’am.”

Just ma’am. Like he’s greeting a cashier.

You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.

The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.

You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something. Simon goes right back to scrolling.

The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.

“Just going to take a look,” she says. “Any pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?”

You open your mouth to say 'no, everything’s fine' but then she hums.

A concerned hum.

You freeze.

“Not alarming,” she assures, too quickly, “Just… some residual bruising on the cervix.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Bruising?” you croak.

Simon’s thumb stops mid-scroll.

The doctor nods. “Yes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.” She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.

"It’s nothing dangerous, but I’d recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with something…" She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "…that big."

She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.

BIG.

The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.

Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.

A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesn’t even pretend humility. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.

You want to die.

The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. “If your partner has a… larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.”

The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.

“I’d recommend abstaining for a few days—”

Simon snorts.

You whip your head toward him. “Do you mind ?!” You are going to punch him.

Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and you’re going to assault this man.

Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. “All done. You can get dressed.”

As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why he’s here at all.

“You’re welcome to wait in the lobby next time,” she offers kindly.

But Simon just stands, stretches, and says “Nah. ’m her support.”

Support.

Support.

As if he didn’t break open your insides twelve hours ago.

You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.

The doctor exits politely.

You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. “Next time you’re keeping your ass home”

He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. “Not my fault the doc praised my dick.”

“She did not praise your dick—”

“She said big.” He leans down, voice low in your ear “Emphasized it too.”

Simon’s eyebrows lift. “Larger anatomy,” he repeats under his breath like he’s tasting the words.

You point a murderous stare at him.

You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get dressed. I’ll take y’ home. You can be mad in the car.”

You mutter, “God I hate you so much right now .”

He smirks. “mhm… right”

The Weight of saying it

You can feel it before he even opens his mouth. That something-isn’t-right feeling. That cold, heavy pressure in your chest. Like the air’s gone stale. Like the earth’s tilting and no one told you to brace yourself.

He’s standing in the doorway, hands clenched at his sides. Boots still on. Jacket unzipped. Like he couldn’t decide if he was coming or going, just ended up here out of instinct.

Your place. Yours. The only place he’s ever been able to breathe.

“Hey,” you say, voice tentative, because he hasn’t looked at you yet. “Everything alright?”

His jaw ticks. Just once. He finally lifts his head. Looks at you. And that’s when it sinks in. No, it’s not alright. Matter of fact, everything is far from alright.

You sit up straighter on the couch. The TV still flickers behind you, some movie you stopped paying attention to ages ago. The whiskey glass in your hand suddenly feels too warm. Too small. Placed aside subconsciously. 

And then he says your name. Soft. Brittle. Like it’s the first time it’s hurt him to say it.

“I need you to let me say this before you say anything back.”

You freeze, just accepting this would be the kind of confession that might shatter whatever world still exists between you.

“I’ve fucked up before,” he starts, voice low, cracking just slightly. “I’ve made bad calls. Hurt people. Lost people. But this—”

He drags a hand down his face. Rubs at his eyes like he’s trying to scrub them clean of the last twenty-four hours. Of the weight he’s carried into your home.

“This is different.”

“There’s someone else,” he says.

You stare at him. You stand up, your body moving faster than your mind ever did. You just step back, and stare at the man in front of you, hoping he doesn't say the words you thought you’d never hear.

The syllables echo. Empty. Hollow. Until they start to land—sharp, jagged pieces breaking open inside your chest.

He sees it. Hears the sharp breath you take, the soundless recoil. But he powers through it, like a man walking into the fire he lit himself.

“She doesn’t mean anything to me. I need you to know that first.”

“It was one time. One night. After a deployment. We weren’t... We weren’t good then. I thought—” He cuts himself off. “No excuses. Just the truth.”

You blink, slow. Your body’s trying to catch up with your mind. But your mind is... blank. Like your brain short-circuited and your heart got left to bleed out on the carpet. You breathe in and press your hands to your thighs like grounding will stop the shaking.

It doesn’t.

He finally meets your eyes. And his voice gets even quieter. “She’s pregnant.”

Silence. That’s all there is. Thick and awful and final.

You feel heat rise to your face. Not anger. Not yet. It’s just humiliation.

Because you didn’t see this coming. Because you let yourself believe he was yours. Because somewhere deep down, you believed that what you had was... solid. Sacred.

“She told me last week,” he says. “I needed to be sure before I came to you. Got the test. It’s real. I’m gonna be a father.”

You tilt your head down and laugh. Disbelief. A sharp, empty exhale that surprises even you. But nothing’s funny. It’s shock.

The tears don’t come right away. They just build like pressure, like static. Like grief. Grief for something that hasn’t even ended yet, but already feels dead.

“I didn’t love her. I don’t love her. I’ve only ever—” He steps forward. “It’s always been you.”

And when you finally speak, your voice isn’t cruel. It isn’t screaming. It’s quiet. Hollow. You look at him, theres nothing behind your eyes, he’s not used to it. Never seen it before. Like he just blew the fuse holding you together.

“Why are you here?”

His eyes widen. “Because I—”

“No,” you cut in. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He finally kneels in front of you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can see the rawness in his eyes. The pain. The regret. The shame.

You look at him now—really look. His face, the lines in it, the panic behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him like this. And somehow, it makes it worse.

“Are you here because you love me?” you ask, voice tight. “Or because you’re scared of what loving her would mean?”

He shakes his head, fast, like denial alone could fix this.

“There is no her,” he says. “There never was.”

“Except now there is,” you snap, and your voice finally breaks. “Because you made sure of that.”

He goes silent.

And you hate how much he still looks at you like you’re something he wants to protect.

“This isn’t about my career. Or my past. It’s about us,” he says.

“Do you know what it’s like,” you say, the tears finally slipping free, “to stand here and feel second to something that should’ve never happened?”

“I’m man enough to own this, but I’m beggin’ you—don’t walk away without hearin’ me say it one more time. I love you.”

“I waited for you,” you whisper. “I chose you. Again and again, even when you were hard to love, even when you disappeared into yourself and left me wondering if I was enough.”

“You are enough,” he says, voice breaking.

You shake your head. “Not if I have to compete with a fucking baby, Simon. Are you even hearing yourself?”

He swallows hard. Looks down at his hands—those same hands that held you, protected you, pulled you out of every fight like you were something sacred.

Now they just tremble.

The silence that falls is different now. It’s loud. Thundering. Your voice drops to a near-whisper.

“I would’ve taken anything from you, Simon. Anything. Pain. Distance. Even heartbreak. But not this.”

You don’t realize you’re moving until your legs carry you. He doesn’t follow.

Good. Because if he touches you now, you don’t know what you’ll do.

“You broke something,” you say, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re holding your ribs together. “And I don’t think you even understand how deep that goes.” You feel physically sick.

He opens his mouth.

“No,” you say quickly, backing up a step. “Don’t. Not right now.”

He’s still kneeling, still watching you like he’s waiting to be punished.

And that makes you ache in some twisted, wrong way, because you can see how sorry he is.

But sorry doesn’t put your heart back together.

Sorry doesn’t unmake a child.

Sorry doesn’t mean he’s not hers now too.

You walk past him. Not fast. Not loud. Just... done.

You pause near the hallway, hand resting on the wall to steady yourself. Your chest rises and falls with the effort of holding it together.

“You need to go,” you say softly.

He still doesn’t move.

“Please, Simon.”

It’s the “please” that does it. The crack in your voice. The finality.

He rises slowly, like gravity’s doubled in strength. You don’t turn around, but you hear the door open. Hear him hesitate. And then you hear it close.

You sink to the floor. With a fucking knife to your chest.

Probably your other Girlfriend

“Remember that little black ashtray you used to have?” Simon calls out from the kitchen, digging around like he’s gonna find something that isn’t his.

You don’t even look up from your laptop. “Ashtray?”

“Yeah,” he says, rattling a drawer. “ You know, black. Square. You always kept your lighters in it.”

You blink. “Simon, I don’t smoke.”

There’s a pause. The kind where you can feel him stopping mid-motion, mentally scrolling through his own memories like an idiot.

And you’re just sitting there, watching it click behind his eyes. That he’s not technically wrong. You did buy a little black dish like that once. Flea market, two bucks, no thought. Tossed your lip balm and keys in it. Forgot it even existed.

You smirk, eyes still on your screen. “Must’ve been your other girlfriend.”

Throwaway line. Joke. Light. Nothing mean. But of course Simon wants a say in it.

“Yeah,” he says. So fast. Like he was waiting to say it. “Could’ve been.”

Silence. Your head tilts slow as hell.

Just your eyes on him like you’re calculating the trajectory of the beer bottle next to him and deciding whether or not prison’s worth it today. “Ha. Ha.”

He freezes. Still holding the drawer like it’s a shield.

“You keep playing with me.” It’s not loud. It’s not even a threat.

But he knows better than anyone—that’s the danger zone. Because your tone doesn’t change. But the air does.

“You make another joke like that,” you nod toward the counter, “and that bottle’s going in your skull. And not the fun way.”

Simon just stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to decide if you’re bluffing.

You’re not. And he knows it.

Because last month, you ruined a man’s entire bloodline for lying to you during a debrief. Did it barefoot, in pajamas, eating chips. Didn’t even pause the show you were watching.

So no, you’re not the one.

He nods once. “Copy.” Smart.

He moves back to the fridge like nothing happened, but the corners of his mouth are doing that thing, barely-there smirk, like he’s impressed. Like he lives to piss you off.

Because this is foreplay for him.

He wants to see how far he can go before you finally snap and kill him in his sleep. And honestly? You let him.

Because who else is gonna carry the groceries and make you tea and know exactly where your shoulder blades like to be kissed?

He’s annoying. But he’s yours.

Above all that

You weren’t supposed to have favorites. Not in your position, not with your rank. Not when your name came at the top of the roster and his came just far enough below to make everything complicated. But then there was Simon Riley. And he didn’t make anything easy.

You were all bite and calm steel in the field, voice sharp in comms, respect demanded without ever needing to raise your tone. Simon followed orders like muscle memory, always with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when you spoke. Not insubordination. Not exactly. You never corrected him when he lingered too long. Never questioned the way his eyes swept over your hands when you were giving briefings. Never brought up the first time he kissed you—silent, fast, angry—like it meant nothing and everything all at once.

He always pulled back first. Always reminded you, somehow, that you were above him.

Until tonight.

The door slams shut behind you—his quarters, dark, warm with the faint scent of gun oil and something faintly cedar—and you’re already undoing the top clasp of your vest. His mask is off for once, tossed onto the desk. He looks at you like he’s seconds away from snapping. You can feel it under your skin—coiled tension, barely bridled restraint.

“You said no one’d be up here,” you murmur, voice low.

“They’re not.”

You nod. Start to remove your boots. But his eyes are on you—tracking.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, Riley, I’m gonna think you’ve forgotten who gives the orders.”

That makes his jaw clench. You see the shift in his stance—the struggle not to say what he’s thinking. But then he steps forward, slow, deliberate, like a man approaching a live wire.

“I know who gives the orders,” he mutters, voice rough, low in his throat.

“You sure?” you challenge, lifting your chin. “Because the way you touched me last time didn’t feel like you were trying to be respectful.”

A pause. His eyes drop to your lips. Then lower. You can feel it: the shift, the tipping point. The part where he usually bites it back. But tonight—tonight—he doesn’t.

“I respect you,” he says quietly, standing close enough now that his breath brushes your cheek. “You know that, yeah?”

You nod, eyes narrowed, pulse flickering under your skin. “Yeah.”

“Because what I’m about to do to you…” he leans in, lips grazing your ear, voice wrecked, “…doesn’t look a damn thing like respect.”

Your knees almost buckle.

You’re pinned beneath him on the bed not ten seconds later. Fully clothed still, and he’s grinding down into your hip like it’s killing him to keep from tearing you open right here. His mouth is on your throat—biting, not kissing—and his hands are greedy, desperate, fingers bruising through your shirt like he’s never going to get another chance.

You try to push him off just to assert something, to remind him who’s in charge, but he catches both your wrists and laughs, low, dangerous.

“Oh, no. Not tonight.”

“Simon—”

“I’ve waited too long to stop bein’ careful,” he grits out, rutting harder now. “Too long pretending I don’t want to wreck you every time you walk into a room.”

He flips you over before you can catch your breath, hands firm on your waist, dragging you back against him. You can feel how hard he is through the layers, how far gone.

“You think I don’t know how good you are?” he growls, his mouth at your shoulder, voice so low it makes you dizzy. “Every time you make a call, everyone listens. Me included. Always have.”

His teeth scrape your neck. “But when I’ve got you like this? Dripping. Shaking. Taking what I give you like you need it?”

His fingers slide down—past your waistband, down to where you’re already soaked.

“Tell me who’s giving orders now.”

He Doesn’t Speak Until You’re Holding Him Again

He left again. You didn’t text. Didn’t call. The silence was a wound, and you let it bleed. Because this wasn’t new—not really. Knew what it meant when Simon disappeared. It meant he was scared.

Not of you, but of what loving you was turning him into. Of the parts of himself he thought had been long buried coming alive again. Softness. Need. Hope.

The first time, you thought you’d done something wrong. The second time, you begged him. Just tell me next time. Let me know you’re okay. And still… this time, no word. Just the echo of his absence.

So when the door opened five days later, and he stepped in like he’d never left—eyes bloodshot, hands clenched—you didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. You just stood there, heart hammering. And he looked at you like he didn’t deserve to be looked at at all.

You let him in. Like you always do. And now...now he’s inside you.

You’re in his lap, knees spread wide, body molded to his. You’re facing him, straddling him on the edge of the bed, his cock seated so deep you swear you can’t breathe right. His hands are on your hips—holding, not guiding. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep you anchored there.

Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, and your forehead is pressed to his. He hasn’t moved in a while. Just breathing. Just there.

You’re soaked. You’ve been like this for minutes—no thrusting, just the feel of him. Heavy and deep and so close it’s maddening. Every nerve in your body tightens with the way he holds you—gentle, but solid. There’s reverence in it. Restraint.

He shakes once. A breath, stuttering from his lips. Then, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The words ghost out of him like a secret. Not really meant for you, but said anyway. You want to respond. Your lips part. But you stop. You don’t say anything.

Because you know. This is how it works. He needs to get it out and you need to let him. He exhales slowly, nostrils flaring. His hands flex on your hips. And then—

“I’ve never… wanted someone like this.” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “Not even close.”

You try to stay still. Try to hold on to the control he’s trusting you with. But your hips shift, barely, and the drag of his cock inside you punches the air from your lungs. Your fingers tighten on the back of his neck, and you clench around him hard enough he groans—quiet, but guttural.

He thrusts—once. Deep. Slow. And it hits everything.

“I thought,” he says, breath ragged, “if I stayed gone long enough… the need would go away.”

Your jaw tenses. Your eyes burn. He moves again, sliding out so slow it feels like a tease, like punishment, and then pushing back in just as carefully. You bite your lip. Hard.

“I missed you like I’d lost a limb.” His voice breaks on it. “And it scared the fuck out of me.”

You can’t help it—you whimper. Soft, but it splits the air between you. He trembles beneath you like the sound undid something inside him.

Your head drops to his shoulder. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

“I’ve never made love before,” he whispers. “Not like this. Never wanted to. Never thought I’d get the chance.”

Your breath hitches—words bubbling up in your chest. “Simon—”

“No.” He cuts you off, but not harshly. His mouth finds yours. Kisses you soft. Slow. Tongue barely brushing. “Let me… let me say it before it eats me alive.”

You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak again.

He rolls his hips. Slow. So unbearably slow it hurts. Your body clenches without permission, and your nails bite into his shoulders.

He doesn’t stop. “I’m scared every time I touch you,” he says, breath trembling.

You moan. Quiet. A sob in disguise. He feels it—feels your body tighten again and holds you through it, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“Not because I don’t want to… but because I do.” Another thrust—long and deep, dragging over every place that lights your nerves. “So much it makes my hands shake.”

They are. Shaking. One of his hands slides up your spine, broad palm stroking over the back of your shirt, grounding you.

“I don’t know how to be that and still be me.” Your throat closes.

He’s fucking you like the rhythm is synced to his heart. Every motion slow, devastating, steady. Not stopping. And you—God—you’re falling apart. Silently.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Just air. Just trembles. Because your body is trying to fall apart but you won’t interrupt him. You won’t.

He feels it. He holds you closer.

“I want to be soft with you,” he breathes. “I want to show you every part I’ve kept hidden. Even the ones I hate.”

Your eyes flood. Your arms shake. He doesn’t stop. And it builds.

He’s holding you still while he confesses, while he fucks you like he’s memorizing every inch of you, every sound you try to suppress. The burn of him inside you is constant, every drag slow and torturous, but it’s the emotion in it that’s ruining you.

And then, “I love you.” It’s not shouted. Not grand.

Just true. True.

“I love you so fucking much it makes me sick.”

That’s it. Your body gives out. Orgasm hits like a wave crashing into bone.

You cry—fully cry—as your body pulses around him, thighs trembling, face buried in his neck, broken sounds slipping from your lips without shame. It’s too much. It’s everything. It’s him.

He holds you.

Doesn’t move faster. Doesn’t chase his own. Just stays inside, deep and grounding, his arms wrapped around you like protection itself. He whispers into your hair, breath catching.

“I’m still not done talking.”

Your heart splits open. You nod—barely—too ruined to do anything else.

And he starts again. Moving, slow. Again. Deeper. Not done with you. Not done speaking.

“I thought I was past this,” he murmurs, his voice steady now. “Past loving anyone like this.”

You tremble in his arms.

“But I want everything with you. All of it.”

You cry again—but it’s quieter this time. Softer. Acceptance blooming behind the ache. He kisses your temple. Keeps going. Keeps loving you with his body.

“I don’t want to leave anymore.”

And then—he falls quiet. His rhythm shifts just slightly. Not faster, but fuller. Like he’s focused now. Intent. You feel the change before he speaks again—his breath warm at your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to touch you where you’re already aching.

“You’ve got one more for me, haven’t you?”

Your breath stutters. “You can give me another,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “Just one more.”

You nod—but it’s a broken nod, lips parted, unable to speak.

“Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart again.”

He moves with purpose now—still slow, still devastating, but direct. His fingers rub slow circles, his cock dragging deep, hitting that spot inside that makes your spine arch and your mouth open in a sob.

You clutch at him, arms tight around his shoulders, every nerve lit up again. “Simon” you gasp, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re mine. Let me have it.”

And you do. You fall apart again, right there in his arms—louder this time, trembling through it, voice breaking on his name. It hits hard. Fast. Completely. He doesn’t stop until your body’s shivering and twitching from overstimulation, tears streaking your cheeks, your lips parted and gasping for air.

Only then—only after you’ve given him everything—does he let go.

He buries himself deep and stays there, trembling as he spills into you with a quiet, broken sound. Not loud. Not frantic.

Just your name. Breathed like a prayer. Like relief.

And then he’s holding you again—really holding you—his chest rising against yours, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking your thigh, grounding you.

You’re both shaking. But neither of you pull away.

The Lines I Crossed For You

Simon’s been divorced six years.

She left without a fight — just said she was tired of a man who worked too much and smiled too little.

He didn’t beg. Didn’t chase. Just stood in the kitchen while the door shut behind her. Since then he’s been steady. Alone.

Liam —his only continuation of Riley blood, his son — moved in after burning through money and excuses. Said he was trying. Said he’d “try and get back on his feet” Simon didn’t ask. Just gave him a room. A second chance.

But he knew the truth. Liam wasn’t trying. He was coasting. Still a boy in a man’s world.

And then you came along.

At first, just weekends. Then overnights, shifts too long, Liam too distracted to show up. You were always moving. Always tired. Always giving.

Simon saw it all. Quietly. Every forgotten pickup. Every brushed-off look. And the way you stayed anyway. He knew that lingering in the doorway, cooking for you, waiting up even when you didn’t ask. It was too much. But there was a point where watching became unbearable.

He told himself to stay out of it.

But tonight? He can’t, He wouldn’t.

⸻

It’s almost 11 p.m. when you show up. No text. No call.

You hadn’t planned to really. You’d finished a 14-hour shift, head splitting, feet throbbing, too exhausted to go home. You’d asked Liam to pick you up — just this once — and when he didn’t answer, you sat in your car with your keys in your hand and your chest tight with something between shame and fury. Simon’s house was closer than your apartment. That’s the only reason you came. At least… that’s what you told yourself.

He opens the door in sweatpants, barefoot, hair a mess, face unreadable — and the moment his eyes land on yours, something in you buckles. You’re not okay. And he sees it. “I didn’t know where else to go,” you murmur. “Just… need a quick crash.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just steps aside. “You’re here,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

You walk in. He doesn’t ask questions. Just takes the bags and load from your hands, sets them gently on the counter, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you. You swallow and glance toward the hallway. “Is Liam here?”

Simon’s jaw shifts, barely, but you catch it. “He left a few hours ago,” he says. “Went out with friends, I think. Didn’t say much.” A pause. Then quieter, “Haven’t seen him since before dinner.”

You nod once, like it doesn’t matter. Like it didn’t sting.

“I called him… three times,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Guess he forgot.” You rub your hands over your face, the fatigue crashing down all at once. “I can go… if this is weird. I don’t want to—”

“Stop.” Simon’s voice is low, firm. “You’re staying. Sit down.”

You do. Not because you’re told, but because for once, it feels like someone means it.

He places a warm mug in front of you — tea from the pot he made not long ago. You wrap your hands around it like it’s the only heat you have left. He sits across from you, watching you sip. “Rough day?”

You nod. “I don’t even know what happened. Just… non-stop. Four admits. One code. Everyone short-staffed again.”

You shrug lightly, stare into your cup. “It’s whatever.”

Simon watches you a long moment, his eyes careful, searching. “And Liam?”

You let out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh — hollow. “Didn’t show. Again. I waited outside the hospital like a fucking idiot for fifteen minutes before I gave up.”

The silence that follows is thick — not awkward, just loaded. Something in Simon snaps. Not loudly. Not violently. Just… breaks.

“I’ve watched you give him everything,” Simon murmurs, voice low and sharp. “And I’ve watched him give you nothing. That’s not fair. That’s not love.”

You blink hard. Swallow. “I don’t want pity.”

“You think this is pity?” he says, eyes locked to yours.

Then, softer, steadier. “I don’t look at you and see someone weak. I see someone who’s been strong for too long.”

His hand finds your knee. His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles.

“I’d give you everything if you let me. Every minute. Every drop. Just to watch you breathe easier.”

Your throat tightens. Something inside you splinters. You’re tired. Spent. But right now — right here — you’re also seen. Not just as someone who’s holding it together. But someone worth being held.

And Simon? He’s still waiting. Still giving you room.

“I don’t want to think,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why I will.”

Then you nod, barely a movement, and say, “Yes.”

⸻

He fucks you like someone who’s had years to imagine it.

Because he has.

Celibacy might as well have been stitched into the collar of his shirts — not by choice, but by the kind of quiet, aching resignation that comes from too many years of going untouched. No one since his wife.

And not once does he rush.

He undresses you slowly, reverently. Like your body is something to earn. His hands are warm and a little rough from yardwork and tools, but his touch is gentle. Intentional. His lips brush the inside of your wrist. Your collarbone. The skin just beneath your navel.

He doesn’t move to tease. He worships. When his mouth finds your thighs, you’re already trembling.

His tongue circles your clit. Soft, controlled, devastating, and the moan that leaves your throat is so quiet it startles you. It’s the kind of sound you don’t mean to make. The kind that lives deep in your chest and only comes out when someone really knows what they’re doing.

“Please,” you whisper, hips twitching, too gone to be embarrassed.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you first.”

Two fingers slide into you — slow, deep — and the groan he lets out is nearly broken. Like he’s mourning all the days he didn’t get to touch you like this.

His mouth doesn’t stop. And neither does your unraveling. You writhe under him, hand fisting the sheets, tears pricking at your lashes from how tender it all is. He doesn’t stop until you break — gasping, breathless, your back arching and legs shaking as you come hard against his mouth.

Only then does he rise, chest heaving, and kiss you like he’s starved. And then, just before he sinks inside you, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice rough and trembling

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Simon says, his voice low and raw against your shoulder. “To have someone like you. Someone so strong, so fucking hardworking, and beautiful, and kind — and just… look away. To not show up for you.”

“If you were mine—”

He stops himself. Shakes his head again like he’s trying to clear it. Like the thought hurts too much to say out loud.

But you feel it. You need it.

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky. “Say it.”

His throat works around the words. And when they come, they’re not smooth — they’re wrecked.

“I’d never stop touching you,” he says, voice cracking. “I’d never stop showing you. Every day. That you’re wanted. That you’re seen. That you’re safe. That you deserve it. All of it.”

You let out a broken sound, a breath that turns into a moan because the way he says it is what finishes you.

Not the touch. Not the friction. Him.

When he finally pushes in — slow, thick, achingly deep — the sound that leaves your mouth is a strangled cry.

“Oh my god—Simon—”

He groans, low and guttural. His hands grip your hips, firm but careful. “That’s it,” he pants. “Take it. Let me give it to you. Let me fucking have you.”

You nod wildly, mouth open, no words left. Your moans are quiet, breathy, raw. Real. They spill out of you like confessions. Like relief.

Simon moves slow — deliberate — each stroke heavy and deep, angled just right to drag a new gasp from your throat. His eyes never leave your face. His hands never stop touching.

It’s not just sex. It’s reverence. It’s grief. It’s a man making up for all the years he didn’t believe he’d ever get to feel this again.

It’s a man giving you everything his son never even thought to.

“You’re so full,” you whimper.

“You deserve it,” he breathes against your mouth. “Deserve to be filled until you can’t think.”

And when you come again, harder this time, your whole body clenched and trembling, he fucks you through it with nothing but praise:

“Good girl.”

“So fucking perfect.”

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When he comes, he doesn’t pull out. He stays there — still buried inside — holding you like he’s terrified the moment might vanish if he lets go.

Later, when your breathing slows and the room fades to a quiet hum, Simon wraps his arms around you from behind. Anchors you to him. Then softer, at your temple: “Sleep.”

And for the first time in a long, long time — you do.

(i don’t know what i was thinking oh my goodness i’m sorry)

Four Reflections

The hotel wasn’t your usual run-down military stopover. It was expensive—elegant even. All soft lighting, marble floors, and quiet hallways that smelled like bergamot and polished glass. Too clean. Too pristine. Almost like it wasn't supposed to be touched.

But the mirrors? Too many, in places that made you raise a brow.

One across from the bed. One on the wardrobe. One even on the ceiling, slightly tilted. And a fourth, slim, vertical, tucked behind the armchair.

You’d scoffed when you walked in.

“Who the fuck needs that many angles?”

Simon just looked around, slow and deliberate, then dropped his pack by the armchair with a quiet thud.

“Maybe they expect you to appreciate yourself more.”

You snorted. “For what? Sleeping?”

He didn’t answer. Just smirked. That half-lidded, barely-there curl of his mouth. You hated when he did that. Like he already knew something you didn’t, and was waiting for the exact second it’d hit.

You didn’t know it then, but you’d be crawling away from that room by the end of the night. Sore. Boneless. Legs trembling. The outline of his hand still warm on your jaw because you’d gone limp after the second orgasm, and he wasn’t having that. Not tonight. Not when he had four fucking mirrors and weeks of need to make up for.

“Word.” His voice, low and serious now. A shift.

You blinked. Swallowed. “Simon… we are not— "

“Say it.”

Your throat bobbed. You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“Caraway.”

His breath ghosted against your jaw. Warm. Controlled. And then,“Good girl.”

Because when Simon made you say it first, it wasn’t hesitation. It was a warning. A quiet, deliberate signal. That tonight, he wasn’t going to let you off easy. No softness. No careful teasing. Just all of him. Raw, focused, and starving after weeks away. Every touch tonight would be to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

Mirror 1: The Wardrobe

He bent you over the bed first. Facing the long mirror across the room, the one on the wardrobe.

Your dress was peeled off. Your knees sunk into the mattress, thighs spread. His hands were already on your hips. You caught your own reflection. Ass in the air, back arched, mouth open, your own hand bracing the headboard like it could save you.

Then he entered you. One smooth push. All of him.

You gasped—half from stretch, half from the sheer depth. He didn’t stop to let you adjust, just grabbed your hips and started thrusting, slow and deliberate, like it had to be this angle. This view.

“Look at that,” he grunted, one hand trailing up your spine to grab the back of your neck. “Look how you take me. Every inch.”

You locked eyes with your reflection. You looked wrecked already—barely a minute in. Hair sticking to your temple. Drool threatening at the corner of your lip.

“Can see you squeezing me,” Simon muttered. “Greedy fuckin’ cunt. Like you missed this cock, huh?”

You whimpered something incoherent.

“Use your words,” he said, hand tightening on your nape. “You want it?”

“Y-Yeah—”

Wrong answer. He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in so hard your body jolted forward. Your palm slipped. Your knees slid.

“Yes, Simon. Say it like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Your body convulsed. “Yes! Yes, I want it—want all of it—please—”

“Good.”

You came like that. Clenching, choking, crying into the sheets as he forced your eyes back up to the mirror and made you watch your own body shudder around him.

Mirror 2: The Chair

You didn’t even have time to recover. He dragged there by the wrist, kissed you open-mouthed, laid you back with your legs over the arms, open, exposed. Like a fucking centerpiece.

The armchair was solid, high-backed, real wood. And the mirror behind it? Narrow, full-length. Just tall enough for you to see everything.

He sat on the floor in front of you, spit-slicked fingers dragging over your clit like he was memorizing it all over again. He made you watch that too—head tilted just enough to see his shoulders flex between your legs in the mirror.

You tried to catch your breath, tried to slow things down.

“FUCK—”

Your knees buckled, but he held you. Made you sit there, thighs wide, impaled, shivering.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he said, calm as hell. “Right here. Wanna see your face when it happens.”

And he watched. Watched the way your mouth opened. Watched your body fold over him. Your head leaning too far backwards to the rear of the arm chair.

“Keep your eyes open. Head up”

“I—can’t—”

Slap. A sharp one. Not cruel. Just enough across your pussy to make your eyes snap wide again. His hand cupped your jaw after.

“You can.” His voice was lower. Meaner. Firm. “You will.”

You choked out a sob. Then came again, legs locking, hips spasming over him. But he wasn’t done. And when you tried to shift away, he grabbed your thighs and held you in place.

“No. Not done yet.”

Mirror 3: The Ceiling

By the time he carried you back to the bed, you were already trembling. Arms limp. Vision fuzzy. But Simon didn’t lie.

“Still with me?” You whimpered something weak. He grinned. Nuzzled into your temple. “Attagirl.”

Then he grabbed your thighs and folded you. Pressed them up to your chest until you were bent in half, feet in the air, knees near your ears.

Your eyes lifted. Mirror three stared back. Ceiling. Angled.

You saw your face. Your soaked pussy spread wide around his cock. Simon looming over you like a goddamn force of nature.

He slammed into you.

“F-Fuck—Simon—” Your head lolled to the side. “Simon, no more."

“Yes you can. Look.” He grabbed your cheeks between one big hand and forced your face up. “Look at what I’m doin’ to you. You see that?”

You did. The wet slap of his cock pushing in and out. The arch of your back. Your mouth open in a silent scream.

“Feel me?” You nodded helplessly, already close again.

“Then fuckin’ take it.”

You came hard. You didn’t even hear yourself. Just the sound of his breath, harsh and heavy, telling you you were so good, so fuckin’ tight, that’s it, take it all, just like that—

But still...not done.

Mirror 4: The Wall

You were limp, boneless and dazed, trying not to sink into the sheets.

Simon gathered you up like it was nothing, carrying you to the foot of the bed where the last mirror waited. Your body barely held form in his arms. Thighs trembling. Eyes unfocused. Every nerve frayed and raw.

“One more, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips grazing your shoulder, voice gentle and firm. “Just one more. You’ve got it.”

You made a sound. Wrecked, breathless. Somewhere between a sob and a plea. Agreement? Protest? Even you didn’t know. But Simon didn’t need an answer.

He didn’t start with a thrust. He just held you there, buried deep, unmoving. The sheer fullness of him made your breath hitch. He pulsed inside you, heavy, almost overwhelming, and your body responded instinctively clenching, aching, trying to draw him even deeper despite having nothing left to give.

His hand pressed flat to your stomach— grounding you.

Then he rolled his hips.

Once. You shattered.

The sound you made was raw and involuntary, torn straight from your chest. Your entire body seized, belly twisting in violent aftershocks. You clawed at his thighs beside you, not to pull him closer— but to stay upright. But it was useless.

You broke apart in his lap, twitching, whining, completely unraveling between him.

And the mirror made you see it.

What he’d done to you.

How you trembled, wrecked and soaked, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. How your belly jolted every time he moved. Your hair stuck to your face. Jaw slack. Eyes wide and glassy. Nothing left to hide.

And behind you—Simon. Silent. Composed. Watching you fall apart with the intensity of someone who owned it. Owned you.

He didn’t say a word. Just tightened his grip around your waist, locking you against him while your orgasm rippled through you like lightning under skin.

And then, he let go. A low, brutal groan spilled against your throat as he came, cock twitching deep inside you, hips rolling in slow, drawn-out thrusts— each one just enough to make your stomach clench again. Just to feel you. Just to listen to the way your breath caught and stuttered, so used up and soft.

You couldn’t take it. Couldn’t hold yourself up anymore.

Your body began to fold forward, boneless and wrecked, but he caught you instantly— his arm sliding across your stomach, pulling you back against him with that steady, possessive strength.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, right against your ear. “Lean back, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you did.

You gave in completely, head falling against his shoulder, back collapsing into his chest like your spine had given out. A choked, breathless laugh tumbled out of you, half-sob, half-release, your body still twitching from the aftershocks.

He held you like you were something precious and ruined. One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other braced over your thigh, fingers still gripping like he never planned to let go.

His chin rested on your shoulder. His breath was warm at your ear. And in the mirror— you were both still.

Ruined. Perfect.

He saw all of it, all of it.

Its subconscious. You don’t even realize you’re quieter lately. But Simon does. You’re still you. You laugh at the dumb TV shows he pretends not to enjoy, you hum in the kitchen when you cook, and you toss the occasional pillow at him when he makes a dry joke at your expense. But there’s something off. Something in your smile. It doesn’t meet your eyes. The new obsession with oversized clothing. You keep making excuses for why you can’t stay long. Why he shouldn’t come by. You’re tired. You have work. He might come over. And Simon, he never pushes. Never asks.

Not until he sees it.

You were making tea. The sleeves of your hoodie pushed up as you reached for the honey. And that’s when he sees the bruising just below your wrist and some of your arm. It doesn’t look like an accident. You don’t even know it’s showing. You’re chatting about nothing. Your voice soft, almost too light, and Simon stares like he’s seen a body on the floor.

He says nothing.

But something changes in the way he sets the mug down. A little too firm. A little too sharp. You blink at him. “You okay?” He gives you a look. Neutral. unreadable. “Forgot something in the truck,” he mutters.

And then he’s gone.

⸻

It wasn’t planned. Simon didn’t come looking for a fight, he just came to see the face of the man who left bruises on you. But the moment he opens the door and sees him—smirking, alive, untouched—it’s causes something to flip in him.

The guy barely has time to register who Simon is before Simon grabs the front of his shirt and slams him into the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames.

“What the—fuck—?”

“You hit her?” Simon’s voice is a growl, low and cold. The guy tries to push him off. “Get off me, man, what the hell—”

Simon doesn’t give him the chance.

His fist connects with his jaw. Once. Twice. A sickening crack of bone and cartilage. The guy stumbles, dazed, hands flying up too late.

“You think you’re tough?” Simon hisses, grabbing him again, slamming him down onto the floor this time. “You like putting your hands on her?”

“I—I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

Another hit. This one more restrained, but just as mean. A punch to the ribs. The guy wheezes, crumples, coughing. “Touch her again, I dare you,” Simon growls, crouched over him, eyes blazing. “Don’t look at her again. If you do—” He leans in closer, a snarl in his voice, dripping with threat.

“I’ll make sure you never lay hands on anyone again.”

Blood trickles from the guy’s nose, his lip split and leaking onto the hardwood. Simon stands, breathing hard. He doesn’t look back as he leaves. His knuckles throb. His chest feels too tight. But his hands don’t shake. Not until he’s back in his truck—on the way back to you.

⸻

He doesn’t come back for hours. You try to brush it off. You clean the mugs, fold the blanket on the couch, check your phone twice. But something’s crawling under your skin, cold and tight. The front door finally opens after midnight. He walks in quiet, dripping from the rain, hoodie up, hands shoved in the pocket like he’s holding something back.

Your heart jumps. “Simon?” You rise, wrapping your cardigan tighter around you. “Where the hell did you go?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not at first. Just kicks off his boots like he does every time, like this is any other night. But it’s not. His knuckles are bloodied. Split. And his jaw’s cut, a faint smear of red along his cheek. You follow him into the kitchen. The sink runs. Hot water turns to steam. He scrubs at his hands like he’s trying to erase something.

“Simon,” you say again. “What did you just go to do?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares at the water swirling down the drain. Then, quiet, almost broken:

“How long.”

You freeze. “What?”

He turns, finally. Looks at you with something like grief behind his eyes. “How long was he hurting you?”

Your breath leaves in one sharp exhale. Your first instinct is to lie. Deny. Laugh it off. But his expression doesn’t shift. He already knows.

“I—I didn’t…” you swallow. “It wasn’t like that.” He scoffs. Soft. Almost sad. “Don’t lie to me. You’re not that good at it.” You look away. Your throat burns.

The silence stretches between you, thick as blood. “Did you hurt him?” you ask.

His jaw tightens. He rinses his hands again. “I made sure he won’t touch anything for a long time.”

You flinch.

He notices.

His voice softens. “I’m sorry.” Then he steps back. Like he’s the one who’s done wrong. Like you should be afraid of him.

“Simon…” You reach for him.

He stops you. Not cruel, just tired. “I need to clean up.”

You’re left standing in the kitchen, hands curled around the edge of the counter, breath shaking. He’s always been there. Always protected you. Always loved you quietly, in the ways no one else noticed.

Now the quiet is deafening.

Backshots and Kisses

⸻

You’re on your knees, body already flushed and heavy, arms trembling where they’re braced against the mattress. And Simon’s behind you—so big, so warm, hands spanning your hips like he’s afraid to break you.

His cock is deep, slow, gliding in with that thick stretch that makes you suck in a breath every time. He doesn’t rush. He’s not using you, he’s loving you like this. Fucking you from behind like it means something.

Then his hand slides up your back.

First his palm, dragging slow over your spine. Then his mouth. A kiss, feather-light between your shoulder blades. Another, just beneath your nape. He stays there, pressed close, the weight of him everywhere. His chest to your back, his cock buried deep, his breath warm against your skin.

“You feel so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, barely a whisper, lips brushing your skin as he says it. “Takin’ me so well.”

He kisses the same spot again. Not rushed. Intentional.

Then another—lower this time. The dip of your spine. Like he’s tracing the path of where you’re most tender. Most open to him.

“This back,” kiss.

“This body,” kiss.

“This pussy…” he groans softly, hips rolling into you, “fuckin’ made for me.”

You moan, soft and broken, because you feel it—that slow ache, that drag of him inside you, that heat blooming in your core. Your body clenches, and he moans right back, nose buried in your shoulder as if he can’t stand to be anywhere else.

Long, unhurried thrusts. No slap of skin, no rough panting—just the weight of him behind you and the burn of his cock gliding through soaked heat like he’s memorizing the way you feel. And he kisses your back again. Slower this time. Lower. The dip of your spine, the edge of your ribcage. His lips barely brush your skin, but it sends goosebumps rushing down your arms.

You nod, a moan slipping from your mouth, and he groans—deep and low, like it physically wrecks him to be inside you.

“You know I love you like this, yeah?” he breathes.

“Love fuckin’ you slow… so I can feel every bit of you. So you know it’s me.”

And he doesn’t stop kissing you.

Not even when his rhythm gets heavier. Not when you cry out for more. Not even when your body tightens around him so hard you almost collapse. He just keeps kissing your back. Like it’s a promise.

Like you’re holy.

Whatever this is.

You’d done the hard part already, cutting him off.

Or so you thought.

The breakup, if you could even call it that, was quiet. No screaming, no dramatic exits, just space. Silence. The kind that stretches too long and becomes something heavy. Something permanent. You’d packed your things. He let you. You didn’t speak for weeks. Months, maybe. Who knows, who cares.

So when you walked into the joint-force intelligence summit in uniform, chin high, shoulders set, everyone just assumed it was over.

You didn’t correct them. And then he showed up.

Right behind you. Like he never left. Like his hand wasn’t just gripping your ass in the damn hallway twenty-four hours ago, mouth pressed to your throat whispering, “I can’t stay away from you.”

He fell into step beside you like muscle memory. He was a lieutenant no more than you were.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. The tension rolled off both of you, thick and obvious. Eyes flickered. Jaws clenched. Someone whispered to someone else, “Didn’t they—?” “Thought they split.” Wrong, but also not right.

“You look good tonight.” His voice was low, rough. Daring.

You didn’t break stride. “Keep your remarks to yourself, Riley.”

A pause. A beat.

“Surnames now, huh.” He wiped a hand over his mouth, trying to hide the way his lip twitched. “We’ll see how long you keep that up.”

And then he walked off—smug, sure. Like he already dealt with you accordingly. Like your body hadn’t betrayed you the night before.

—

24 Hours Earlier

He knocked like it was casual. Like it wasn’t the first time you’d heard his voice in weeks. “Need help with this fucking tie.” why did you answer this fucking door.

You crossed your arms. “You’re a grown man.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t,” he murmured, stepping inside without waiting. “You always did it better.”

“I’m not your handler anymore,” you snapped.

His eyes flashed. “Never were.”

That set something off in you. “Right. Because I was just a warm body in your bed, yeah? Easy to walk away from. Easy to ignore. Easy to fuck.”

“You were never fucking easy.” His voice sharpened. “And you’re the one who walked.”

“Because you stopped trying!” you hissed. “Stopped talking Simon. Like you wanted me to leave.”

He stepped closer. “Didn’t want it. Didn’t know how to stop it.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Your throat burned. “You don’t get to knock on my door and pretend like nothing happened—”

“I’m not pretending,” he growled. “I’m here. I’m standing right here. Where the fuck are you?”

You shoved him back, palms to his chest. And he grabbed your wrists.

His mouth crashed into yours like punishment, like proof. Like everything that had been unsaid all these weeks was pouring out of him, soaked in regret and need. He backed you into the wall, both wrists pinned above your head with one large hand.

The other slid between your thighs like muscle memory. Like he never fucking left.

You hated how fast you melted. Hated how your body remembered him—welcomed him—before your brain could object. Hated how right he still felt when everything else was wrong.

“Don’t,” you gasped. “Don’t think this fixes anything—”

He didn’t answer. Just dropped to his knees.

Yanked your shorts down in one rough pull, teeth gritted, breath heavy. His mouth was on your inner thigh a second later—his ritual, his silent fucking worship.

“Not fixin’ it,” he muttered against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “Claimin’ it.”

“You don’t get to claim me—” You tangled your fingers in his hair, tried to shove him back.

His tongue pressed flat against your cunt, and your head hit the door behind you with a dull thud. Your knees buckled. Your body betrayed you. Again.

He devoured you like it had been killing him not to. Like months of silence meant nothing. Like you still meant everything. It wasn’t just oral—it was punishment, devotion, violence. His nose bumped your clit again and again, his tongue dragging slow and deep through you like he was fucking tasting memories.

You came on his mouth with a gasp that felt like grief. Your thighs shook and you whimpered his name. Soft, broken. A sound you hadn’t meant to make.

“Look at you,” he muttered, mouth slick with you, voice wrecked. 

You barely registered it before your back hit the bed, your body still reeling. He was over you. Under you. Inside you before you could breathe again.

The stretch knocked the air from your lungs. You arched up, hands scrambling for something. Him, the sheets, anything, to ground you.

“Miss this cock, don’t you,” he rasped into your ear, hips grinding slow, cruel. “Feel your cunt cryin’ for it.”

You should’ve stopped it. You should’ve kicked him out.

But Simon fucked like a man on a mission. He knew every sound you made. Every twitch of your hips. Every weakness you’d ever let him find. He fucked you through every word you tried to say.

“You’re not gonna walk away from this,” he groaned into your neck, hips snapping hard into yours. “You’re not.”

“You—” your breath hitched. “You can’t just—just do this every time—”

“Only thing that shuts you up ain't it?" he muttered, biting down where your shoulder met your neck.

“Fuck you,” you cried out, one hand gripping the sheets, the other clawing at his back.

“You are,” he said, feral and breathless. “Still fuckin’ mine. Always were. Always will be.”

Your thighs trembled. He knew you were close. So he slowed torturously slow until you were shaking under him. Whimpering, biting your lip to keep from begging. He knew you hadn’t gotten off since he left. And he fucking used it. Used you.

“No one else will ever get you high like I do. Words of advice.”

Your orgasm hit like surrender. Like something dragged out of you with violence. You screamed into his neck, nails raking his back. Your cunt squeezed him so tight he swore—bit down on your throat and groaned into your skin like he couldn’t hold it.

He came with a low, ragged moan, hips rutting shallow. Still whispering. Still holding your face like you were something he missed.

He kissed you then slow. Devastating

Not because it was love. Not because it fixed anything.

But because he knew you. And he knew he’d find a way back. Even when you swore he wouldn’t.

You didn’t kiss him back. You stared at the ceiling. Regret curling in your gut like smoke.

You hated him most in moments like this—when he gave you everything you wanted, and none of what you needed.

You know that thing some married couples do where the husband takes a bite of cake and mouth-feeds the chewed part to his wife? Simon definitely does that at your wedding and some of 141 collectively lose their minds.

⸻

The cake was good—light, sweet, touched with something rich like espresso—but you barely tasted it.

Because Simon took the first bite. Not with a fork, not like a gentleman. Just lifted it with his fingers, slow and sure, eyes on yours as he bit into it.

Crumbs clung to his lips. Frosting kissed the corner of his mouth. He chewed slowly, jaw tense. That wolfish calm he always wore—under control, but always on the edge of something primal.

From the table nearby, Soap called out, “Oi, better be a clean split or there’s gonna be blood!”

Laughter. Glasses clinking. Someone whistled.

But Simon? Didn’t blink. He kept chewing, and locked eyes with you.

You leaned in slightly. Narrowed your gaze.

“Was that the last one?”

He didn’t look sorry. Just kept chewing. Shrugged, eyes glinting.

“You said you were full,” he said around the bite, voice low, half amused, half taunting.

You huffed, eyes flicking to the now-empty plate. “That was before I saw you licking the damn fork like it was divine intervention.”

That made his lips twitch.

Then—because he was ridiculous, and feral, and somehow the softest monster you’d ever loved—he leaned forward, chewed a little slower, and pulled you in by the chin with two fingers.

Mouth to mouth, he pressed the rest of the bite to your lips. Chocolate and salt and heat. Your breath caught.

You let out a startled laugh against his mouth. “You’re disgusting.”

“You wanted some,” he murmured, smug. “Open.”

You did. Because you were a little disgusting too. And because the way he was looking at you? Like the reception, the cake, the crowd—none of it existed. Just you, and his hand on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like you were his favorite thing he’d ever tasted.

From the 141 table, a violent cough.

Soap, choking. “Jesus Christ—”

Gaz: “I think I just got pregnant.”

Price didn’t say anything, but you could feel the weight of his stare. The kind that said this is still a public function, son, even if his mouth twitched like he was holding in a smirk.

You swallowed.

Simon pulled back just an inch. His thumb wiped a smudge of icing from your bottom lip and, without looking away, he brought it to his own mouth. Licked it clean.

“Good?” he asked, low, rough.

You nodded, dazed.

“Thought so.”

Soap leaned into Gaz, muttering loud enough to carry: “They’re gonna shag on the damn cake table.”

You turned slightly, still breathless. “You’re just mad no one’s feeding you.”

“I’m mad I can’t unsee that,” he said.

Gaz: “You’re lying. You’ve replayed it twice.”

Price finally chimed in, cool and dry: “You feed anyone like that on my birthday, Riley, I’m pulling your funding.”

Simon didn’t even glance at them. Just pressed his palm to the small of your back, ring flashing, and leaned in until his lips were brushing your ear.

“Still hungry?” he asked, just for you.

God help you. You were.

And they all knew it.

Verbally Praise, Physically degrade.

⸻

One minute you’re with Soap, laughing, leaning in too close, your fingers brushing his arm like it meant nothing. But you knew better.

You knew the weight of your touch. Knew your laugh softened in that way meant only for Simon. Knew exactly what you were doing when you let someone else’s warmth slip into a space that belonged to him. And the next?

You were in some god-knows-what room, pulled through a doorway by a hand that didn’t yank, didn’t shake, just commanded. Simon didn’t say a word. Just locked the door behind you. And looked at you like you already knew what you did.

His hand wraps around your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His thumb presses your bottom lip down, slow, dragging across your tongue. You barely have time to breathe before he tilts your chin higher, eyes narrowing.

“You want to give your voice to someone else?” His head tilts. “Then you don’t need it, do you?” He nudges you down with one hand, and you drop like instinct. Knees to concrete, palms flat.

His other hand rests at the crown of your head, fingers threading into your hair—not pulling, not yet. Just claiming. He guides you closer, the heat of him brushing your mouth. The head of his cock slides against your lips, smearing pre-come across them like a mark. Like a seal. You’re not embarrassed. You couldn’t be. Not with the way he looks at you. Like he fucking worships this.

“Open up.”

You do.

Tongue out. Eyes up.

And the sound he makes. It’s not quite a groan. More like a growl from deep in his chest, something primal and low. He feeds himself past your lips, slow and deliberate, his hand tightening just a fraction when your throat tenses around him.

“There you go,” Simon says, breath hitching. “Take it. All of it.”

You try. But he’s too much. Your throat flexes, your breath catches, and still he holds your head steady. Then his grip tightens, just enough to stop you pulling back. Not forcing. Just refusing to let go.

“You laugh like that again with anyone else,” he murmurs, low and cold, “I’ll fuck your voice right out of you.”

You choke, and he finally lets you draw in a breath through your nose, barely. Your lungs shudder, your spit thick and hot around him. He watched your eyes flutter.

“Don’t you dare fucking pass out,” he commanded. “You breathe through it. You take it. You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

You nod as best you can, choking slightly as he lets you back off, just a little, enough to inhale sharply through your nose, lungs burning. But you stay on him, tongue working, spit pooling fast and hot as he rocks into your mouth slow, grinding into your throat like it belongs to him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, thumb catching the tear at the corner of your eye. “So pretty. So obedient. Just f'me.”

He pulls back entirely, letting you gasp, but his hand never leaves your head.

“That’s it. Breathe. Come on, baby. There you go.”

You’re shaking. But not from fear. From need. From the way he praises you like you’re worth something, even with spit dripping down your chin, even as you struggle to take him the way he likes.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips just barely grazing your mouth.

“You’re doing so fucking well,” Simon whispers, tone softer now. “And I’m not done. Not ‘til your voice is gone. Change of heart.”

And you nod. Because you’d suffocate for him if he asked. But he won’t. He wants you conscious. Wanting. Needing. Breathing—just barely.

But always for him.

Don’t forget who you belong to

The house is quiet.

Save for the sound of Simon strapping his combat boots on in the hallway—low, heavy movements that echo against the walls like a clock ticking down. You hear the creak of leather, the muted grunt as he adjusts the holster under his jacket, and the metallic click of a blade sliding home.

He’s not late. But he’s rushing.

You dry your hands on a towel, fold it neatly, purposefully, and cast a glance at the clock. Then you walk out of the kitchen and down the hall, toward the door where he’s gearing up like he’s about to step into hell. Maybe he is.

You’ve stopped asking where he’s going. He tells you what he can, when he can. That’s enough. You don’t need details. You just need to make sure he comes back from it.

Simon doesn’t look up when you step into the room. His eyes are already hard. Distant. That part of him—the one you fight to keep buried at home—is surfacing fast. And it’s not just the gear. It’s in his shoulders, the way he moves. Measured. Final.

He’s halfway gone.

You stand there and wait. Silent.

He feels you before he sees you. But when he finally does look up, his gaze latches to yours like it always does. Like it’s checking in, one last time, before he puts the mask back on.

“I’m going,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

A twitch of his mouth. Almost a smirk. It dies just as quick. You step forward, fingers brushing the edge of his collar, smoothing it down without ceremony. He lets you—stands still for you like he always does. Even now.

“Did you eat?”

“I’ll grab something with the lads.”

You click your tongue. “No, you won’t. You’ll drink. You’ll act like you’re bulletproof. And halfway through the night, your blood sugar will tank and your hands will start to shake. So no. You’re eating now.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares.

You jerk your chin toward the small pack on the table. “It’s already in there. Sandwiches. Painkillers. Something with protein. And the granola bar you actually like. Not the ones you pretend to.”

He glances. Then back at you. “You’re not my mum.”

You fold your arms. “No. I’m worse. I’m the woman who knows all your passwords, your triggers, and where you keep the spare knife taped under the mattress. And you’re still dumb enough to test me.”

That earns you the smallest flicker of something in his eyes. Humor, maybe; but it’s fleeting.

You shift closer.

“I know how you get when you’re with them. Johnny starts barking and Gaz pulls some stupid stunt that should get someone killed. You go from zero to Ghost in five seconds flat.”

You grab the front of his vest. Not rough, but not soft either. A simple grip, grounding. Real.

“So let me be very clear,” you say, voice low and steady. “You go out there and start acting like you’ve got nothing to lose, I will show up. In my robe. In my slippers. Face cream still on. And I will drag your fully-armed, testosterone-fueled, world-ending ass out of that pub by the collar.”

Silence.

“You hear me Mr Riley?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t nod. Just stands there. Alert. Because he knows you. And he knows you’re not bluffing.

You keep going. Calm. Deadly.

“You’re not just their attack dog, Simon. You’re not some weapon for hire. You’re mine. And if you forget that even for a second—if you let one of those idiots hype you into acting like the world won’t miss you—”

You lean in, voice softer now, barely above a whisper.

“—I’ll remind you.”

Simon swallows. His jaw works slightly. The edge in him, that cold razor-wire coil, loosens just enough to let the man underneath breathe again.

“I hear you,” he says finally, quiet.

You reach into the pocket of your robe and pull out the granola bar, press it into his palm. “Eat that now. And the rest later. You don’t get to come home to me half-dead because you couldn’t be arsed to eat.”

He takes it. No argument.

Your hand finds his chest, solid beneath the gear, and you feel him exhale under your touch. Just for a second.

“You come home to me whole,” you say. “Or I come out there and finish the job myself.”

His eyes soften at the edges. Only a little. The corner of his mouth shifts, half a twitch.

Then he grabs the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and opens the door.

But before he steps out, before the world takes him away again, he turns back, just slightly. That cold, distant thing starting to creep into his face again. But his voice cuts through, low and rough

“Love you.”

You don’t smile. “uh huh, right”.

You just watch him go.

And he knows, without question, you’ll still be right here when he returns.

Not again

Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s distant. Slow. Boneless and heavy and floating at the same time—like you’re made of liquid, spilled across the bed, soaking into the mattress where Simon left you.

Everything’s sensitive. Your thighs are trembling. The inside of you feels warm in a way that shouldn’t be possible—so full, so sore, still twitching from the way he held you down and ruined you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. it’s all Simon.

You might’ve fallen asleep. You’re not sure.

Then you hear him shift.

You don’t move.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble into the pillow.

He exhales slowly through his nose, amusement crackling under the surface of his voice.

“It’s been thirty.”

You groan, long and dramatic, and turn your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You said you’d wait.”

“I did. And I have.” He leans in, mouth brushing behind your ear. “But you’ve got to get up now.”

“No, I don’t,” you mumble, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he says, not unkindly. “You do.”

“Fuck off.”

“You need to pee.”

You sigh with a full-body shudder. The last thing you want is to move. Your thighs still twitch with every shift, every reminder of how hard he’d been in you—deep and rough and mean, the kind of mean only Simon can be when he knows you like it.

And now?

Now your brain’s caught somewhere between satisfaction and irritability.

You squirm an inch and hiss at the soreness. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

He hums again. Not arguing. Not pushing. Just present.

And then you snap, just a little. Not angry, just done.

“God, why are you like this?” you bite. “You get off, and suddenly I’m a project.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, with that same frustrating calm “I get off because I wreck you, sweetheart. But I also remember what happens when you don’t move after.”

You're quiet.

“Yeah.”

You groan again. “Don’t bring it up.”

“I am bringing it up.”

He shifts beside you, moving the hair away from your damp cheek.

“You remember what happened last time.”

You do.

Unfortunately.

That time when you’d passed out immediately after sex—sore, blissed out, perfectly used—and slept the whole night through. Didn’t pee. Didn’t think to. And the next morning?

UTI. Full force.

Your insides were on fire. You couldn’t sit down without wincing. Couldn’t even have him look at you, let alone touch you.

You were grumpy. Snappy. Miserable.

He was worse.

Because not only were you suffering, but he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fuck you. Could barely cuddle you without getting a sharp “Don’t touch me, Simon.”

He was all but climbing the walls by day two. You'd heard him mutter “This is hell” when you snapped at him for putting the wrong tea in your mug.

And even then, he never said I told you so.

He just brought you cranberry juice and heated pads and ran you a bath and kissed your temple like he didn’t feel half-insane.

Now?

Now he’s not risking it.

“You were a nightmare,” he mutters, rubbing your lower back. “And I didn’t get to fuck you for a week.”

You roll onto your side to glare at him. “It was your fault too.”

“Exactly why I’m carrying you.”

You pout harder. “I’m not talking to you.”

“You’re literally talking to me right now.”

“Simon—”

He sits up and leans over, scooping you effortlessly into his arms. “I'm not doing this again.”

You huff, but you don’t fight. Your limbs flop against his chest like dead weight. You nuzzle into his collarbone, still grumbling.

“You’re annoying.”

“Mm.”

“Bossy.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I still can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckles and carries you across the room, his big palms smoothing over your bare skin as he holds you close.

Once in the bathroom, he sets you on the toilet like something precious.

And instead of stepping back or giving you space, he stays.

Right in front of you.

He’s standing tall, bare chest in your face, warm hands on your shoulders—guiding you gently forward until your cheek rests against his stomach.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“And you’re soft,” he says. “All bark.”

You don’t respond.

Your body’s buzzing. Your thighs are still trembling. But when you finally relax enough to pee—

“Oh—oh my God—”

You jolt.

The pressure. The release.

Your muscles seize instantly, twitching with overstimulated nerves. It’s not just peeing. It’s like a second, slow-burning orgasm. Your body shakes with it, cunt fluttering around nothing, your legs twitching like Simon’s still inside you.

You gasp against him, trembling. It's not even about the release—it’s the aftershocks. The sudden emptiness as your muscles unclench. The way your cunt spasms around nothing as your body reacts to being let go.

Simon holds you tighter.

Your fingers grab fistfuls of his sweatpants.

His hands drop to your back.

“Easy, love. Just let it happen.”

Your knees buckle where they’re spread. You squeeze his sweatpants for balance, forehead still pressed to his stomach as you twitch through it—little pulses, flutters, everything still too much.

Your voice breaks. “Feels like—feels like I’m coming again.”

“I know.”

“Still—God, it’s still in my spine—”

You twitch again. His arms stay firm. He pets down your back, anchoring you, holding you upright as your body finishes unwinding in slow, shaking pulses.

And you do. You feel everything. His hands rubbing your back. The warmth of his chest under your cheek. The way he steadies your thighs when they jerk.

And when it’s over—when your breath evens out, and the spasm finally dies down, you just stay there. Arms weak. Legs numb. Whole body ruined.

Simon strokes your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You did perfect.”

“I’m mad at you,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

“You always say that.”

“You didn’t have to go so hard.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘don’t stop.’”

You groan. “I was lying.”

“You were begging.”

You slap his thigh half-heartedly. “I hate you.” He grins and helps you stand, supporting you like your knees might give out again—which they might, honestly.

You lean on him as he cleans you up, wipes you with practiced tenderness, and carries you back to bed without another word.

Once there, he slides one of his shirts over your head, tucks you under the blanket, and stretches out beside you with one arm around your waist.

Your face is buried in his chest. His heartbeat is slow, steady, solid.

A day for moms like you

⸻

It starts with the rustle of sheets.

You feel him shift beside you, slowly, like he doesn’t want to wake you. But you’re a light sleeper these days—baby girl’s fault—and you feel his warmth pull away from the bed.

The room stays dark. He made sure of that. Last night, he pulled the blackout curtains shut, clipped the edges with those little fasteners you always lose, just so the morning sun wouldn’t touch you before you were ready.

He stands for a second beside the bed, watching you breathe, watching her, sleeping in the bassinet by the window, and then disappears with the hush of a man on a mission.

Kitchen first.

He moves carefully. Pan on the stove, eggs soft-scrambled the way you like, pancakes a little misshapen but golden, strawberries sliced into little hearts. He lays it all on your favorite tray, folds a cloth napkin like he saw on Pinterest once, and pours your tea exactly how you like it—cream first, one sugar, stir clockwise.

Then the baby.

He pads into the nursery and scoops her up with practiced hands, whispering into her tiny ear like she understands every word.

“We’ve got a job to do, little one. It’s Mum’s day.”

She’s already smiling.

He changes her into the pink onesie he hid in the drawer last week: “Mum’s First Love.” Snaps it up, kisses her chubby cheeks, and tucks her into the carrier against his chest. She fits there perfectly, like she was made to rest against his heart.

Almost done.

He grabs the tray with one hand, steadies her with the other. The flower—one single, soft pink peony he picked up three days ago and kept hidden in the fridge, is gently tucked into the back of his sweatpants, half-tucked in like a secret.

And then, just as he reaches the bedroom door, he hears the faintest shift of movement.

You’re awake.

He steps in slowly, careful not to drop a thing. The room is still blacked out, cool and quiet. But your shape is stirring under the duvet, and when your eyes meet his— Time stops.

There he is. Standing at the edge of the bed, baby girl nestled warm and blinking against his chest, a tray of warm breakfast in his hands And your baby girl’s tiny fingers gripping the edge of the tray like she helped carry it all the way. And tucked away in the band of his sweat pants is an assortment of flowers.

You blink once. Twice. Then laugh, soft and disbelieving, eyes already brimming.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Simon says, voice low and warm. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

You smile through the sting in your eyes, trying to breathe around the feeling in your chest. “Simon…”

He sets the tray gently on your lap and leans down to kiss your forehead, your nose, then finally your mouth—a kiss so full, so slow and deep, it leaves you breathless and blinking into the darkness like maybe you’re dreaming.

You laugh through the tears, clutching your baby closer as her little hand reaches out and brushes your collarbone, completely unaware she’s just split your heart wide open.

You look at Simon again—your partner, your safest place, your best decision—and whisper, “You made this perfect.”

He shakes his head. “You made this everything.”

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he says.

You reach for his hand, the one resting on your thigh. “You are.”

And in that moment, breakfast growing cold, baby gurgling against his chest, the flower falling softly to the duvet, you realize there’s nowhere in the world you’d rather be than right here

Full of love, half-awake, and wrapped in the kind of softness that only comes from being seen completely… and loved anyway.

I just wanted to write something that hurts, lil angst w/ simon.

You didn’t ask him to stay. You never do.

But when Simon knocks on your door after midnight, rain clinging to his hoodie, shadows in his eyes, you step back and let him in without a word. He shrugs off his jacket. You don’t ask how his day was. He doesn’t ask how yours was either.

It’s easier that way.

You need to forget. He needs to feel. It’s the rhythm you’ve fallen into—flesh and friction, no strings, no questions. Just bodies tangled in the dark, moving until the world fades to static.

And tonight, you need that more than ever.

You pull him in hard, mouth crashing to his, fingers already tugging his shirt over his head. He follows your lead, backing you toward the bedroom with heavy, purposeful steps like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The moment your back hits the sheets, he’s between your legs. Pants shoved down. Condoms found blindly. Your body opens for him like it’s been waiting, like he’s the only thing real in a week of fake smiles and empty hours.

He sinks into you in one long thrust.

You arch. He groans. And for a second, it works.

The burn, the stretch, the deep drag of his cock, it drowns the noise. The meetings. The phone calls. The pressure. The loneliness. He fucks you with something close to desperation, hands bruising on your hips, forehead pressed to your throat.

You moan. Claw at him. Buck up to meet every thrust.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Takin’ me so good, sweetheart.”

Your body shudders. It feels good. He feels good. But it’s like something’s knotted deep inside you, refusing to unwind. Every snap of his hips pushes against it, but doesn’t break it. And then— It does.

Not with pain. Not even with pleasure. But with the heat of his hand sliding under your spine to pull you closer. With the sound of his breath in your ear. With the way he mutters your name like it means something.

That’s when it happens.

Your eyes blur. Your chest tightens. And before you can stop it, a tear slides down your temple. He notices.

He freezes, just slightly.

“…Are you crying?”

His voice is low. Confused. Like he’s not sure if he’s hurt you or if the world has. You don’t answer. You can’t. You turn your face into the pillow, jaw trembling, tears streaking silently down your cheek. Simon exhales—slow, deliberate. His rhythm doesn’t stop. But it changes.

He fucks you slower. Deeper. Like he’s not trying to get you off anymore. Like he’s trying to reach something buried in you, something fragile, something breaking.

The tears come harder now. But you don’t stop him. You cling. One hand grips the back of his neck. The other fists the sheet like it’s the only thing anchoring you. You sob—quiet, shaking, cracked open beneath him.

He fucks you through it. Not cruel. Not selfish. He gives it to you. Gives you everything.

And when you finally come, it tears out of you like grief. Your body spasms. Your mouth falls open. You sob into his shoulder as your orgasm crashes over you. Raw, desperate, holy.

Simon doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he withdraws, breath ragged. You think he might leave. Or say something. But he doesn’t. He gathers you into his chest. Blanket. Arm under your knees. His shirt between your tears and the pillow. One hand stroking your hair with a gentleness that undoes you more than the sex ever could.

Still no words.

Just his heartbeat. Steady. Solid. And the silence—the real kind. Not the emptiness you’ve been drowning in. The kind that says I’m here. I’ve got you. Fall apart if you need to.

So you do.