Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your classroom smelled faintly of glue sticks, whiteboard markers, and the vanilla-coconut lotion you had slathered on without thinking that morning—a scent that always seemed to follow you. It lingered in the air like a gentle reminder that yes, this was your domain—second-year chaos and all.

It was the last lesson of the day. You sat at one of the tiny desks with your knees tucked awkwardly beneath, surrounded by a dozen seven-year-olds scribbling with serious faces. That day's assignment was simple: write a letter to a soldier. Just a little kindness sent out into the world.

“Remember,” you said with a cheerful lilt, tapping a marker against the whiteboard, “these letters are going to real soldiers overseas. Say something warm. Something that’ll make someone smile.”

They nodded like soldiers themselves, a chorus of “yes, Miss Sparkle” rolling through the room. Some stuck their tongues out in concentration, others asked how to spell “defense.” You wandered between them, adjusting pencils, correcting grammar, resisting the urge to pocket a glittery dinosaur sticker from Logan’s paper. Silver looked good on that sticker. You made a mental note to lightly censor Trevor’s line about “defeating the enemy with fire swords.”

When they were settled, you sat and started your own.

You hadn’t planned to—but it felt wrong not to. Smiling to yourself, you uncapped a purple pen and began writing.

Your handwriting looped gently across the page, and you kept your tone light.

Dear Soldier,

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I hope you had something warm to eat today. I hope something—or someone—made you laugh, even if just for a second. I teach second-year students, which means I hear knock-knock jokes every ten minutes and pretend every single one is brand new. They keep me busy. And sticky. There was a glitter incident recently, known in history as ‘The Great Glitter Spill of Semester One.’ That’s how I got my new nickname—or should I say, call sign.

Anyway. Thank you. Thank you for what you do. I hope this letter finds you safe. And wherever you are, I hope you know someone out here is rooting for you. You’re being thought of—by a stranger who smells like cupcakes and leaves sparkle trails wherever she walks.

You doodled a tiny frog in a combat helmet at the bottom. Just for fun. You added two stickers. One was shaped like a rainbow that sparkled at the right angle. The other was a smiling mushroom.

“Miss Sparkle,” Junie whispered beside you as she handed in her letter. “Can I see yours?”

You turned the paper toward her and the few kids still waiting for their rides. A chorus of oohs erupted.

“That’s so pretty!”

“Draw me a frog!”

“Oooh,” breathed Hannah, looking at the doodles. “You’re so good at drawing!”

You grinned. “Just don’t tell the real artists. I’ll lose my street cred.”

“Wait,” said Jonah, “can I put a sticker on too?”

You laughed. “It’s already full, sweetheart. It’s going just like this.”

As the final bell rang, children began to trickle out the door, backpacks bouncing and letters tucked safely into the school’s outgoing bin.

By the time the last backpacks were zipped and pencil cases stuffed with candy wrappers, only a few kids were left. Junie, of course, was one of them—spinning slowly in your rolling chair like a gremlin in sparkly sneakers.

“Mrs. Linton’s picking you up today?”

She nodded. “Daddy’s still away. But Gran always comes. She has tea in a red cup. And she lets me watch cartoons whenever I want.”

You smiled gently and pretended not to notice the way she looked toward the door every few minutes. You had never met her father—only heard his name once when Mrs. Linton filled out an emergency contact form. Something about Mr. Riley. Never attended a parent-teacher night. Never stepped inside the school. On the rare occasions he was home, he waited in his SUV by the curb, dark windows and all. If you ever needed anything, he was only available through text messages—and even that felt rare. You never complained, though. Junie was a dream student: always ready with her homework, always dressed neatly, always kind. She helped others without being asked, never judged anyone, and wore her freckles like tiny badges of sunlight. She was the kind of kid who made your job feel like magic.

You folded your letter carefully and slid it into the school’s outgoing pile, right on top of Logan’s rainbow dinosaur and Hannah’s glitter hearts. The bin would be collected that night. Mailed randomly to soldiers across the country. Of course, country. Try the same city.

It was just a silly letter. A little warmth in an envelope.

You forgot about it by morning.

One Week Later

You were elbow-deep in papier-mâché volcanoes when the letters left your mind entirely.

You didn’t think about the doodle.

You didn’t think about the frog.

You certainly didn’t think about the stranger who might be reading your words right now. 

Simon Riley hadn’t expected anything when he opened the mailbox. Not really.

He had been home for two days—still adjusting to the silence. No shouting. No desert wind. Just Junie’s feet pattering down the hall and the soft chime of the microwave she wasn’t supposed to use without him.

There was a letter. No return address.

It wasn’t from command. Wasn’t from Price. Didn’t smell like deployment.

It smelled like… vanilla?

He frowned.

Opened it.

Read the first line. Then the second. Then all of it.

A frog. Stickers. It was absurd.

He read it again.

He didn’t smile. But his shoulders eased. Just a little.

It was… stupid.

Pointless.

Kind.

“Someone’s rooting for you,” he muttered. “Tch. That’s new.”

But he didn’t throw it away.

He pinned it on the corkboard in his office. Right between one of Junie’s wobbly drawings and a takeout receipt.

“Daddy!”

Junie barreled into the room a few minutes later, one sock half-on, cheeks pink from running.

She froze when she saw it.

Then gasped.

Then screamed.

“THAT’S MISS SPARKLE’S LETTER!!”

He turned slowly. “...What?”

“That’s HER frog! She showed us! She said it was hers and we all said ‘oohh’ and I asked for a sticker and she said only for grammar points! But I remember it! That’s hers!!”

He looked at the letter again.

Frog. Stickers. Vanilla.

“Miss Sparkle?” he echoed, incredulous.

Junie nodded vigorously. “She’s my favorite! She smells like candy and she lets us name the classroom plants!”

He stared at the letter a little longer.

Right.

So some cheerful chaos sprite who taught grammar with stickers… had just written him a letter.

Brilliant.

Chapter Text

Junie was out sick.

You had expected her to come bouncing in that morning with purple beads in her hair and three drawings of the same cat. But instead, the front office let you know she’d caught something mild—just enough to keep her curled up at home.

A shame. It was Career Day. And she was the only absent student today.

You had the room prepped with bright paper signs, chairs arranged in a semi-circle, and a few printed programs for the kids to follow along. You even saved Junie’s usual seat by the reading rug, just in case she surprised everyone and showed up last minute. But she didn't.

Apparently, the school had extended a general invite for the event, with each class receiving a unique set of visitors. Your class had been assigned a pilot, a veterinarian, a photographer, a doctor, and a military guest. Military personnel were always welcome—especially to wide-eyed second years who thought "lieutenant" meant superhero. And while Simon Riley hadn’t been known for his participation in school life, this time was different. Junie talked about you. A lot. More than he realized.

That morning, before leaving, he’d crouched beside Junie’s bed, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. Her voice had been barely a whisper, scratchy and soft.

“Daddy,” she murmured, “say hello to Miss Sparkle, yeah?”

He blinked at her. “That her actual name?”

She gave the tiniest smile. “You’ll see.”

He almost said something more, but her eyes were already fluttering closed. So instead, he brushed a hand over her hair, stood, and let out a slow breath. Her voice lingered as he stepped out of the room, low and sweet.

He promised he wouldn’t be long. Then quietly slipped out, heart weighed down by a seven-year-old with a head full of imagination who believed her teacher might just be magic.

So when she finally fell asleep mid-cartoon, he texted Mrs. Linton and asked her to keep an eye on Junie. Said it wouldn’t take long.

He left the house in uniform. Vest, boots, sleeves rolled. Mask on. Outside, before climbing into the SUV, he paused for a beat longer than usual. And when he reached the school, sitting behind tinted windows with his arms crossed over his chest, he wasn’t thinking about the event schedule or the classroom layout.

The other guests had arrived early. There was a pilot—sleek uniform, glossy smile, and stories about skydiving. A veterinarian with a big cardboard cat. A photographer who let the kids try her polaroid. A doctor who gave out stickers shaped like hearts.

And then there was him.

He stood at the back, silent and huge. Didn’t try to introduce himself. Didn’t make conversation. Just watched.

You didn’t notice him at first. You were too busy helping the vet set up her plush animal table. Too busy managing Logan, who kept trying to sneak behind the pilot to touch her shiny buttons.

But he noticed you.

The moment he stepped into the room, his eyes skimmed the chaos, the crowd of children, the swirl of color—and then landed on you.

You didn’t look like any teacher he’d ever pictured. Denim overalls, worn black Converse, and a white t-shirt with a ridiculous meme printed across the front—some cartoon cat in sunglasses saying "Grading papers is my cardio."

At first glance, he genuinely thought you might’ve been one of the older students helping out. But then you laughed—bright and real—and waved to one of the kids with that open, warm energy Junie always tried to imitate.

He smirked behind the mask. So that’s Miss Sparkle.

Different from what he imagined. Not worse.

His eyes flicked lower, almost without permission. Fingers wrapped around a clipboard. No ring. He needed something to make sure there was no one in your life.

Fuck, Simon. Get yourself together. 

He dragged his gaze away, jaw tightening slightly under the mask, and reminded himself why he was here.

Just say hello. Just be polite. Then get out before you make a complete idiot of yourself.

But when you finally looked up at him, your eyes snagged on something different.

Not the mask, though it was impossible to ignore. Not even the build—tall and broad and still.

It was the arms. Rolled sleeves, forearms carved with lean muscle and veined with tension. Tattoos inked in black down one arm.

And then—his eyes met yours.

Not a glance. Not a flicker.

He looked at you, directly, unflinching. Like he saw through the noise and color and kid chatter, and zeroed in only on you.

Your breath hitched. Just for a second.

God. You were weak for masked men. Absolutely pathetic.

His gaze dipped slightly, maybe toward your lips—maybe your throat—but it was gone too fast to be sure. Then his brow lifted just a touch, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You tucked it away quickly. Kids first. Crushes on mysteriously hot military men second.

Each presenter took turns. The pilot dazzled the room. The vet let them bandage plushies. The photographer passed around instant snapshots. The doctor showed them a real stethoscope.

And then… it was his turn.

He hesitated when you called on him. Just the faintest shift of weight.

You smiled to ease the moment. “And last—but definitely not least—we have our mystery man in the mask. He’s in the military, and we’re very lucky he could be here today. You know those superheroes Junie always talks about? This is one of them.”

The kids were on the edge of their seats.

He cleared his throat. Said only a few words. Something about keeping people safe. About being strong for others. About working in a team.

The children didn’t mind the silence. They clung to every word like it was treasure.

So did you.

He glanced at the empty seat where Junie would normally be. You had left a little drawing taped to the side of her desk—a stapled quiz from earlier in the week, Junie's handwriting neat and proud across the top. A gold star sat in the corner and a handwritten note from you below: "You’ve got this! Proud of you."

He didn’t say a word. But his hand twitched at his side.

After the applause (and one child asking if he fought aliens), the guests started to file out. You turned to thank them, hand still on your clipboard, when something on your desk caught your eye.

A note. Folded. Messy handwriting on the front: For Miss Sparkle.

You opened it quietly.

Thanks for the kind words. For making it easy. And for not looking at me like I was a monster.

Underneath the note was something else. A hand-drawn skull mask stared back at you, sketched quickly but unmistakably detailed—just like the one you had seen today. Beneath it, written in smaller print: You probably figured it out by now.

You smiled.

Not a monster. Not even close.

You traced the lines of the skull with your fingertip. Reread his words. Something warm unfurled in your chest. You tucked the note into your desk drawer, beside the little collection of things you saved —drawings, notes.

And if you dreamed of masked men with gentle hands and dangerous eyes that day, well—that was your secret to keep.

Chapter Text

You never planned on becoming a teacher.

Not really.

You'd always dreamed of something soft, creative, probably doomed to make very little money. Bookshops. Writing. Handmade embroidery patterns with clever quotes. That sort of thing. You graduated with a degree in English language, hoping maybe one day it would take you somewhere quiet and wonderful—where you'd be surrounded by stories and never have to answer a phone.

Because calls? No, thank you.

Social events? Nightmare.

Talking to strangers? Soul-draining.

You were always a homebody—small circle of friends, always polite enough but never one to join a crowd. You loved books, sometimes soft and not really music in headphones, movies with strong emotional undercurrents, photography, video games, crocheting odd little animals, embroidery with pastel threads, had masked men obsession and loved talks with friends about nothing. And sweets. Especially sweets. They made the world feel safer.

But eventually, the walls of your apartment began to feel smaller. And it was embarrassing for you to still rely on your parents.

You needed work.

Quiet work, if possible. Something steady. Something where no one expected you to make speeches or sell things or smile all the time.

You found nothing.

Then, out of pure despair, you stumbled across a local job listing. The elementary school in your area had lost three teachers in a single month. They were desperate. You were… curious. You didn't even like screaming at children. You've always been told in school to talk louder. But it was that or nothing.

Your heart pounded like it might give out when you walked into the principal's office for the first time. But the Headmistress was kind—an older woman with silver streaks in her hair and smile lines that didn’t feel fake. She listened, nodded, and said you could always call for help. Anytime. No judgment. You took additional courses offered by the school, studied and worked at the same time.

You started.

And something unexpected happened.

The kids liked you. Not just liked—gravitated to you. You weren’t touchy or loud. But you made them feel safe. You let them tape their art on your walls and named all the classroom plants. You weren’t good with parents at first, but you learned. You got better.

And somewhere along the way, you realized you weren’t just surviving it. You were building something. A safe space. A real one. The one you wanted to be in when you were a schoolgirl.

Now?

You still had anxiety. Still hated making calls. Still avoided parties. But Saturdays? Saturdays were sacred.

You woke early, phone in hand, scrolling through sleepy-eyed notifications. Selina, your black cat with white socks and a constant expression of disdain, curled against your hip. You fed her first. She meowed like she hadn’t eaten in days, then promptly turned her nose up at the bowl.

Your fridge was almost empty. A crime.

So you dressed—cargo pants, oversized hoodie with sleeves a little too long. You pulled your hair back messily and took your time with eyeliner, precise, winged. Makeup relaxed you. Helped you focus. Something about the quiet ritual of it steadied your breath.

You grabbed your bag and headed out to a little café near the edge of the block. Olivia, one of your few close friends, worked there. She was the kind of person who could make ordering coffee feel like a therapy session—sarcastic, warm, and always knowing exactly when not to ask questions.

As soon as you walked in, she looked up from behind the counter and raised a brow. “You look like someone who’s been living off caffeine and sugar.”

“That’s because I have,” you muttered, smiling faintly. “Don’t judge me, Liv.”

“Never,” she said, already punching in your usual. “Croissants, cinnamon bun, caramel coffee. I’d worry about you if you weren’t built like a Victorian ghost.”

You laughed, sliding your hands into the hoodie pocket. “Pale and haunting. On brand.”

“A lovable menace,” she grinned. Then, quieter: “You okay today?”

You nodded. “Just... tired. Brain's full of spreadsheets and phonics."

She didn’t push. Just winked and said, “I’ll add extra cinnamon.”

You ordered a takeout bundle—croissants, cinnamon buns, and a tall coffee laced with caramel. Enough sweetness to justify going straight back home. You didn’t plan on staying. You liked your food where no one could watch you eat it.

You smiled politely when your order was called, adjusted the strap on your bag, and turned toward the door.

Simon was tired.

Junie was getting better—her fever had broken, but she’d pouted all morning about missing school and Miss Sparkle.

“Bring me sweets,” she’d said. “Please, Daddy? The cinnamon ones. The swirly kind.”

So he went.

No mask. Civilian clothes. Hoodie pulled up. Head down.

He wasn’t looking for anything—just sugar, peace, and a quick exit.

He reached for the café door, ready to step inside—

—and nearly collided with someone stepping out.

He held the door without thinking.

The scent hit him first.

Not coffee. Not pastries. You.

Sweet. Vanilla. A soft, sugary warmth that settled behind his ribs and made something ache.

You didn’t look up. Not really. Just muttered a quiet, “Thanks,” eyes fixed somewhere near his collarbone, and passed through the doorway with your coffee and your bakery bag tucked close.

He stood there.

Still.

Just breathing you in like a man who hadn’t known he was starving.

That was you.

He recognized the walk—the slight bounce in your step, the way your hoodie hung off one shoulder, the quiet hurry of someone who hated being looked at. He’d memorized it without meaning to. The way you carried your paper bag, too high, almost like hiding behind it. The way your fingers twitched when your eyes didn’t meet anyone else’s. The way you tried so hard not to be seen.

And you didn’t even look at him.

Didn’t know him without the mask.

Didn’t recognize a damn thing.

She really didn’t look up. Not once. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just walked right past like I was no one.

Fuck. What would she even do if she knew?

If she saw me like this, mask off, hoodie on, probably looking like I hadn’t slept in days. Would she still smile? Would she say that soft little “thanks” the same way?

He let the door swing shut behind him and exhaled—long and slow and burning.

He moved to the counter, ordered Junie's cinnamon bun, and added a slice of chocolate cake. The girl behind the register smiled too brightly. He didn’t return it.

Bag in hand, he stepped back out into the daylight. The city buzzed like background static, but all he could think about was the girl who’d passed him, vanilla and quiet and nowhere near the chaos he carried.

He walked to the car slowly, drowning in his thoughts.

Junie was curled on the couch, a blanket tucked under her chin, cartoons playing softly in the background. Mrs. Linton gave him a warm nod before slipping out almost immediately when he arrived. She'd barely set her purse down before he waved her off.

“Got what you asked for,” he said, setting the bag down.

Junie sat up with a sleepy grin. “Cinnabon?”

He nodded. She took one and cuddled back into her blanket, humming with delight.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she mumbled.

He watched her for a moment, leaned in and kissed the top of her head, then looked away.

He thought about the way you never looked up.

He thought about the way he wanted you to.

And later that night, long after Junie had fallen asleep with icing still on her cheek, he sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and pulled up the school’s website.

It didn’t take long.

Teachers. Second Year. There you were—barely older than a highschool student yourself in the photo, soft smile, hair pinned back, blouse buttoned to the collar. Miss …

But he didn’t care about the title.

He stared at your name.

So that’s you, he thought. That’s your name. Your real name.

He whispered it under his breath once. Just to hear how it sounded in the air.

Then again.

Hello, he thought, like an idiot. Fucking hell, get it together.

But he couldn’t stop looking at your name. Couldn’t stop saying it again in his head. Like maybe if he said it enough, it would become something he had the right to touch.

It didn’t. It wouldn’t.

Didn’t stop him from wanting to.

He clicked on your school profile, pulse quickening. After school hours listed neatly. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 3:30-5:00. The thought of you sitting alone in that small room sent heat crawling up his neck.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. One search. Just one. He shouldn't.

He did.

Your Instagram wasn't private—an oversight, he thought, or maybe you had nothing to hide. Just beauty to share. Your feed was a cascade of moments: close-ups of wildflowers with dewdrops clinging to petals, a dog paused mid-step in autumn woods, sunlight filtering through leaves and creating patterns on forest floors.

Not a teacher's account. An artist's. Christ, she's good, he thought, scrolling deeper. Sees the world differently than most people.

The occasional self-portraits appeared—you with a camera in hand, reflected in a rain puddle. You kneeling beside a stray cat, fingers extended. You laughing into the lens, hair loose and wild in a way he'd never seen at school.

This is the real her, something whispered in his mind. Not the buttoned-up version Junie knows.

He paused on a photo of your hands arranging flowers in a vase, the golden hour light making your skin glow amber. Your fingers, soft skin of your wrists. A silver bracelet on your right hand.

I bet those hands are soft, came the unbidden thought.

I bet they'd feel like silk against my—

"Fucking stop it," he hissed at himself, but didn't stop scrolling.

More nature. More light. More glimpses of a life lived in appreciation of small, beautiful things he would have walked past without noticing.

Is this how you see Junie? Notices things about his daughter he's too busy to see? Something twisted in his chest—gratitude and jealousy tangled together.

"Fuck," he whispered, running his hand through his hair.

He could imagine those artistic fingers against his skin. Could imagine your voice saying his name, not "Junie's father" or "Mr. Riley" but his actual name, breathed out in the dark.

He slammed the laptop closed, but the images remained burned behind his eyelids.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, avoided his reflection. The house was silent except for the distant sound of Junie's soft snoring down the hall.

He gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

He's mind was running. He could drop Junie off early. Stay late. Find some excuse to linger near your office. Just to talk. Just to hear you say more than pleasantries about his daughter's progress. Ask about your photography maybe. See if your eyes lit up the way they must when you're capturing those perfect moments. Pathetic, his mind sneered. She'd see right through you.

He knew better. He was a grown man, a father. This wasn't some schoolboy crush. It was worse.

Because when he finally crawled into his empty bed, sheets cold against his skin, it wasn't just your name he whispered into the darkness. It was all the things he wanted to do to make you whisper his.

Chapter Text

It was Monday.

Rain fell in thick, cold sheets. You woke before your alarm, eyelids sticky with sleep and limbs aching from a restless night. Selina stared at you from her perch near the window—tail flicking, silent judgment in her eyes. You didn’t argue. Just rolled out of bed. Hoodie. Comfy jeans. Waterproof boots. You threw your hair up, did your eyeliner with steady hands, and let the hum of your favorite playlist fill the kitchen while feeding the cat. You stuffed your bag with lesson plans, and braved the rain with a silent promise to keep your head low and heart soft, the neighborhood was still mostly asleep.

As always, you were the first to arrive. You liked it that way—quiet halls, the hum of the heating kicking in, your classroom waiting like an old friend.

The day passed as it usually did—science lesson, reading circles, a messy math project that left your desks speckled with blue pen paint.

Until the final break.

There was yelling.

You were erasing the board when it started. High-pitched. Emotional. You rushed out to the hallway to find Junie—Junie—storming off, face red, fists clenched.

And Alex.

Holding his cheek. Shocked. Angry.

“She hit me! I’m calling my mum!” he shouted.

Your stomach dropped. You quickly moved between them, trying to keep things calm.

“Everyone inside. Now.”

Junie had already disappeared into the girls’ bathroom, and the rest of the class stared at you wide-eyed as you steered them back to their seats.

You gave quick instructions for silent reading, then slipped out to find Junie.

You knocked. Waited.

“Junie?”

A muffled sob answered.

You opened the door gently. She was huddled by the sink, cheeks wet, shoulders shaking.

“Sweetheart,” you said softly. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped her face with her sleeve and shook her head.

“I just wanted him to stop,” she whispered.

Your heart broke a little.

You took a slow breath. “Let’s get through the lesson, okay? Sit at the back. I’ll handle the rest.”

You knelt beside her and spoke softly.

“No one’s going to hurt you, Junie. I promise.”

She sniffled and nodded, eyes red and silent.

You couldn’t talk now—there was still one last lesson to get through.

So you guided her gently back. Sat her at the last desk. Sat Alex at the front. The distance helped. The class ended without further incident.

Once the bell rang, you waved the rest of the students off and turned to the two who remained.

“I’ve messaged both of your parents,” you said gently. “Please wait here.”

You sent the texts quickly. Alex’s mother replied within seconds—she’d be there soon. But the other message…

Mr. Riley, let me know if you can come to school. There’s been a small incident with Junie. If you’re unavailable, I’ll reach out to Mrs. Linton.

Simon was at the garage, changing filters, half-lost in the comfort of manual work when the name on his screen made his stomach tighten.

Your name lit up the screen.

He frowned, wiped his hands, and opened the message.

Junie? An incident?

His fingers moved before the thought finished.

I’ll be there in twenty.

You waited with both children in the principal’s office.

Junie stared at her shoes. Alex crossed his arms, huffing every few minutes.

Principal Hargrove sat behind her desk, expression calm but expectant. She gave you a look that said she wanted to wait until both parents were present.

Alex’s mother arrived first—storming in, heels clicking, perfume loud. She swept her son into her arms.

“What happened? Are you hurt?!”

He whined, immediately recounting the tale with flailing hands and exaggerated shock.

You kept your voice even. “We’ll talk about everything shortly.”

Before you could answer, the door opened again.

And he walked in.

Simon Riley. Maskless.

The room tilted slightly.

Your head snapped up.

Oh.

Oh.

He was taller than you expected. Broader. His hoodie dark with rain at the shoulders, jaw sharp, hair slightly tousled. He looked like trouble and comfort wrapped into one.

Dark eyes that flicked to Junie first—soft, attentive, full of wordless apology.

Then to you.

They lingered.

Took their time.

You stood quickly, brushing your palms on your thighs, trying to remember how to breathe.

“Mr. Riley,” you said, offering your hand.

His eyes lingered on you—recognition flickering behind the calm. He took your hand gently, warm and solid. He had expected you to look like that, honestly—soft, a little awkward, wrapped in kindness. But it still hit harder than he'd braced for. Seeing it up close, like that— strands framing your face. A splash of ink on your wrist—a forgotten pen mark, maybe. Not the polished, distant professional he'd imagined. No heels, no lipstick. Just simplicity and something like honesty.

“Miss Sparkle,” he said. “Nice to finally meet you.”

And right then, something clicked.

The voice—low, rough, familiar in a way that made your stomach flutter—hit you like a memory you hadn’t been able to place until now. Not just a parent. Not just a stranger. The masked man from Career Day.

The one who’d spoken to the class in that deep, unreadable tone. The one you couldn’t forget.

You felt it in your bones, recognized the timbre, the rhythm. The gravel in it.

But you didn’t show it.

You smiled, polite and careful, as if nothing registered. As if you didn’t just piece together the puzzle.

You wouldn’t say a word.

Not yet.

You look young, he thought. Too young for this job. For me.

Don’t, he told himself. Don’t even start.

But the thought didn’t make him turn away.

You smiled, heart doing that thing it did when something dangerous felt a little too good.

He sat.

“Junie hit Alex during recess. We’re here to understand what happened and how to prevent this in the future.”

Alex spoke first. “She just hit me.”

“Junie?” his mum gasped.

Junie stayed silent, lower lip trembling.

Simon looked between them, frown deepening.

“She must’ve had a reason,” he said.

Alex’s mum scoffed. “A reason to punch my son?”

That’s when you stepped in.

“I think,” you said, voice steady, “it was deserved. I don't say Junie did right. We talked with her. She understood what she did was wrong…”

All heads turned.

Even Simon.

Principal Hargrove blinked.

You stepped forward, cheeks a bit flushed. “Alex has been teasing Junie for a while now. We've discussed it before. He likes her, but he’s been… persistent. Today, some of his comments were inappropriate. I reprimanded him already. But it was too much. Junie reacted.”

Alex’s mother frowned. “Inappropriate how?”

“He made a comment about her freckles,” you said flatly. “And asked if her dad was dead.”

The air stilled.

Alex’s mother looked at her son. “We’ll discuss this at home.”

The principal gave a few official words about boundaries and kindness, then dismissed the matter with a promise to monitor future behavior.

Outside, parents collected bags and children. Alex’s mother left briskly.

Junie tugged her father’s sleeve. “Can I wait outside?”

He kissed her temple. “Right by the steps.”

She nodded, slipping her hand into his briefly before darting out the door.

You and Simon stood alone.

He looked at you for a moment. Really looked.

“Thank you,” he said. “For standing up for her.”

You smiled. “If I were Junie, I would’ve done the same.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re not making my job any easier.”

“Sorry,” you teased. “I play favorites.”

“I noticed,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your face—open, tired, soft in a way that tugged something low in his gut. You didn’t even flinch under the weight of his stare, just looked up with that polite stillness he was starting to crave.

Those eyes could ruin a man.

He huffed a small laugh.

“She’s lucky to have you.”

You shrugged, pretending your heart hadn’t just punched through your ribs, your thoughts still tangled in the soft look Simon had given you—the kind that said he didn’t just hear your words, he understood them. You glanced at the door where Alex had disappeared, and added, "They’re just kids—learning how to be kind. Sometimes they need help figuring it out. And sometimes they mess up because they don’t have the words yet. But they’re trying—and I think that counts for something.”

Simon exhaled softly, eyes flicking to the window before settling back on you. "You’re right," he said, voice low. "They’re still learning. And if they’ve got someone like you showing them how to be better? They’ll be fine."

He couldn’t help it. The longer he looked, the more he saw: the subtle crease between your brows when you were concerned. The vulnerability in your gaze made something primal bristle under his skin.

Sweet girl. Brave, awkward, all soft edges and no armor. Dangerous.

He stared a second longer.

Then nodded.

“See you around, Miss Sparkle.”

Your lips quirked. “Looking forward to it.”

His jaw flexed as he looked away—only because he had to. If he didn't, he wasn't sure what might come out of his mouth.

You watched him go, watched him meet Junie at the steps, his hand ruffling her hair like she was the most precious thing in the world.

And for a second… you felt the warmth of it, too.

The drive home was quiet at first.

Simon kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping absently against the plastic. Rain streaked across the windshield, and the soft thump of the wipers kept time with his heartbeat.

Junie was unusually quiet in the backseat.

He glanced sideways. "You okay, bug?"

She nodded. Then, softly: “Miss Sparkle was mad?”

“No,” he said, eyes still on the road. “Not at you. She said she’d punch Alex too if she were you.”

Junie picked at her sleeve. “Is that bad?”

He shook his head. "No. It means she gets it. Means she’s on your side."

There was a pause, and then, tentatively:

“I like her a lot.”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Junie smiled to herself, turning toward the window. Simon kept his gaze fixed forward, but his mind… his mind was still in that office.

The look on your face when he walked in.

The way your eyes found him.

The way you stood up for his daughter—not with protocol or polished phrases, but with that quiet, unshakable conviction.

The way you looked at him like he was… someone.

Fuck, he thought, jaw tight. You're going to ruin me, aren't you?

Rain whispered against the glass. Junie hummed something tuneless under her breath.

He let the sound anchor him. Let her presence settle his thoughts.

But the image of your soft eyes, your bare fingers, and the way you said you would've done the same—it stayed with him.

They got home before sunset. The rain had slowed, leaving behind slick roads and the faint smell of petrichor that lingered as Simon unlocked the door.

Junie kicked her boots off immediately, making a beeline for the kitchen. "Can we have the leftover stew?"

"Yeah," Simon said, shrugging off his jacket. "Go grab bowls. I'll heat it."

She did, humming to herself. He moved quietly, focused on routine. Bowl. Spoon. Steam rising. They sat together, the spacious kitchen wrapped in soft warmth and silver light through rain-specked windows.

Junie was halfway through her second slice of bread when her face twisted. “Oh no!”

“What?”

“My list! For art class tomorrow. I forgot it in my cubby.”

Simon looked at the time. Too late to drive back. He didn’t want to call.

Didn’t want to interrupt you. Especially not with a call. He knew what that might do.

So instead, he picked up his phone and recorded a short voice message. His voice came out low. Rougher than he intended. A bit too much like Ghost.

“Sorry. Didn’t want to interrupt your evening. Just wondering if Junie needs to bring anything extra tomorrow.”

You played it three times.

Once to understand the words. Twice to hear the way he said them. A third time just to feel it.

That voice—deep, gravelly, unpolished. It scraped against your skin like rough velvet. A soldier’s voice. No-nonsense. Almost tender, though you knew he hadn’t meant it to be.

You stared at your phone and immediately felt guilty.

So you recorded a reply. Your voice came out lighter than you intended. Soft. A little breathless. There was a tremble in it you hoped he wouldn’t catch.

Simon sat back in his chair, eyes closed as he hit replay. Once. Twice. Five times.

By the tenth, he was gripping his phone too tightly. His thumb hovered over the screen, jaw tight, breath shallow.

Fuck, he thought. That voice. That softness.

He saved it.

Filed it away like a man hiding treasure.

Then locked his screen like it meant something. Like it was sacred. Like it had to be kept close, away from light, away from anyone who might hear what you sounded like when you weren’t reading from a script—just talking. To him.

He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the message thread. It would be so easy to text something else. Ask another question. Make up some concern about Junie just to hear your voice again.

Instead, he set the phone down and stood, moving to the window. The suburban street below was quiet, peaceful. Nothing like the war zones he'd known. Nothing like the chaos in his head whenever he thought of you.

He was too old for you. Too damaged.

Chapter Text

Simon hadn’t expected to be home this long. Deployment dates shifted. Schedules changed. He’d gotten used to the last-minute chaos. But this time, he clung to the delay like a lifeline.

Junie was thriving again—happy, lighter. Ever since that incident at school, she spoke more openly about her day, told him stories, sometimes even unprompted. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

Normally, when he deployed, Mrs. Linton managed fine on her own. A sturdy woman with kind eyes and arms strong enough to carry grocery bags and sleepy children without effort. But this time, she hesitated when he called.

“Nothing serious,” she insisted. “Just a bit of back pain. I can still manage.”

He didn’t let her finish. The guilt burned too deep. She’d done enough.

So he screened some new candidates. One by one.

A university student—too young, talked too much.
A retired nurse—sweet, but she treated Junie like she was three.
A single mom—warm, but couldn’t commit to mornings.

He finally settled on a quiet woman — Mrs. Harris. In her late thirties. Experienced. Spoke gently. Didn’t flinch at the words about military.

Junie didn’t mind. She barely blinked when he introduced her.

“She’s fine,” she said later with a shrug. “But not as fun as Mrs. Linton.”

Thursday night, Simon sat in his home office, signing papers with Mrs. Harris. Legal permissions, emergency contacts, school pickup authority.

Junie sat curled up on the sofa near his desk, working on a bracelet kit he’d picked up earlier that week. She'd already made him two—one pink, one green. He wore the green one, hidden under his sleeve.

“What about this?” Junie asked, holding up a mix of lavender and silver beads.

Simon leaned back, studying them. “Looks good. Add a blue one. Break the pattern.”

She beamed and got back to work.

Their new nanny finished the last form, offered a professional goodbye, and let herself out.

Junie, now half-lounging, kept threading beads. “Do you think she’ll like this?”

Simon glanced over. “Who?”

“Miss Sparkle.”

His pen paused mid-signature.

Junie didn’t notice. “Do you think she’s married? Does she have a boyfriend? What if she doesn’t like pink?”

Simon stared at the paper like it might answer for him. Married? God, help him. Boyfriend? The thought alone made something tighten in his chest—ridiculous, possessive.

He cleared his throat. “I think... she’s probably not married.”

“Why?” Junie asked, still threading beads.

“Just a hunch,” he muttered, reaching for the next form.

“What about a boyfriend?”

Simon hesitated, then shook his head. “Can’t say.”

But I hope the answer’s no.

“She’s really pretty,” Junie added thoughtfully. “And nice. I hope she likes this bracelet.”

He gave a quiet smile. “I think she’ll love it.”

But even after she moved on, humming softly, Simon couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you, and the ache in his chest that always started when your name came up.

Junie nodded. “She’s really pretty. I like her earrings.”

Simon’s gaze flicked to his daughter. "Yeah," he said slowly, voice dipping lower. "She is."

He tried to focus on the document in front of him, but his mind betrayed him.

You, that soft scent of vanilla clinging to his memory. You, in denim overalls and a meme t-shirt, didn’t look anything like the woman he had imagined. He’d pictured someone more polished, maybe formal. Instead, there you were—casual, almost effortlessly so, all gentle humor and quiet eyes that sparkled when you smiled. You radiated kindness. A calm energy that drew people in. Soft in a way that didn’t make you weak, just real. And he found himself looking longer than he meant to. Unbothered. Real. And for a moment, he forgot how to look away.

He cleared his throat, pen scratching against the paper harder than necessary.

Junie threaded another bead. "You’re smiling."

He didn’t even realize he was.

"Am I?"

She giggled. "You like her."

Simon glanced at her, amused.

Junie giggled, revealing the tiny gap where one of her front teeth used to be. "You liiike her," she teased with a sing-song voice.

Simon shook his head slowly, lips twitching. "Don’t push it."

But yeah. Maybe he did.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and went back to his reports, trying not to think about how you had made his pulse skip. About how just the memory of your laugh—or the soft awkwardness in your eyes—sent a quiet jolt through his spine.

You shouldn’t matter this much, he thought. But the truth sat heavy.

He wanted to hear your voice again.

Wanted to see what you looked like when no one was watching.

You’d spent all week buried in work—teaching during the day, tutoring in the evenings. Lesson prep bled into night. A movie played on your laptop, muted. You didn’t watch it.

Not really.

You thought about him.

Simon Riley.

You hadn’t expected him to look like that. Rugged. Tall. Eyes dark enough to undo your train of thought. He'd walked in like a storm—all quiet power and steady calm—and it unnerved you.

You imagined what his voice might sound like without restraint. Rough. Commanding. Too easy to get lost in.

The thought made your stomach twist. Embarrassed, you shook it off and buried yourself in correcting papers.

But even hours later, your thoughts spiraled. You weren’t the type to obsess. Definitely not over a parent. But he’d lingered in your head. That voice. That look.

You fell asleep before the movie finished.

Friday arrived wrapped in fog and early sunshine.

You sipped water at your desk, already half-exhausted. The reading lesson was last—your favorite. You let the students take turns, gently correcting them, offering praise, letting the calm settle in.

When the final bell rang, you clapped your hands lightly. “Alright, clean up, everyone. And don’t forget to grab your weekend folders!”

The kids moved in a rush. Laughter. Backpacks zipping. Chairs scraping.

Junie lingered.

She came up to your desk with something clutched in her hand. A bracelet—lavender, silver, and a single blue bead in the center.

“I made this for you,” she said. “My dad helped.”

Your heart squeezed. “Thank you, sweetheart. It’s beautiful.”

Junie’s eyes sparkled. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

She smiled, stepped back.

You noticed the black SUV idling outside the gate through the window. No one stepped out.

Junie saw it too. “That’s my ride.”

She waved once and skipped off.

Simon didn’t appear.

But the bracelet around your wrist felt warm anyway.

The park was quiet that afternoon. Most families were still at work or school, leaving the swings empty and the slides sun-warmed. Simon watched Junie race ahead, her backpack bouncing against her small frame. Her pigtails caught the late afternoon light, turning almost gold at the edges.

"Dad! Hurry up!" she called, already climbing the ladder to the tallest slide.

He quickened his pace, hands in his jacket pockets. His phone buzzed—another deployment update—but he ignored it. Today was for her. The last full day before he had to leave again.

Simon settled on a bench with clear sight lines to the playground. Military habits died hard. He tracked Junie's movements automatically, counting seconds between visual confirmations when she disappeared into the tunnel. One-one thousand, two-one thousand...

She emerged on the other side, giggling.

He exhaled.

Fifteen minutes later, she flopped beside him on the bench, cheeks flushed. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Before dinner?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Please?" She drew out the word, adding a dramatic clasp of her hands.

He snorted. "Alright. But something small."

She squealed and hugged his arm, then began chattering about her day. Simon listened, nodding at the right moments, filing away details about her classmates, her assignments, the book they'd read at circle time.

"And Miss Sparkle wore the bracelet today," Junie said, swinging her legs. "She said it is her favorite accessory now."

Something warm unfurled in his chest. "Did she?"

"Mm-hmm. She showed everyone. Said I was super talented."

Simon's lips twitched. "You are."

"She said the blue bead was her favorite part. I told her you picked that one."

His hand stilled where it had been absently rubbing his knuckles. "You did?"

Junie nodded. "She said you have good taste."

He cleared his throat, surprised by how much those simple words affected him. "That was nice of her."

"She's really pretty, Dad. Like, really pretty." Junie studied his face with sudden intensity. "She wore her hair down today. It's so shiny! And she had these little star clips." She pointed to her own temple. "Right here. And dark green sweater."

Simon tried not to picture it too vividly. "Sounds nice."

"Do you think she's pretty?"

He kept his expression neutral. "I think she seems like a good teacher."

Junie rolled her eyes with all the dramatic flair a seven-year-old could muster. "That's not what I asked."

"I know," he said, lips quirking. "Come on, ice cream time."

They walked to the small shop at the edge of the park, Junie skipping every few steps to keep up with his longer stride. She ordered strawberry with rainbow sprinkles. He got plain vanilla.

"Boring," she declared, eyeing his cone.

"Classic," he corrected.

They sat at a metal table outside, watching people pass. Junie's ice cream dripped down her fingers, and Simon handed her napkins before she could even notice the mess.

"Miss Sparkle asked me if you were going away again," Junie said between licks.

Simon paused. "What did you tell her?"

"That you have to go save people. That's what you do, right?"

He nodded slowly. "Something like that."

"She said you're very brave." Junie looked up at him.

Simon's heart skipped. He shouldn't care what you thought. He barely knew you. But the idea that you'd spared him a thought—that maybe you'd looked sad at the mention of his departure—stirred something he'd tried to keep dormant.

"Dad?" Junie waved a sticky hand in front of his face. "Are you listening?"

"Sorry, Bug. What were you saying?"

"I asked if you think Miss Sparkle has a boyfriend," she asked again, undeterred.

It was the second time she brought it up. He really hoped she wasn’t right.

He nearly choked on his ice cream. "That's not something we should speculate about."

"What's 'speculate' mean?"

"Guess about," he translated. "Her personal life is private."

Junie considered this, then shrugged. "I think she's lonely."

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Why do you think that?"

"She stays at school really late. And she eats lunch by herself sometimes." Junie licked a sprinkle from her wrist. "Maybe you could be her friend."

"I think she has friends her own age, Bug."

"But you need friends too." Junie looked at him seriously. "Mrs. Linton says you work too much."

Simon made a mental note to have a word with Mrs. Linton about discussing him with his daughter. "I have friends."

"Name three," Junie challenged.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Colleagues, yes. Teammates, absolutely. But friends? The kind you called just to talk? The silence stretched too long.

Junie smiled triumphantly. "See? You need Miss Sparkle."

Simon shook his head, amused despite himself. "Finish your ice cream, smarty pants. We need to grab dinner."

After dinner at Junie's favorite burger place, they stopped by the toy store. He'd promised her one small item—a tradition before every deployment. She chose a craft kit with beads and charms for making more bracelets.

"I can make one for when you come back," she explained.

His throat tightened. "Sounds perfect."

Home by ten, they changed into pajamas—Junie in unicorn print, Simon in worn flannel pants and a plain t-shirt. They cleaned up the kitchen together, Junie standing on a stool to reach the sink while Simon loaded the dishwasher.

"Can we watch a movie?" she asked, yawning even as she spoke.

"One episode," he countered. "It's getting late."

They settled on the couch, Junie immediately curling against his side. He pulled the throw blanket over her as the cartoon started—something about dragons and Vikings that she'd watched a dozen times before.

Ten minutes in, her breathing deepened. By the fifteen-minute mark, she was fully asleep, her small body warm against his chest. Simon watched the rest of the episode with the volume low, his hand absently stroking her hair.

When the credits rolled, he carefully gathered her in his arms. She stirred but didn't wake, nuzzling her face against his shoulder as he carried her to her bedroom.

"Love you, Daddy," she mumbled, half-conscious as he tucked her in.

"Love you more, Bug," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He stood watching her for a long moment—memorizing the curve of her cheek, the tiny freckles across her nose, the way her lashes fanned against her skin. These were the images he'd carry with him into the dark places.

Back in his own room, Simon sat on the edge of his bed, the quiet of the house settling around him. Tomorrow, Mrs. Harris would arrive. Tomorrow, he'd have to leave.

He picked up his phone, hesitating only briefly before opening Instagram. He didn't have an account—didn't want one—but the app still worked for basic browsing. He'd found your profile weeks ago. A moment of weakness. Just curiosity, he'd told himself.

He typed your name in the search bar and tapped on your profile. Your latest story was from three hours ago—a simple image of your wrist, the bracelet Junie had made prominently displayed. The lavender and silver beads caught the light, the single blue bead standing out just as he'd intended. You'd added a simple heart emoji and the words "Special gift from a special student".

Simon stared at the image longer than he should have. His thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the outline of your wrist without touching it. He wondered what your skin felt like. If it was as soft as it looked.

The thought should have embarrassed him. It didn't.

Instead, he felt a quiet ache—something hungry and patient. He saved the image to his phone before he could think better of it, adding it to a folder that held the few other glimpses of you he'd collected. A staff photo from the school website. A candid from a PTA newsletter.

Small pieces of you, gathered like evidence.

He knew it wasn't right. Knew this quiet obsession was a boundary he shouldn't cross. But in the stillness of night, with deployment looming and the weight of what he'd soon face pressing down, these stolen moments felt like something to hold onto.

Simon set his phone aside and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He thought about how you'd talked to Junie about him. How you'd called him brave. How you'd looked sad at the thought of his leaving.

It shouldn't matter. You were just his daughter's teacher—a kind girl who cared about her students.

But as sleep pulled at him, he couldn't stop thinking about that single blue bead, the one he'd chosen, resting against your skin. Marking you, somehow, as someone connected to him.

The thought followed him into dreams.

Chapter Text

So it was four days since Simon left.

For Junie, it was sad—but she was used to her father’s work. Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Linton checked in constantly, always near. Homework? Covered. Food, entertainment? Always there. Simon had said she should be as happy as she could. And she tried.

It was a warm day, and you decided to take the kids outside. Science lesson, garden bench discussions, more lively than usual. The final class was English—back inside for a quiz. Most finished early. Three minutes to the bell, so you let them quietly pack up. The bell rang. One by one they trickled out.

"Goodbye, Ann, have a good evening!" "See you, Steve!" "Don’t forget your lunchbox, sweetheart!"

An endless stream of goodbyes.

As the class emptied, you sank into your chair to check tests. Head spinning. Who were you to complain?

Thirty minutes passed. Two students left. Then one. Just you and Junie.

She was drawing quietly. Not a sound.

You glanced over. "Junie, sweetheart? Someone's coming for you?"

She looked up and nodded, silent. You frowned slightly. You knew Simon was deployed—Junie had mentioned it. It had now been nearly an hour.

You offered a smile. "Will you help me? I totally forgot to water the plants. Don’t want them to die."

Her face lit up. You handed her a little plastic cup. Together, you tended to the classroom greenery, brushing off dust, whispering sweet things.

"My grandma said to talk to them, so they grow big and strong," you said softly. "They can hear us."

Junie beamed, revealing a gap where one tooth had gone missing. She whispered something kind to a droopy flower.

You were hungry. You always carried chocolate bars in your bag.

"Want one?" you asked.

She nodded shyly. You handed her a bar and sat back.

But something gnawed at you.

Mrs. Harris or Mrs. Linton were always on time. You texted both.

No replies.

Fifteen minutes passed. Nearly 5 PM.

You swallowed hard. Then tried Simon.

Nothing, of course. No answer.

You recorded a voice message, explained the situation, your voice trembling. Waited.

Still nothing.

You turned to Junie. "Come on, sweetie. We’re going to your house, okay?"

"I got permission." You smiled, lying.

You checked her records for the address. Ordered a taxi. You took the bus mostly. Your teacher’s salary didn't stretch far—but this wasn't a time to count coins.

The house was away from the city, surrounded by quiet. Private yard. Playground. Gorgeous.

Simon had built her a kingdom.

Your heart pounded. Junie held your hand like she trusted you with her world. She dragged you inside with her spare key.

Minimalist, cozy. Everything had a place. It smelled like cedar and fabric softener.

Junie showed you her room. It was a dream—everything you’d wanted as a child. Pink lamp, art on the walls, a tiny tent in the corner.

Your phone rang.

Mrs. Harris.

Her voice cracked the moment you answered.

"I—I can't find Junie. I thought Mrs. Linton—her messages never... I didn’t know—"

You could hear panic bubbling just under her words, and your grip on the phone tightened.

You inhaled slowly. "It’s okay. She’s safe. I’m with her now. We went to her house. I didn’t get through to anyone, and I just—I couldn’t leave her."

There was a beat of silence, then the woman exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. "Oh my god. Thank you. Thank you. I rushed out because my flat flooded, I didn’t check in, I just assumed..."

You calmed her as she explained. She left a voicemail for Mrs. Linton—who never saw it, being at the hospital.

You softened your voice. "Don’t worry. It’s alright now. Just take a deep breath, come when you can. We’re okay."

Junie peeked from around the corner, still clutching your hand, still smiling.

She arrived fifteen minutes later, eyes damp. Apologizing.

You reassured her.

She invited you to stay, eat.

You declined. "I don’t know if Mr. Riley would want me here."

He would. He would love you here. Sitting at his table. Eating at his stove. Sleeping in his sheets. He would love to come home and find you barefoot on his floor, leaving tiny pieces of yourself behind.

You arrived home late, fed Selina in silence, the warmth of her purring body pressing against your ankle a fleeting comfort. You peeled off your clothes, each layer a little too heavy after a day like this. You went to wash your hands, looking at the reflection in the mirror, you stood there longer than usual, trying to wash off the nerves, the guilt, the image of his house—so quiet, so lived-in, so his.

You replayed the entire thing in your head: your decision, the long ride, Junie's hand in yours, the moment you stepped inside. Should you have waited longer? Should you have trusted someone would come? What if Simon was furious with you?

Your thoughts chased themselves in circles.

You tied your hair, put on your softest oversized shirt, and curled up in bed. But sleep didn’t come. Not immediately. You kept checking your phone. Still no response.

You whispered into the darkness:

"I hope he's not mad..."

The ceiling fan made lazy circles above your head, hypnotizing in its monotony as you stared up at it. Your phone lay silent beside you, its screen dark and unforgiving.

What if he thinks I invaded?

Your mind kept returning to his house—to the precise way his coffee mugs hung on hooks beneath the cabinet, to the heavy tactical boots lined neatly by the door, to the faint scent of sandalwood and gunmetal that seemed embedded in the walls. The house had felt like an extension of him, orderly yet comfortable, minimalist yet undeniably lived-in.

You rolled onto your side, pulling your knees up. Selina jumped onto the bed, circling before settling against the curve of your legs. Her warmth was comforting, but it couldn't chase away the tightness in your chest.

The truth hovered at the edge of your thoughts, impossible to ignore: you'd wanted to be there. Not just for Junie—though her safety had genuinely concerned you—but because some hungry, curious part of you had wanted to cross that threshold. To see the private spaces Simon Riley inhabited when he wasn't Lieutenant Riley, wasn't soldier, wasn't the intimidating figure who made your pulse quicken whenever he appeared.

Your fingers traced absent patterns on your bedsheet. You imagined those same fingers trailing along his bookshelves, touching the spines of military histories and dog-eared paperbacks. When you'd passed his bedroom—door ajar, revealing nothing but the corner of a neatly made bed with dark sheets—your breath had caught.

"This is ridiculous," you whispered to Selina, who responded with a soft meow. "I'm a grown woman fixating on a man who probably sees me as nothing more than his daughter's teacher."

But the heat spreading through your body as you thought about him suggested otherwise. You couldn't help wondering what he'd think if he knew how often you imagined the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, or how his calloused hands might feel tracing the curve of your waist.

Rolling onto your back again, you slipped your hand beneath your oversized shirt, fingers drifting across your stomach. You closed your eyes and imagined they were his hands instead—larger, rougher, more insistent. A soft gasp escaped your lips as your fingertips brushed the underside of your breast.

Your fingers traced higher, as heat pooled between your thighs. The fantasy intensified—Simon finding you here, in your small apartment, watching as you touched yourself while thinking of him. The thought made you shiver, your nipples hardening against your palm.

"Simon," you whispered to the empty room, testing how his name felt on your tongue without the formal "Mr. Riley" attached. Your other hand drifted lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear.

Your phone lit up, which distracted you a little.

Simon Riley liked your messages. Three dots appeared and disappeared in the chat bar. You turned off your phone. It was too anxious.

The air left your lungs in a rush. He was thinking about you, right now, wherever he was.

Your body hummed with unfulfilled desire, but something about seeing his name on your screen—making this suddenly real rather than fantasy—sent you stumbling to the bathroom. You flicked on the shower, not waiting for the water to warm before stepping under the spray.

The cold shocked your system, washing away the heat that had built beneath your skin. Water cascaded down your body, plastering your shirt to your curves as you leaned against the tile wall. You closed your eyes, letting the temperature gradually warm until steam filled the small bathroom once more.

What would he think if he knew? This decorated soldier, this father, this man whose presence commanded respect without a word—what would he think of your midnight fantasies? Of the way your breath caught when he entered a room? Of how you'd lingered in his house today, absorbing every detail like a thief?

You peeled off your soaked shirt, letting it fall with a wet slap against the shower floor. Naked now, you stood beneath the water, letting it rinse away your arousal, your doubts, your anticipation.

Tomorrow would come. You would be—professional, composed, the dedicated teacher who had simply done the right thing for a student in need. You would not think about his hands or his mouth or the way his voice might sound roughened with desire.

You would not.

But as you finally stepped from the shower, wrapping yourself in a towel that felt too rough against your sensitized skin, you knew the truth that would follow you into dreams:

Some hungers run deeper than propriety, some desires more ancient than reason. Between the teacher and the soldier lies an ocean of unspoken things—currents strong enough to pull you under, tides governed by forces beyond your control. And though you might stand on separate shores come morning light, in the darkness of this night, the distance between you had already begun to narrow, like the inevitable collapse of two stars drawn into each other's gravity—burning brighter as they fall.

At 2 a.m., Simon finally made it back to base. Dirt-streaked. Bone-tired. He switched on his phone.

Five missed calls from Mrs. Harris. One from Mrs. Linton. One from you.

Two unread messages.

Voice notes.

The first: your voice trembling, explaining Junie had been left alone. No answers. You said you were taking her home.

He sat down hard.

The second: calmer. Your voice still soft but steady now, as if trying not to overstep. You sighed once before speaking.

"Hi... I'm so sorry, Mr. Riley. I tried reaching everyone, I really did. Junie was waiting for over an hour. I—I didn’t know what else to do. So I took her home. I hope it’s okay. She’s safe. Everything’s fine now. Mrs. Harris is with her. I hope... you’re not upset."

You ended it with a hesitant breath, like you regretted even saying that much.

Simon exhaled, jaw clenched. You were worried he'd be mad? That he’d scold you—for doing what no one else could?

God, you didn't even know what you meant to him. You didn't know how your voice—shy, apologetic, too sweet for his world—crawled under his skin and stayed there.

His heart pounded.

You were in his home.

You, the one he dreamt about. Whispering apologies. Sounding soft, almost guilty.

He could hear it even now. That tiny tremble in your voice—too delicate for the way his world worked. You didn't know what you stirred in him. You didn't know how hard it was not to grip the phone tighter, not to imagine your lips forming each word. You sounded like someone who needed protecting.

Like someone he shouldn’t want.

But he did.

Christ, he did.

His throat was dry. He ran a hand over his face.

All he could picture was you in that hallway. Your soft hands brushing past her toys, your scent mixing with the warmth he left behind. Maybe you sat on the edge of the couch he always used. Maybe your eyes wandered—curious, gentle, too kind for the world he came from. It wasn't just that you'd been there. It was that you'd fit. And it terrified him more than it should've.

He didn’t answer.

He stared at the screen for too long before pressing send. It felt hollow. Inadequate.

He wanted to say more. Wanted to call. To tell you that you did the right thing, that you had nothing to apologize for. That your voice—sweet and unsure—was the first soft thing he'd heard in three days. That it made something ugly in him go quiet for a moment.

He wanted to ask if you sat on the couch. If you'd touched anything. If you'd thought of him. He wanted to say he would’ve given anything to be there. To open the door and find you standing in the hallway, soft-eyed and breathless. That the idea of you holding his daughter’s hand made his chest ache in places war never reached.

But all he wrote was:

I’m free tomorrow. Call me if anything.

Because anything more might give him away.

Chapter Text

Simon knew you wouldn’t call.

His sweet girl was too anxious for that. He learned it by now—slowly, quietly, through observation and instinct. So when he woke up, he didn’t expect a call. But he expected a message.

And there it was.

"Hi, Mr. Riley. I hope you’re not mad about yesterday. Junie’s doing great. She was so sweet and calm. Everything’s okay. I just... wanted to make sure. Take care."

He groaned. You still thought he might be mad.

His reply came shortly after.

"Not mad. Never at you. Thanks for taking care of her."

Your heart hammered a little. Your eyes were still heavy with sleep. Your fingers warm from being curled under your cheek. You typed a soft reply, something polite and brief, and told yourself not to overthink it.

Today was Excursion Day.

Selina was quiet, curled on your blanket like a loaf of contentment. You gave her a jealous glance, then got ready.

The kids were buzzing with excitement. You had two assistant girls helping—a lot easier.

You wore something practical but nice. Tucked your camera into your tote. You were headed to a natural reserve: small animals, foxes, plants, everything the children begged to see for weeks.

Before boarding the bus, you gave a little speech.

"Respect the staff. Respect each other. Don’t scream. Don’t run. We are guests here, and we act like it."

Nods all around. You shot a warning glance at Liam and Logan.

Junie held her friend’s hand, eyes wide with joy.

The bus ride was only an hour. It felt like three. When you arrived, you let them stretch their legs. The sun was kind. The breeze smelled of grass and bark.

You asked everyone to stand together for a group photo. One of the assistants offered to take a picture of you with them, and you agreed. Then Junie tugged on your sleeve.

"Miss Sparkle? Can I... take one with you? For Dad. Please?"

Your heart melted. You knelt beside her, arms around her shoulders. The assistant snapped a photo. You both smiled—genuine, soft, something almost familial.

The tour began. The guide spoke about local wildlife. The children listened in awe.

You caught snapshots.

Alex with a lynx behind a fence. Liam and Kate pointing at deer. Junie, utterly enraptured by the fox enclosure.

Your heart squeezed. This was why you taught.

Afterward, the group moved to a small café nearby. You coordinated orders. Kids gushed about their favorite animals. You had water. Your nerves still made it hard to eat when responsible for so many.

The ride back was sleepy. Half the bus dozed off. At school, parents waited. Thank-yous were exchanged. Hugs given. Your feet ached.

Back in your classroom, you grabbed the stack of papers to grade. Sat. Exhaled. Then checked the camera.

The pictures warmed you. Light, color, joy. You transferred them to your phone. Sent each parent a private message with their child’s photo. One by one.

Junie’s photo with you made you pause. You hesitated. Then forwarded it to Simon.

"Thought you’d like to see this one. She asked for it."

His reply came within five minutes.

"Couldn’t ask for anything better."

You stared at it for too long.

He could picture it—the curve of your lips, the warmth in your eyes as you looked at his daughter. Something in him clenched. Possessive. Tender. Dangerous. He wanted to hear your voice again, to see you up close, breathing the same air, your smile real and raw and unfiltered. He wanted to be the one making you laugh. Making you stammer. Making you shiver.

Not just Junie’s teacher. Not just a picture.

Fuck, he thought, you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.

God help him, he wanted more. He wanted you soft and messy and his. Entirely his.

That evening, you treated yourself to a book and a little cake. You stopped by your favorite café.

Olivia was working the counter. "Well, look who’s alive! Did the foxes behave themselves, or did you get mauled?"

You laughed. "Tempting fate, Liv. I made it out with all limbs intact."

Mia, your another friend, was already seated. You joined her, shared cake, sipped coffee.

"You look dead," she said sweetly.

"Thanks. That’s the look I was going for."

You talked about the kids. How proud you were of how they behaved. How their wide-eyed wonder made it all worth it. You admitted how your knees still ached and your back might never forgive you—but how soft smiles from students erased it all in an instant.

"You should've seen her, Mia," you said about Junie. "She was just... glowing. And she wanted a picture with me. To send to her dad."

"Not just her," you added with a tired smile. "They were all little wonders today. Liam and Logan actually listened, Kate didn’t try to eat a leaf this time. Even Alex helped someone tie their shoelaces. I nearly cried."

Mia gave a soft laugh. "Your little army of chaos. But yeah, Junie’s especially smitten. She's attached to you. Like... really attached."

You looked down at your empty cup. "Yeah," you murmured. "I think I might be attached too," you whispered, almost afraid to admit it, even to yourself. There was something grounding in the way they looked at you, trusted you. It wasn't just a job anymore. It was something else. Something warm and terrifying all at once.

Meanwhile, Junie had come home with Mrs. Linton.

Mrs. Linton made pasta with lots of cheese. Junie talked the whole time.

"And then we saw a fox! And Miss Sparkle was so nice, and she let me take a picture to send it to Dad!"

Mrs. Linton smiled. "You and Miss Sparkle, hmm? Pretty pair."

Junie beamed. She sent the photo to Simon.

"Look at me and Miss Sparkle!!! Pretty right???????????

Then, 15 minutes later, Junie got an answer:

"Sweet girls. My brightest stars."

Simon stared at the photo long after he'd replied to Junie. He saved the photo. Twice. His thumb traced the outline of your face on the screen, the way you knelt beside his daughter, your arm around her shoulders. There was something about the way you looked at her—protective, gentle, with that soft smile that made his chest ache.

My brightest stars, he'd written.

He hadn't meant to include you in that. But he had. And it was true.

The barracks around him were quiet. Most of the men were in the mess hall or training. He preferred these moments of solitude, when he could drop the mask, when Ghost could just be Simon for a while.

He opened your message again.

"Thought you'd like to see this one. She asked for it."

Such a simple text. Professional. Kind. Nothing that crossed any lines.

Yet he read between those words, searching for meaning that wasn't there. Wondering if you'd hesitated before sending it. If you'd thought of him at all beyond being Junie's father.

"You idiot, Simon," he muttered, setting the phone down and running a hand over his face. The stubble was rough against his palm. He needed to shave before tomorrow's op.

His phone buzzed again. For a moment, his heart leapt—foolishly hoping it was you.

It was Price.

"Briefing in 20."

Simon exhaled slowly, pulling himself back to reality. He was a lieutenant. A soldier. A ghost in the system. Not some lovesick fool pining after a young woman, who probably saw him as nothing more than an intimidating presence.

He tucked the phone away and reached for his balaclava. Time to become Ghost again.

You were halfway through grading papers when your phone lit up. A message from Olivia.

"Left your black cardigan at the café. Also, Mia says you were blushing when you talked about Lt. Hottie Dad. Spill."

Heat crept up your neck. You hadn't been blushing. Had you?

"I was NOT blushing. And his name is Simon. And there's nothing to spill."

You set your phone down, determined to focus on the stack of math worksheets. But your mind drifted back to him. To that voice. To the way he looked at you during that meeting — intense, focused, like you were the only person in the room.

Your phone buzzed again.

"Nothing to spill, she says. Honey, you've saved his voicemails. PLURAL. That's not nothing."

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. It wasn't like that. You'd saved them for... professional reasons. In case you needed to reference something about Junie. That was all.

Except it wasn't. And you knew it.

You picked up your phone again, scrolling to his contact. Your thumb hovered over the call button.

What would you even say? Hi, Mr. Riley, I just wanted to hear your voice again because it does something to me that I can't explain?

Instead, you tossed your phone aside and returned to grading, ignoring the flutter in your stomach whenever you came across Junie's neat handwriting. Father's daughter—precise, careful, thoughtful.

Three days later, Simon sat in a safehouse, outside, cleaning his rifle. The mission had gone smoothly—in and out, no casualties on their side. But his mind wasn't on the op.

It was on you.

On the way your voice had sounded when you'd called last night to tell him Junie had fallen during recess. Nothing serious—a scraped knee, a few tears. But you'd called instead of texting, and he'd been in the middle of prep. His brave girl.

He'd stepped away from the team, found a quiet corner, pressed the phone to his ear.

"Mr. Riley? I wanted to let you know Junie had a small accident during recess today. She's completely fine—just a scraped knee. I patched her up myself. She was fearless."

He'd gripped the phone too tightly, drinking in every syllable, every breath between words.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"No," he'd lied. "Nothing important. Thank you for calling. For taking care of her."

There had been a pause. A beat too long.

"Always," you'd said softly. "My students are special to me."

The line had gone quiet again, filled with unspoken words.

"Well, I should let you go. Have a good evening, Mr. Riley."

"Simon," he'd corrected before he could stop himself. "Call me Simon."

Another pause. He'd pictured you biting your lip, the way you did when you were thinking.

"Simon," you'd repeated, and his name in your mouth had sounded like a confession. "Goodnight."

Now, alone in the safehouse, he replayed that conversation. That single word—his name—in your voice.

His phone buzzed. A text from Mrs. Linton.

"Junie won't stop talking about the fox she saw. Or about her teacher. Think the little one's got a case of hero worship. Speaking of, when are you back?"

Simon typed a reply, telling her he'd be home soon. Earlier than expected. The thought of seeing Junie—and maybe you—sent a current through him.

He shouldn't want this. Shouldn't crave these moments, these connections. Shouldn't imagine what it would be like to hear you say his name again, but closer. Softer. Against his skin.

Simon set down his rifle and reached for the satellite phone. He needed to check in with base. Needed to focus on the mission, on getting home safely to his daughter.

But first, he opened the photo again. You and Junie. His brightest stars.

Soon, he thought. Soon I'll be home.

You were in the middle of story time when the classroom door opened. The children were seated in a semicircle around you, enraptured by "Where the Wild Things Are," when you glanced up.

Your heart stuttered.

Simon Riley stood in the doorway, still in his fatigues, cap pulled low over his eyes. He gave a small nod of apology for the interruption.

"Daddy!" Junie squealed, leaping up and running to him.

He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms. His eyes never left yours.

"Sorry for the interruption," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Just got back. Thought I'd surprise her."

You set the book down, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. "No apology needed. We're always happy to see Junie's dad, aren't we, class?"

The children nodded enthusiastically, more out of excitement for the distraction than anything else.

"We're just finishing story time," you explained, standing. "About ten more minutes."

Simon nodded, still holding Junie. "Mind if I stay?"

You smiled, hoping your face wasn't as warm as it felt. "Of course not."

He moved to the back of the room, settling into one of the chairs that was way too small for him. Junie climbed into his lap, glowing with pride.

You returned to the book, acutely aware of his gaze on you. Your voice trembled slightly as you read, knowing he was watching, listening. You found yourself putting more emotion into the words, gesturing more dramatically with your free hand.

When you finished, the children clapped. You glanced up to find Simon watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

"Alright everyone, time to pack up," you announced, setting the book aside. "Remember to take home your project worksheets."

The classroom erupted into controlled chaos as the children gathered their things. You moved around the room, helping here and there, hyperaware of Simon's presence.

When you reached Junie's desk, he was already there, helping her with her backpack.

"Miss Sparkle fixed my knee," Junie was telling him, pointing to the Disney princess bandage on her leg. "She has special ones just for me."

Simon looked up at you, something unreadable in his eyes. "That so?"

You felt heat creep up your neck. "I keep a variety. For different personalities."

His lips curved slightly. "Thoughtful."

That single word shouldn't have affected you the way it did. But his voice—that deep, rough voice—made it sound like so much more.

Simon notices Junie’s worksheet on her desk. Her name — Junie Riley — written in soft loops. Gentle curves, rounded letters. Unmistakably your handwriting style.

He raises an eyebrow, then picks it up for a closer look.

“What’s this?” he asked, voice low.

Junie squeezed his hand, unconcerned. “Miss Sparkle writes like that. It looks like happy letters.”

“Happy?” he echoed, still staring.

“Yeah. Her name always looks like it’s smiling.”

He didn’t answer. Just held the page a second longer, heart catching. The shape of you, right there in ink. Of course it smiled. Of course it warmed his daughter’s world. And of course it made something deep inside him ache with wanting.

"How was the deployment?" you asked, keeping your tone professional despite the hammering of your heart.

"Routine," he answered. "Good to be back."

Junie tugged at his sleeve. "Can Miss Sparkle come for dinner? She hasn't seen our house yet. Not really. Just that one time when Mrs. Linton didn't come."

Your eyes widened. Simon looked equally surprised.

"Junie, I'm sure Miss Sparkle has plans—"

You gave a gentle laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're sweet, Junie. But I don't want to intrude. I'm sure you two have plenty to catch up on."

Junie's face fell slightly, and Simon noticed.

You added softly, "But... I don’t really have any plans this weekend, if that’s okay."

Simon turned toward you, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he offered a short nod, voice low. "It’s not just okay. It's our thank you—for what you did."

His eyes lingered. He noticed the trembling hands playing with the bracelet on your arm. He knew what it was. You doubted. You thought you were overstepping. After all that.

Christ, this woman.

You immediately regretted the words, feeling foolish. “But that doesn’t mean... I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Simon’s eyes locked with yours. Something flickered in them—surprise, warmth, and something darker. Not just gratitude. It was intent. Hunger held in check.

“You wouldn’t be,” he said quietly. “Imposing.”

Junie bounced excitedly. “Please, Miss Sparkle? Please?”

You hesitated, torn between professional boundaries and the pull you felt toward this man. This father. Your student’s father. His presence was like gravity—subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

“If you’re sure,” you finally said.

Simon nodded once, decisive. “Seven o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”

“I have it,” you reminded him softly. “From the school records.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Right.”

As they left the classroom, Junie waved like you were a celebrity, and you sank into your chair, your heart pounding against your ribs. What had you just agreed to?

Your phone buzzed. Address attached. Just in case.

"Junie's looking forward to the meeting."

You stared at the message. Read it once. Then again. Then once more, as if something would change.

What was happening?

What were you doing?

And why did it feel so dangerously right?

Simon drove home with Junie chattering excitedly in the backseat. His mind was elsewhere.

On the way you'd looked at him. On the slight tremor in your voice as you'd read to the class. On the pink that had colored your cheeks when Junie asked you to dinner.

On the fact that you'd said yes.

This is a mistake, the soldier in him warned. A dangerous line to cross.

But he'd already crossed so many lines in his mind. Had already collected pieces of you like treasures. Had already imagined what it would be like to have you in his space, in his home.

And now it was happening.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at Junie, still talking about foxes and school and you. His daughter adored you. That much was clear.

What wasn't clear was what he was going to do about the way he felt when you said his name. When you looked at him with those soft eyes. When you existed in his world, just out of reach.

Simon tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Soon, you would be in his home. At his table. Close enough to touch.

And someone help him, he didn't know if he had the strength to keep pretending he didn't want more than that.

The house was dark and quiet. He looked at the message again, then sat back and let his phone rest on the table, screen still glowing. Junie's looking forward to the meeting. As if that was the full story. As if it was just about Junie.

But it wasn’t. Not even close.

He could still hear your voice from that one time you called. Still remember the way it dropped into a whisper when you were trying not to panic. Still feel the calm it gave him.

And now he had the image of you kneeling beside his daughter, smiling like you belonged there.

You didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

You weren’t just kind. You weren’t just soft. You were a storm beneath silk.

The idea of you walking through his door again—deliberately this time—lit something dangerous in his chest. A flicker of ownership. A low, slow burn of need.

You thought you might be imposing?

Fuck no. Never.

He wanted you in his space, in his chair, leaving your scent on his things. Laughing with Junie. Laughing with him.

Just a thank-you dinner, he told himself.

But he already knew he was lying.

Chapter Text

The week passed too quickly.

Before you knew it, Saturday had arrived—Dinner Day, as your anxious brain had decided to call it.

You hadn’t slept. Barely an hour, maybe less. The promise of sitting across from Simon Riley in his home, at his table, had your mind in a tailspin. What were you thinking? You were a teacher, he was a parent, and this… this was a terrible idea.

But it was too late to back out now.

You lay there for hours, unmoving, buried in cotton sheets and doubt. At some point in the morning, your brain entertained the idea of pretending to be sick. Maybe you'd say something had come up. But even as the thought bloomed, you knew they were already preparing.

Probably right now.

You pictured Junie skipping around, excited. You pictured Simon, silent but focused, doing whatever men like him did when they hosted guests. Did he even know how to cook?

By 5 p.m., you surrendered. You stood up, shaking off the nerves. It was warm out, so you chose your prettiest dress—soft and swishy, the color flattering. You did your makeup slowly, hands trembling slightly as you curled your lashes and dabbed blush onto your cheeks. Your hair looked nice today. You told yourself you weren’t trying too hard. Just… presentable.

Your cookies were already boxed—vanilla sugar, soft in the middle, edges golden. You’d tied a sparkling bow around the container like a lunatic. You were ready.

Or as ready as you’d ever be.

Across town, Simon stood at the counter, gripping a bouquet of tiny pink roses. Miniature roses. The same kind you’d posted on Instagram three months ago with the caption “My absolute favorite. I’d plant a whole garden of them if I could.”

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to buy them.

Too much. Too fucking much. The flowers. The dinner. The plates. God, the plates.

He’d almost scrapped it all.

But then Junie skipped into the kitchen, trailing a ribbon behind her, giggling like a sprite. “Miss Sparkle’s gonna love this, Daddy!”

Simon exhaled slowly.

Let her see it, then. This side of you. The one that builds, plans, softens.

“Are you nervous, Daddy?” Junie piped up, climbing onto a chair.

He snorted. “Why would I be?”

“You shaved,” she said simply. “You only do that for important stuff.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fighting a smile. She’s too damn observant.

Junie was determined to help. She tried to cut fruit, mangling a few strawberries. He let her. She wanted the table to look “extra pretty.” Said Miss Sparkle deserved the good plates. Plates Simon didn’t even remember owning.

Now here he was, polishing them like some... husband.

It was nearly seven when he heard the knock.

He opened the door.

And there you stood.

Nervous. Glowing. So fucking beautiful it made his throat tighten.

“Evening, Mr. Riley,” you said gently, trying not to stare—trying being the key word. He looked almost unreal, standing there in a fitted black Henley that clung to his frame like sin itself. The outline of his abs was visible beneath the fabric, tight and tempting, and the sleeves stretched slightly over the muscles in his arms. Black pants, clean-shaven jaw, a faint scent of something warm and woodsy—you felt like you’d walked straight into a fantasy. Your breath caught in your throat. You weren’t prepared for this. Not at all.

He gave a slight tilt of his head, voice low. “Think we agreed on Simon.”

He looked you over. Not in a way that felt wrong—but aware. Like he was memorizing how the dress moved when you shifted. How your eyes darted, uncertain.

“You didn’t have to bring anything.”

You held up the sparkling box. “Just cookies. Junie should try them.”

“Still,” he murmured, taking the box from your hands. “Dangerous. Could get used to this.”

Junie came barreling in, arms flung around your waist. “Miss Sparkle!”

You smiled, brushing her hair back. “I brought cookies.”

Junie gasped and turned to her dad with wide eyes.

“She can have one,” he said, tone dry. “After dinner.”

You caught his look—a silent question. You nodded: May she?

Simon’s mouth twitched. Permission granted.

In the kitchen, you asked quietly, “Need help?”

He waved you off. “Only thing left is glasses. Up there.”

You reached for them, standing on your toes. But the cabinet was too high. You barely touched the rim.

Suddenly, you felt him behind you.

He reached past, one arm lifting easily to grab the glasses.

His chest brushed your back.

You froze.

The air grew thick.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice a low rasp against your ear. “Not gonna bite.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t turn around.

Dinner was warm. Intimate.

Junie sat beside you, grinning between bites. Simon sat across. Watching. Quiet. Always watching.

“This is really good,” you said softly, trying not to sound surprised.

Simon just looked at you.

“I helped,” Junie added proudly. “Told Daddy what to do.”

You smiled. “Well, you’re a very good guide.”

Then came the questions.

Junie’s little voice: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You choked on your water.

Junie squinted at her dad, then at you, then back at him with a mischievous smile.

“Do you like him better with the beard or without?”

You nearly dropped your fork.

“I—Junie!” you choked out, laughing nervously. “That’s not a very polite question!”

Simon didn’t say anything at first. Just sat back in his chair, elbow resting on the table, watching you with that quiet, unreadable look he did too well.

His jaw was clean-shaven—sharp and deliberate. As if he'd planned this. For tonight.

Junie wasn’t letting it go. “But you said she liked it scruffy!” she giggled, pointing.

“I never said that,” Simon muttered dryly, amused. “I said she looked like the type to like it scruffy.”

Your mouth parted. Heat surged into your cheeks.

“I—what does that even mean?”

Simon leaned forward, folding his hands, voice low.

“Means I was right.”

You blinked, eyes wide.

He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t have to.

Simon’s expression didn’t change—but his eyes sparked.

You fumbled, blushing furiously. “Sorry,” you murmured.

“She gets it from me,” Simon said, voice rich with amusement.

And then he didn’t look away.

You did.

After a pause, Junie bounced in her chair, breaking the tension with a grin that annoyed Simon just enough to make him sigh. She’d been doing that a lot lately—getting under his skin in all the tiny, chaotic ways only kids knew how. But somehow, he didn’t mind when it was her.

“I want a kitten.” Her voice broke the silence.

Simon gave her a look. “Pets are a lot of work.”

“I have a cat,” you offered. “Selina. She sleeps on my legs every night. Best decision of my life…to adopt her.”

Simon glanced at you, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Must be nice,” he said.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“To come home and have something waiting.”

Your lips parted. You almost asked, Are you talking about the cat?

But the way he looked at you?

No.

No, he wasn’t.

You swallowed, unsure what to say. The warmth in your chest wasn’t from the wine. You barely touched it.

He leaned back slightly, gaze still locked on yours, one finger tapping absently against the rim of his glass.

“I used to come home to silence,” he said quietly. “For years. Now it’s little feet and loud cartoons.”

You smiled softly, watching him.

“But after bedtime…” His voice dropped just a fraction. “It’s still quiet.”

The weight of his words settled over the table like dusk.

You tried to respond, but he cut in, gentle, but certain.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

Your voice finally found you. “Some silence is louder than noise.”

That surprised him. Just a flicker in his expression, like a match sparking in a dark room.

Then he gave a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

Junie giggled at something on her tablet, blissfully unaware.

He glanced at her, then back at you.

“You ever feel that way?” he asked, tone deceptively casual. “Come home and it’s quiet… but too quiet?”

You blinked, fingers brushing the stem of your wine glass. “Sometimes I talk to my cat just so I hear another voice.”

Simon’s lips twitched. “Bet she answers, too.”

You laughed. “With attitude.”

His eyes softened. “She’s got a smart owner. Makes sense.”

There it was again. The way he said things like they were nothing. But everything.

Your heart skipped.

He looked at you like he could see things. All the loneliness. The softness. The fight to stay bright in a world that didn’t always deserve it.

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like you weren’t eating dinner with a student’s parent.

You were somewhere else.

And he was someone who saw you.

Not just the teacher.

Not just Miss Sparkle.

But you.

Junie tugged your hand not long after, dragging you toward her bedroom with eager excitement. You followed her willingly, heart a little lighter after dinner. Her room was colorful and cluttered in that charming way children’s spaces always are—stuffed animals in disarray, drawings taped to the walls, tiny shoes kicked off in the corner.

She showed you everything. Every toy had a story. Every book had a favorite page. Her voice bubbled as she talked, proud and glowing.

There was a framed picture on her desk—her and Simon, both smiling. His arm around her shoulders, protective, proud.

You were crouched by the bookshelf, listening to her describe a doll’s tragic backstory, when you felt it.

A presence.

You turned—and there he was.

Simon, leaning against the doorframe. Watching.

He hadn’t said a word.

Just stood there. Quiet. Soaking it in.

And for a second, he couldn’t move. You didn’t see him yet, which made it worse. Or maybe better. Because he got to look—really look—without hiding it.

And when you laughed—loud and easy, unguarded—he felt it in his spine.

Loud when you laugh… wonder if you’re that loud for everything.

You in the center of his home. With his daughter. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And damn it, it felt too easy to imagine you there again tomorrow. Like this wasn't just a one-time visit. Like the sound of your laughter in his hallway belonged there. Like Junie’s smile hadn’t looked that wide in months. Like all that tension he carried—bone-deep and ever-present—had finally exhaled just watching you listen to his daughter like she mattered. You’d been annoying him for months now—in the best, most infuriating way. And now you were here. In his house. And somehow, not nearly close enough.

Eventually, Junie’s whirlwind energy softened. She lay sprawled across her pink bedspread, blinking slowly. You sat beside her, legs tucked neatly under you, telling a soft story about a cat who got lost in a garden and made friends with a grumpy hedgehog. Your voice was calm, rhythmic. Her eyes drooped.

By the time the hedgehog let the cat sleep in his little burrow, Junie had dozed off completely—arms wrapped around her stuffed wolf, breath soft and even.

You stayed a moment longer, watching her chest rise and fall, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. You had noticed Simon a while ago—felt his presence like a ripple through calm water. But you didn’t look up right away. Not until the story was over. Your eyes finally met his across the room, and it felt like something clicked into place. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze unreadable but heavy. Watching. Like he didn’t want to blink and miss a second of this.

But he saw it all.

You were warm. Safe. Pure. And he saw it—burned from it.

You’re already in our home. In her heart. What’s left? Just me. You’ll get there too. And I don’t think I’ll survive it.

Dark thoughts clawed at him, unbidden, brutal.

You’d be so easy to break. So easy to ruin.

But fuck... I’d worship every piece I shattered.

And something in his chest cracked wider than it had in years.

You followed him out of Junie’s room quietly, careful not to wake her. The hallway was dim, soft shadows stretching across the walls. There was a hush in the air, the kind that felt sacred after laughter. Neither of you spoke for a few moments, until you were back in the kitchen.

You started collecting plates. He tried to protest, but you shook your head.

"You cooked," you said. "Let me help."

He gave in. Silently took a dish towel and stood beside you while you washed.

“Y’know,” he said after a long pause, “you’re good with her. Too good.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, hands still submerged in the warm water.

“Is that a problem?”

His eyes held yours. Intense. Quiet.

“No,” he said. “It’s the opposite.”

The hum of the tap filled the silence. You spoke softly, not looking at him this time.

“It’s cozy here. You’re really attentive. She’s lucky to have you.”

Something in his posture shifted. A soft inhale.

“She’s my whole damn world,” he murmured.

You smiled gently. “It shows.”

You finished the dishes and reached to dry your hands, but the towel was too high on the shelf. He grabbed it before you could, offered it. Your fingers brushed.

He didn’t let go right away.

“Soft hands,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Didn’t expect that.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “What did you expect?”

His eyes flicked to yours. “Claws.”

Your laughter was quiet. "Give it time."

He turned toward the fridge, muttering something about dessert.

"We’ve got cake. Chocolate."

You blinked. "You knew I—?"

He shrugged. "Junie is my little spy. Said you always carry something sweet in your bag, preferably chocolate."

You laughed again, accepting the plate. "I can’t help it."

His thoughts, unspoken: Sweet tooth, huh? Me too. But it ain’t cake I’m hungry for.

You took a bite, and a smear of cream clung to your finger. Without thinking, you licked it off.

Simon saw. His jaw tightened. Eyes went dark.

Either you’re dangerously innocent… or you know exactly what you’re doin’. Not sure which’ll break me first.

You set the plate in the sink, began to rinse it — but your eyes wandered. To the fireplace mantel. To something that didn’t belong.

A knife. Black-handled. Too clean.

You blinked. “Is that a…?”

He followed your gaze and chuckled.

“Ah. That one’s old. Doesn’t even stay sharp anymore.”

“You keep knives on display?”

“That’s not display.” His eyes glinted. “That’s convenience.”

You hesitated. "How many do you have?"

He gave you that look again. Dangerous amusement flickering.

“You want to see?”

You held his gaze. “Do I?”

He dried his hands slowly. “C’mon, Miss Sparkle. Let me show you somethin’ real.”

You followed him. Down the hall, past the rooms you recognized, until he stopped at a plain wall.

He pressed something. A soft hiss. A latch released.

The door opened.

A private armory.

No frills. No glass cases. Just metal. Function. Weapons lined up like soldiers — guns, blades, tactical gear, all meticulously arranged.

Your breath caught. Not from fear.

Fascination.

He watched you watch it all.

You’re not just sweet. You’re curious. Dangerous mix. Especially with me.

“This your batcave?” you murmured.

He huffed. "It’s safety. For Junie. For me."

You paused beside a custom rifle.

“What’s this one?”

“SR-25. Suppressed. She’s quiet. Clean.”

You glanced up. He was watching you too closely.

Your fingers reached out, brushed the barrel. Cool. Sleek.

“This one’s beautiful,” you murmured. “What kind is it?”

“M110,” he said, voice closer now. "Semi-auto. Sniper capable. Heavy, but balanced if you know what you're doin’."

You turned slightly. He hadn’t stepped back.

“This one’s… curved?”

“Kukri,” he replied. “Designed to end things fast.”

You turned it in your hand. It felt like a heartbeat.

“You like the pretty ones, huh?” he asked, low.

You glanced at him. "Not all of them."

Heavy silence.

“You keep all this here?”

“Trust isn’t something I extend lightly,” he murmured. “But yeah. Always close.”

You knelt by a rifle rack, fingertips drifting across polished black steel.

“Do you name them?”

He chuckled. "Only the ones that’ve saved my life."

You pointed at one. "What about that one?"

“That one’s probably older than you."

“And still works?”

“Like a charm.” He paused. “Sometimes the old ones shoot truer.”

You glanced at him, teasing.

“You talking about guns or people now?”

His gaze sharpened. He didn't answer.

Careful, love. You start sounding like you wanna be my favorite weapon.

You picked up a handgun from a case. Held it wrong.

“Like this?”

“Christ, no—” His hand closed around yours. Firm. Sure. His chest brushed your back.

“You always handle things this rough?” you teased.

His mouth was near your ear. Voice low.

“Only when I don’t want 'em slippin’ outta my grip.”

You had no idea what you were doin’ to me. Touchin’ steel like that. Trustin’ me with it. I should’ve stopped you. I didn’t.

You stepped away, inspecting the knives. One caught your eye. He noticed.

“That’s a karambit,” he murmured. “Used for close quarters.”

You raised a brow. “How close?”

He leaned in, breath hot on your skin near your ear. “Right about here.”

You inhaled.

“You’re not scared,” he observed.

“Should I be?”

His hand closed gently over yours on the blade. “Maybe. But I like that you’re not.”

You lifted another handgun, held it in both hands.

“Safety’s off?”

“No. Your finger’s not even on the trigger.”

You glanced at him. Challenge in your voice. “Teach me, then.”

You smirked, eyes drifting over the display like it was something forbidden.

“What’s it gonna take to get you to teach me how to shoot, hmm? Bribe you with cupcakes? Honorary soldier badge?”

He didn’t laugh.

“If I asked nicely,” you added, voice low, “would Lieutenant Riley give me a crash course in self-defense?”

His eyes narrowed. Not amused. Hungry.

You better mean it, sweetheart.

He pushed off the wall, stepped soft on the floor.

“Don’t joke about that,” he said. “You ask me for somethin’ like that, you better damn well mean it.”

“I do.”

Softer. Real.

“I want to learn. From you.”

He stepped closer. Deliberate. Controlled.

“You want me to teach you?”

His voice brushed your spine.

“Fine. I will. But if I do... you're not gettin’ the safe version. You’ll get mine. Close. Personal. Loud.”

He turned slightly to her. “And cupcakes, huh?” A soft huff. “Don’t need to bribe me, sweetheart. You want me to teach you?”

He glanced back.

“All you have to do is ask. I’ve been waiting for it.”

He was looking at you like the idea alone could undo him.

You picked up another weapon. Heavier. Solid.

You raised it, aimed at nothing — just feeling it.

“Careful,” he said behind you.

He was there. Close.

“Finger off the trigger until you’re ready.”

“Wasn’t gonna shoot.”

“Doesn’t matter. Rule’s the same.”

He reached around, adjusted your grip. Warm, steady hands. His other hand rested lightly on your hip.

“Support it here. Keep your stance firm. Relaxed.”

“Like this?”

His jaw brushed your temple.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then, softer:

“You look good holdin’ it.”

“The rifle?” you asked.

“Yeah.” Too fast. Too quiet. “The rifle.”

A long silence.

“You want me to show you how to fire it?”

Then, more softly — not about the gun at all:

“I’ll teach you anything you want.”

You lowered the rifle slowly, turning to face him. The space between you crackled with unspoken tension.

"I should probably get going," you said softly, though your eyes lingered on his. "It's getting late."

Something flickered across his face—disappointment, perhaps? But he nodded, taking the rifle from your hands with careful precision.

"Right," he murmured, replacing the weapon in its stand. "Wouldn't want to keep you."

You watched his hands—capable, strong—as they secured the weapon. Each movement deliberate, practiced. A glimpse into a world so different from your classroom.

"This was... enlightening," you said, gesturing around the armory.

Simon's lips quirked up at one corner. "That what they're calling it these days?"

You laughed softly. "I don't know what else to call it. Not exactly standard dinner conversation."

"Nothing about me is standard," he replied, hitting the hidden switch. The door slid closed, concealing the arsenal behind an innocent wall once more. Just like that—danger tucked away, hidden behind normalcy.

Like the man himself.

The hallway felt different now—narrower, more intimate. Your shoulders nearly brushed as you walked back toward the living room. Neither of you spoke, but the silence hummed with words unsaid.

In the living room, you gathered your purse, your phone. Simon watched from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"I'll call you a cab," he said finally.

You nodded, though part of you wished you could stay longer. Explore more of this unexpected side of Simon Riley. The parent who turned out to be so much more complex than you'd imagined.

He made the call, voice clipped and efficient. When he hung up, he turned to you with a strange expression.

"Wait here," he said suddenly. "Got something."

Before you could respond, he disappeared down another hallway. You heard drawers opening, closing. A soft curse. Then silence.

He returned moments later, something clutched in his hand. As he approached, you realized it was a small bouquet of mini roses—delicate blooms in soft peach and cream hues, tied with a simple twine.

"Forgot to give you these," he said gruffly, extending them toward you. "Meant to earlier. Before dinner."

You took them, fingers brushing his. The flowers were beautiful—not showy or ostentatious, but perfect in their simplicity.

"They're my favorite," you said, surprised. "How did you—"

"Junie," he interrupted, looking slightly uncomfortable. "She mentioned it. She said you always have these in your vase in the classroom."

You laughed, embarrassed. "I didn't realize I was so transparent."

"You're not," he said, eyes meeting yours. "I just pay attention."

The words hung between you, weighted with meaning. You brought the roses to your face, inhaling their subtle fragrance.

"Thank you," you murmured. "They're perfect."

His expression softened. "Glad you like 'em."

A car horn sounded outside—your taxi.

"That's me," you said, reluctance clear in your voice.

He nodded, following you to the door. He opened it, then paused, one hand on the frame.

"About those lessons," he said quietly.

You looked up at him, heart quickening. "Yes?"

"I meant it," he continued, voice low. "If you want to learn, I'll teach you. Not just..." he gestured vaguely toward where the armory was hidden, "that stuff. Self-defense. How to be aware. Safe."

The concern in his voice touched something in you. "I'd like that."

He studied your face for a long moment, as if memorizing it. "Good."

You stepped onto the porch, the night air cool against your skin. He remained in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the warm light of his home.

"Thank you for dinner," you said. "And for showing me..."

"My secrets?" he suggested, voice tinged with amusement.

You smiled. "Some of them, at least."

"Not all," he replied, something in his tone making your pulse jump. "Not nearly all."

The taxi honked again, more insistently this time.

"You better go," he said. "Before he leaves you here."

You took a step backward, clutching the roses. "Goodnight, Simon."

He straightened slightly at your use of his first name. His eyes—those intense, too-observant eyes—held yours.

"Goodnight, Miss Sparkle," he said, the nickname somehow both teasing and tender.

As you turned to leave, his voice stopped you once more.

"Hey."

You looked back. He was leaning against the doorframe now, relaxed yet alert—like a predator at rest.

"Be safe," he said. Then, with a glint in his eye: "Lesson one starts when you're ready. Just say the word."

You smiled, feeling a delicious shiver that had nothing to do with the night air. "I'll hold you to that, Lieutenant."

His answering smile was slow, promising. "I'm counting on it."

The taxi ride home felt longer than it should. You cradled the roses in your lap, fingertips tracing the delicate petals. Your mind replayed the evening—the dinner, Junie's laughter, the hidden armory, and most of all, the man himself. Dangerous, gentle, complex.

Your phone buzzed with a text. Simon.

Just making sure you got home safe.

Before you could reply, another message appeared.

You smiled, typing back: Almost home. Thank you for checking. And for the roses.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Finally:

Anytime, Miss Sparkle. Anytime.

You pressed the phone to your chest, roses in your other hand, feeling like you were standing on the edge of something vast and unknown. Dangerous, perhaps. But undeniably thrilling.

The cab pulled up to your building. As you got out of the car, your phone buzzed one more time.

Sweet dreams.

Two simple words. Yet they followed you into your apartment, lingering like his voice in your ear, like the phantom pressure of his hand guiding yours on the rifle.

You placed the roses in water, their beauty stark against your simple kitchen counter. A piece of him in your space. A reminder of the evening, of everything said and unsaid.

Of lessons yet to come.

"Sweet dreams, Simon," you whispered to the empty room, knowing sleep would be long in coming tonight.

Simon closed the door slowly after watching your taxi disappear down the street. The house felt different now—quieter, emptier. Your absence was tangible, like a change in air pressure.

He stood motionless for a moment, one hand still on the doorknob. The ghost of your perfume lingered in the entryway—something light, floral with a hint of vanilla. Not overpowering. Subtle. Like you.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his short hair.

This wasn't part of the plan. None of it. Dinner was supposed to be simple—a thank you for looking after Junie during that time he'd been called away. Professional. Appropriate.

Instead, he'd shown you the armory. His private sanctuary. Something not even most of his teammates had seen.

He moved through the living room, gathering the wine glasses you'd both left behind. Your lipstick marked the rim of one—a pale pink crescent. His thumb traced over it, a habit he'd never admit to anyone.

In the kitchen, he rinsed the glasses, movements mechanical while his mind replayed the evening. The way you'd looked at his weapons—not with fear or judgment, but with genuine curiosity. The way you'd held that rifle, inexperienced but unafraid.

The way you'd felt, standing close enough that he could smell your hair when he'd corrected your stance. How your body had tensed briefly before relaxing against his. The subtle shift of your breathing when his hand rested on your hip.

Simon set the glasses in the dish rack with more force than necessary.

"Get it together, Riley," he muttered.

He checked the security system, a ritual he performed every night without fail. Front door: locked. Back door: locked. Windows: secured. Perimeter sensors: active. Then he moved to Junie's room, easing the door open to check on his daughter.

Junie slept peacefully, one arm wrapped around the stuffed wolf he'd brought her from his last deployment. Her hair—so like his—fell across her face. Simon moved silently to her bedside, gently brushing the strands away.

"Night, little one," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She stirred slightly but didn't wake. He backed out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough that he'd hear if she called out.

Back in the hallway, his eyes drifted to the hidden panel concealing his armory. He could still see you there, eyes wide with fascination, fingers tracing the barrel of his favorite rifle. Fearless. Or perhaps just naive about who—what—he really was.

The memory of your body so close to his sent heat coursing through him. The trust in your eyes when you looked up at him, asking him to teach you. The slight catch in your breath when his chest pressed against your back.

Simon moved to his bathroom, stripping off his shirt and tossing it toward the hamper. He caught his reflection in the mirror—scars mapping his torso, testament to years of violence and survival. He wondered what you would think, seeing the full extent of the damage. The physical evidence of his dangerous life.

He'd noticed your eyes lingering on the scar visible above his collar. The knife wound from Caracas, three years ago. But you hadn't recoiled. Had seemed almost... intrigued.

Simon turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature to nearly scalding. As steam filled the bathroom, he shed the rest of his clothes and stepped under the hot spray, letting it pound against tense muscles.

He closed his eyes, but immediately saw you—laughing in his kitchen, licking chocolate from your finger with innocent sensuality, holding his karambit with delicate hands. The way your eyes had widened when he leaned close, explaining how the curved blade was meant for intimate kills.

His body responded instantly to the memory of your scent, your closeness. Simon braced one arm against the shower wall, water cascading down his back as he fought for control.

"Goddamn it," he growled, his free hand clenching into a fist.

Images flooded his mind—your lips parted in surprise when he'd handed you the roses, your fingers brushing his as you took them. The way you'd looked at him in the armory, eyes dark with something that wasn't just curiosity.

What would you have done if he'd given in to the impulse to press you against that wall? To see if your lips tasted as sweet as they looked? To feel your body yield to his, soft where he was hard, gentle where he was rough?

Simon’s hand moved lower, wrapping around his hardened length. He stroked slowly, jaw clenched as he surrendered to the fantasy.

In his mind, you were there with him—water sluicing down your naked body, hands exploring his scars without hesitation. Your mouth hot against his throat, whispering his name. Not "Ghost." Not "Lieutenant Riley." Or "Mr. RIley". But "Simon."

The way you'd said it at the door—"Goodnight, Simon"—so soft, so intimate. Like you were claiming a piece of him no one else had access to.

His pace quickened, breath coming in harsh pants that echoed off the tile walls. He imagined lifting you against the shower wall, your legs wrapping around his waist, your nails digging into his shoulders as he took you hard and fast.

Or perhaps slow and thorough—watching every expression cross your face as he learned exactly what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made you beg.

"Fuck," he hissed, feeling the tension build, coiling tight at the base of his spine.

The fantasy shifted—you in his bed, hair spread across his pillow, eyes heavy-lidded with desire as he moved above you. Your voice whispering filthy encouragements in his ear. Your hands guiding his to where you needed him most.

Simon came with a strangled groan, his release washing away with the water. For a moment, he remained still, forehead pressed against his arm, breathing ragged.

Reality crashed back—the empty shower, the silent house. Your absence.

Disgusted with his lack of control, he turned the water to cold with a savage twist. The shock of it was exactly what he needed—brutal, clarifying.

When he emerged from the shower, skin still tingling from the cold, he felt marginally more in control. He dried quickly, efficient movements born of military precision, then pulled on a pair of sweatpants.

Sleep, however, seemed unlikely. He was too wired, thoughts too loud.

Simon moved to the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of Scotch from a high cabinet. He poured two fingers into a tumbler and carried it to the living room, where he settled into his favorite chair—the one positioned to view both the front door and the hallway leading to Junie's room.

The Scotch burned pleasantly going down. He rolled the glass between his palms, staring at nothing.

His phone sat on the side table. He picked it up, scrolling to your last message.

Almost home. Thank you for checking. And for the roses.

Such simple words. Why did they affect him like this?

Simon set the phone down without responding again. He'd already sent that last text—Sweet dreams—a moment of weakness. He didn't need another.

Instead, he retrieved his laptop, opening the encrypted drive where he kept his private files. Work beckoned—intelligence reports to review, mission parameters to memorize. Focusing on the familiar language of operations and targets should clear his head.

But his mind kept drifting. To your soft hands holding deadly steel. To innocent questions asked without fear. To the scent of vanilla and cherries that somehow infiltrated his carefully constructed defenses.

"Fuck," he muttered, closing the laptop with more force than necessary.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. One hand unconsciously moved to the knife scar on his collarbone—the one you'd noticed. The one you'd looked at with curiosity rather than revulsion.

He checked his watch. 11:43 PM. You should be home by now, those roses in water somewhere in your apartment. Were you thinking about the evening? About him?

About his offer to teach you?

The thought sent a surge of something dangerous through him. The image of you in his personal space, learning from him, trusting him with your safety...

The possibility of touching you again, standing close behind you as he showed you how to defend yourself. His hands on your waist, your hips, guiding your movements. The heat of your body against his.

Simon drained the last of his Scotch and set the glass down firmly.

This was precisely what he couldn't afford. Attachment. Complication. Risk.

He had Junie to think about. His work. The enemies who would use any vulnerability against him.

And yet.

He found himself moving to the front door, checking the lock again even though he knew it was secure. His hand lingered on the doorknob where yours had been earlier.

"This is fucked," he said quietly to the empty room.

He returned to his bedroom, lying on top of the covers, one arm behind his head. The ceiling offered no answers, just shadows and silence.

From force of habit, he reached for the pistol in his bedside drawer, checking it before returning it to its place. The ritual usually centered him. Tonight, it only reminded him of your hands on his weapons. Your questions. Your lack of fear.

"Do you name them?"

"Only the ones that've saved my life."

He hadn't told you about the knife under his pillow. The one named after Junie, because having her had saved him in ways no weapon ever could.

Simon closed his eyes, but sleep remained elusive. Instead, he saw your face—the way you'd looked at him when he'd handed you those roses. Surprised. Pleased. Something else he couldn't—or wouldn't—name.

The memory of your lips curved into that soft smile haunted him. What would they taste like? Sweet, like the chocolate cake you'd enjoyed so much? Or something deeper, more complex?

"One night," he told himself firmly. "Just one night of this, then back to normal."

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Nothing would be normal again. Not after showing you the armory. Not after offering to teach you. Not after seeing the way you looked at him—not as Junie's intimidating father, not as Lieutenant Riley, but as Simon.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Heart suddenly racing, he reached for it.

Not you. Work. A message from Price about tomorrow's briefing.

Simon exhaled slowly, equal parts relief and disappointment. He sent a terse acknowledgment, then set the phone down.

Outside, rain began to fall, a gentle patter against the windows. The sound usually soothed him. Tonight, it only emphasized the quiet of the house, the absence of your voice, your laughter.

He wondered if you were looking out at the same sky, thinking of the evening. Of him.

The image of you in bed, perhaps wearing nothing but one of those soft, feminine nightshirts he'd imagined more than once, sent another wave of heat through him. Were you touching yourself, thinking of his hands on yours in the armory? Of his body close behind you, his voice in your ear?

He turned onto his side, facing the window. The rain traced patterns on the glass, hypnotic in the dim light.

"Sweet dreams, Miss Sparkle," he murmured to the empty room, knowing sleep would be long in coming tonight.

In the darkness, he finally admitted what he'd been avoiding all evening: he was already planning your next meeting. Already anticipating your questions, your curiosity. Already imagining your hands holding his weapons, your eyes watching him with that mixture of fascination and fearlessness.

Already falling into something he couldn't control.

And for a man like Simon—a man whose survival depended on control—that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter Text

You woke up at five. The kind of early where the world is still asleep and everything feels sharper than it should. Cold floor. Dim light. A heavy chest.

You sat on the edge of your bed, blinking at the dark window. Then down at your phone.

Unread messages.

Simon. A short text.

You didn’t open it.

Your lips trembled. Not dramatically. Just enough to make you press them into a hard line and breathe through your nose.

"What are you doing?" you whispered.

The messages. The dinner. The softness. The way he watched you like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or lock the door and never let you leave. It was thrilling—a strange, tangled mix of gentleness and something far rougher, darker, humming beneath his skin.

Stupid.

You drank a glass of water and nearly vomited it back up. The nausea wasn’t from food. You hadn’t eaten. It was from shame. Guilt. The way he looked at you like you were more than just someone who watched and taught his daughter.

It was Sunday. The sigh of relief was almost audible.

You turned your phone face-down and shoved it into a drawer. Mia called. Olivia, too. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You laid on the couch in silence while Selina curled beside you, oblivious, occasionally purring. Your chest ached from the inside out.

Even work couldn’t save you.

You tried in the evening—some lesson planning, grading, anything to feel normal. It went badly. Words blurred. Pages stayed blank. Your energy was a flickering match.

On Monday, you canceled extra lessons. Tuesday too.

You kept your head down at school. Ducked into empty classrooms. Used the teacher’s lounge to hide.

You saw his SUV outside. Didn’t go out.

Wednesday. You had just finished rearranging some books when you caught sight of him through the tall classroom windows—Simon, stepping out of his SUV. Tall. Broad. That familiar weight in his posture, purposeful stride. Your breath hitched. Panic gripped your spine. Without thinking, you ducked into the teachers' meeting room, the door clicking softly shut behind you. The hum of the overhead light was too loud. You pressed your back against the door, heartbeat hammering in your ears as his silhouette passed by the frosted glass. You didn’t breathe until his steps faded down the hall.

He walked past. Into your classroom.

Only the cleaner was there.

"Where is she?" he asked, voice calm but clipped.

"Oh, she’s in some meeting. Administration, I think," the woman offered, clearly uncertain.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t push.

He left something on your desk.

A Venus flytrap. Small, healthy. The same kind that had died last month when you forgot to water it.

A note tucked underneath:

Hope you’re feeling ok.

That was it.

When you were sure he was gone, you returned to your room. The cleaner was mopping near the door.

"That handsome man asked about you," she said with a wink.

You nodded, said nothing, and took the note with shaky fingers.

You placed the plant beside your others. Watered it. Watched the soil darken. Then sat down and closed your eyes.

Simon was already home.

He’d expected something. A word. An emoji. Even a damn dot.

But there was nothing.

Just silence.

It had been three days.

He wasn’t the type to chase. Never had been. But that night, after dinner—after you smiled at Junie and helped with the dishes and your fingers brushed his—he’d let himself believe. Maybe he read too much into it. Maybe he saw something that wasn’t there. But it had felt real. Warm. Like something growing slowly between two people who'd seen too much, and still wanted to try.

A week ago, Price had told him: “HQ wants you stateside longer. Support rotation.”

Soap had laughed. “They’re reeling you in, mate.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but part of him felt... relief. A strange kind of hope blooming behind his ribs. More time near home. Fewer flights. Less distance.

He’d already been assigned to a training unit and ops review team. No more last-minute deployments. More dinners. More mornings. More chances.

He hadn’t told you yet.

He wanted to surprise you.

Maybe knock on your door with groceries. Say something dumb like, “Guess I’ll be around more.”

But now?

You hadn’t called. Hadn’t written. Hadn’t even reacted to the little plant.

He felt stupid. Hollow in a way he hadn’t since his last deployment. The kind of quiet that crept into your bones and whispered: You imagined it.

Junie was babbling at dinner, waving her fork like a wand. Mrs. Harris had just left. He nodded when she reminded him to rest. Said he would. Lied.

Even Junie noticed.

"Daddy, your face is tired."

He smiled, kissed her hair, and cleaned up. Went outside with her, sat on the garden swing. She built a sandcastle beside him. Then she made some mess with the sand and called it a soup.

Mrs. Linton had shown up just after sunset, arms full and eyes already scanning for him. She stepped onto the porch without knocking, holding a glass pie dish wrapped in a faded blue tea towel. The scent of warm cherries drifted up before she even reached the swing.

She paused when she saw him.

Simon sat with Junie on the big garden swing, her tiny hands covered in sand as she scooped more imaginary soup into a plastic bowl. His gaze was distant, fixed somewhere in the trees, barely reacting to the world around him.

Mrs. Linton's heart pinched. She’d seen that look before. Worn by soldiers who made it back but left parts of themselves behind.

“Thought you two might want something sweet,” she said gently, placing the pie beside them.

He blinked like he hadn’t heard her coming. Looked up with that tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She studied him for a moment. “You alright, love?”

He gave a slight nod. “Just tired.”

But she didn’t believe it for a second. She stepped a little closer, arms crossed loosely over her chest, voice quiet.

"You sure about that? You were... different the past two days. Happier. Lighter. And now—"

He didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the trees.

She hesitated. "Did something happen?"

He shook his head slowly, but it wasn’t convincing. His jaw tensed, then relaxed like he’d just bitten back something he didn’t want to say.

Don’t be stupid, Simon, he thought. Don’t read into what’s not there.

"Maybe I got it wrong," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

She tilted her head. "Got what wrong?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Mrs. Linton sighed softly and sat beside him on the swing, her joints creaking in protest. "Simon Riley, you’re many things. But you’re not blind. Or stupid. That girl—she looked at you like you hung the moon. I'm sure."

He ran a hand down his face. "If that were true, she wouldn’t have disappeared."

"People run when they’re scared. Doesn’t mean they didn’t feel it. Just means they didn’t know what to do with it."

He glanced over, skeptical.

She shrugged. "Don’t give up on something good just because it hurts a little. Some of the best things in life leave bruises before they bloom."

He didn’t say anything. Just watched Junie bury her hands in the sand, his heart full of questions and quiet hope.

Inside your apartment, your kitchen was a mess. You were trying to clean. It was almost 7 p.m. You were scrubbing a mug when the doorbell rang.

Two girls stood there—Olivia and Mia. A pizza box balanced in Olivia's hands, Mia juggling bags of sweets and two steaming coffee-to-go cups. No alcohol. They knew you didn’t like it. They came armed with comfort, not questions. Just the right kind of soft chaos.

You stared.

Then you sobbed.

They didn’t ask. Just walked in, set everything down, wrapped you in a hug. Sat you down. Waited.

You broke.

You told them everything. Every tangled thread. The dinner. How it started light and easy, and somewhere between the laughter and the wine glasses clinking, it shifted. The way Simon looked at you across the table—like you were a question he’d already chosen to answer. You told them how your stomach flipped when his hand brushed yours, how it felt like standing on the edge of something. How it made you want more. And how that terrified you. Because it wasn't just a crush. It wasn’t lust or flattery. It was real. And real could ruin you.

Mia blinked. Then:

"You ghosted a hot dad."

"It got too soft and that tension...," you whispered. "I needed space."

"You need therapy," she replied. "And maybe sex. Possibly both."

She glanced at the bouquet still sitting in your vase.

"He gave you flowers. Do you know how rare that is? And your favorite ones? He’s intense*.*"

"He’s hot," Olivia added.

You swallowed.

"He’s dangerous."

"You’re scared," Olivia said gently.

Silence.

"He scares me," you said. "Not because he’s cruel. Because he’s kind. Because when I’m near him, I think I could let go. And if I do... what if I don’t survive it?"

Olivia hugged you tight.

"I read a book like this once," she said. "Main character runs from something good. Spends 200 pages regretting it."

You wiped your eyes. "You’re a menace."

"So are you," she grinned. "You deserve to be happy. You don’t have to rush it. Just don’t bolt every time someone shows up for you."

They stayed until late. Fed you. Cleaned. Played with Selina. Left you with silence that felt less like punishment and more like space to breathe.

You looked at the bouquet one more time before bed. Then his present today.

A small, stupid plant, bouquet.

But it meant something.

Simon had noticed.

Simon remembered.

The rain wasn’t just falling; it was an assault. A solid, roaring sheet of grey that blurred the world into a watercolor wash of misery. You’d been marking papers, lost in the quiet hum of the empty school, and had completely missed the sky’s turn from bruised purple to furious black. Now, you stood under the flimsy protection of the school’s main entrance awning, the air thick with the smell of ozone and wet pavement. Your phone was a dead weight in your bag, your wallet sitting mockingly on your kitchen counter at home.

Mia’s little bookstore was only a few blocks away. A mad dash. You could make it. You’d be soaked, a drowned rat begging for the use of a phone or charger, but it was better than sleeping in your classroom.

Taking a breath that did little to calm the frantic beat of your heart, you pulled your thin cardigan tighter and plunged into the downpour.

The cold was instantaneous, a shock that stole your breath. Water plastered your hair to your scalp and streamed into your eyes. Your shoes were already squelching. The streetlights bled into the wet asphalt as you reached the curb, squinting through the deluge to judge the traffic. A pair of headlights cut through the gloom, slowing as they approached. A huge, black car that radiated menace even through the storm. It pulled to a stop directly in front of you, the passenger door swinging open with a heavy, solid clunk.

You froze, a cornered mouse caught in the high beams.

From the shadowed interior of the cab, his voice cut through the roar of the rain, a familiar gravel-and-smoke rumble that made your blood run both hot and cold.

“Miss Sparkle. Get inside.”

Simon. Of course, it was Simon. The man you’d been actively avoiding for a week. It had been too much. Too intense. The way he looked at you—like you were sacred and his—left a scorch mark on your soul, and your instincts howled at you to run before you burned.

You hesitated, hugging yourself as the rain dripped from your chin. “I—I’m okay! I’m just going…”

The engine rumbled, a low growl of impatience. His voice dropped, losing all its polite, fatherly charm and becoming something harder, colder. The voice of a Lieutenant.

“Get in.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look fine. Like a wet cat about to get pneumonia.”

“Go home, Simon.”

He cut the engine, opened the door, and stepped out into the rain. His uniform was soaked in under thirty seconds. You flinched.

“You’re shivering. Get in the car, pet.”

“Inside. Now. Or I carry you.”

Thunder cracked behind you both. You stepped in.

It wasn’t a request. The word ‘pet’ was a verbal leash, and it snapped you out of your paralysis. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran down your spine. You scurried around the front of the car and clambered inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind you.

The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic thwump-thwump of the wipers and the blast of hot air he immediately directed at you. The warmth was so intense it was almost painful on your frozen skin. You sat there, dripping onto his pristine leather seats, acutely aware of his presence beside you. He was a mountain of dark clothing and contained violence, his gaze fixed forward, the severe line of his mouth tight beneath the balaclava, his whole look utterly devastating in that full military attire. He looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare—every inch the soldier, every inch the danger you weren’t supposed to crave. And God help you, but your heart skipped at the sight. The air was thick with his scent, cedar and steel and something uniquely him that made your stomach clench.

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb smoothly. The silence stretched, heavy with everything you’d left unsaid, with every one of his calls you’d let go to voicemail.

“Address,” he said, his tone flat.

You told him, your voice small. You stared out the window, watching your neighborhood slide by, feeling his gaze on you even when you couldn't see it. When he pulled up in front of your small, slightly dilapidated apartment building, the sheer contrast between his formidable truck and your humble home was laughable.

He killed the engine. You sat there, hands twisted in your lap. Gratitude warred with your deep-seated need to keep your fragile world separate from his overwhelming one. Gratitude won.

“Thank you, Simon,” you whispered, finally turning to look at him. “You didn't have to. I… would you like to come in? For tea, or something? To warm up. It’s the least I can do.”

His head turned slowly, and even through the mask, you felt the full force of his stare. A long moment passed where you were sure he would refuse, would just command you out of his truck and drive away.

“Yeah, angel,” he said, his voice softer now, yet something primal curled behind the words. “I’d like that.”

He didn’t just mean tea. Not really. What he meant—what he didn’t say—was that he’d take any excuse to be near you. That after a week of silence, of staring at his phone like a fool hoping for even a single dot from you, this simple invitation felt like oxygen after drowning.

He didn’t know what he expected. He’d told himself not to hope. Not to assume. But when you’d turned and offered it—your voice small, tentative, soaked to the bone, smelling like rain and that maddeningly sweet perfume he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about—it hit him like a bullet. Not lethal, but close.

So he smiled under the mask, though you couldn’t see it.

He’d like that very much.

Your apartment felt smaller, more fragile with him in it. He filled the doorway, had to duck his head to enter, and his broad shoulders seemed to shrink the already cozy living room. You felt a blush of shame creep up your neck. His house was a fortress, spacious and minimalist. Yours was… you. Embroidery hoops with half-finished flowers hung on the wall, a second-hand acoustic guitar was propped in a corner, and books were stacked on every available surface. It was soft and cluttered and intensely personal.

He moved with that unnerving silence, his dark eyes taking in every detail. You toed off your soaked shoes near the entrance, the squelch of wet fabric echoing faintly on the hardwood. A flash of black and white fur emerged from under the sofa. Selina. Your impossibly shy cat, who treated every guest like a potential murderer, walked directly over to Simon’s huge combat boot and began to twine herself around his leg, purring like a motor.

Simon looked down at her, then back up at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“I need to change,” you mumbled, unnerved. “I’ll be right back.”

He saw your room.

Just a glimpse. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Not yet. Not like that.

A poster of a masked man — some fictional vigilante, or maybe just someone who reminded him too much of himself. He smirked, amused despite himself.

So that's what gets under your skin, he thought. Caped justice. Hidden faces. And here I thought you didn’t like secrets.

He could practically hear your voice, that soft, teasing lilt you used when you were trying not to admit you were intrigued by something dark. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He didn’t say anything, of course. Didn’t need to. But the smirk lingered a second longer than it should’ve.

Band posters: Radiohead, Placebo, Deftones, Sleep Token.

A dreamcatcher you probably didn’t believe in but kept anyway.

He didn’t comment. But his eyes lingered. He wondered what else he didn’t know about you. And how much of it you were still hiding on purpose.

Selina sniffed him with suspicion. Then, shockingly, she curled into his lap like she owned him.

You came out, toweling your hair, in plaid pants and a thick oversized sweater. You froze when you saw Selina.

“She’s never done that before.”

Simon looked down at the cat as she rubbed her face against his leg, tail flicking with ownership. A lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he scratched behind her ears, fingertips rough and practiced.

“She knows a good man when she sees one.”

“She bites everyone.”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scoff. He met your eyes, and the smirk softened into something more unreadable. Something quieter.

“Guess I’m not everyone.”

He hadn’t meant it like that.

But it landed all the same.

And the silence that followed wasn’t just silence. It was heavy. Knowing. Charged.

You turned to fill the kettle. The handle broke. A jet of water sprayed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

He chuckled low.

“Didn’t know teachers talked like that, Miss Sparkle.”

Before you could hide in embarrassment, he brushed past you, reached under the sink, shut off a valve you didn’t know existed, temporarily fixed the tap.

“Been doing that for weeks.”

“You should’ve called a plumber. Or me.”

He leaned in close. Heat pulsed off his body.

“Who lives next door?” he asked, his voice a low thrum.

“Uh, Mrs. Gable,” you stammered, confused by the non-sequitur. “She’s eighty.”

“And on the other side?”

“A couple. They’re quiet. I barely see them.”

His head tilted, his gaze sweeping over the door, the windows. “How’s the security in this building? The main lock looks old. Does it get a lot of foot traffic? Any strangers hanging around?”

The questions were soft, emotionless—but laced with something invasive, like fingers curling around her throat. He wasn't making small talk. He was assessing threats. He was mapping out the vulnerabilities of your life, of your home. The way he’d fixed your tap, the way he was interrogating you now… it was a quiet, relentless claiming of your space. Of you.

“It’s fine, Simon,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s a safe neighborhood.”

He took a step back then, giving you space to breathe, but the invisible tether between you only seemed to pull tighter. You turned on shaky legs, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard, your movements clumsy under his unwavering gaze. He watched every little thing: the way you tore the tag from the teabag, the slight tremble as you poured the boiling water, the way you stirred in a spoonful of honey for yourself.

You handed him a plain black mug. “Here.”

He took it, his large, scarred fingers dwarfing the ceramic. He followed you into the living room. It was a space built for one, maybe two people who liked each other very much. With his presence in it, the room felt crowded, the air charged and humming. He bypassed the worn armchair and sank onto your small sofa. The frame groaned in protest, and the cushions dipped significantly under his weight. He looked massive, a dark king holding court on a throne of chintz and floral pillows.

You perched on the edge of the armchair, clutching your own mug like a shield. The silence returned, thick with unspoken things. Then, Selina, your traitorous cat, hopped gracefully onto the sofa and curled up on his muscular thigh, purring loud enough to be heard over the rain.

He saw your guitar leaned against sofa.

“You play?”

You gave a small, self-conscious shrug, carrying two mugs into the room. “Try to. Don’t judge.”

His fingers traced the guitar’s worn edges with surprising gentleness. “I won’t. Teach me a chord.”

You hesitated for a beat, then knelt beside him on the rug, the tea forgotten. Your hands reached for his—so much larger than yours, calloused and sure in everything but this. You guided his fingers into place, brushing against old scars and warmth.

“That’s a G.”

“Feels wrong.”

You tilted your head, gave him a look. “That’s because you’re playing it like it’s a landmine, soldier.”

A low laugh—real, husky, and startled from him like he didn’t expect to find humor here. He shifted, adjusted, strummed. It was clumsy. Off-key. But something in the sound dragged sadness through the room like a tide.

“I used to mess around a bit. Long time ago.”

Your gaze flicked up. “What did you play?”

“Whatever hurt.”

The words landed like stones, heavy and precise. You didn’t press.

His eyes wandered the shelves. Photos. One of you and Mia, arms looped, frozen mid-laughter, summer sun making halos in your hair.

He pointed, but gently. “Who were you running to today?”

“Mia. My friend. She works not far from school.”

“She comes around often?”

“Sometimes. Also Liv. Olivia. Just us.”

His tone shifted, not possessive, not quite. But close. “Good.”

The implication curled between you like smoke. He didn’t ask what kind of ‘just us’ it was. Didn’t have to. His silence was weighty. And it spoke volumes.

Later, the tea was cold, but he felt like he needed to address it.

“I’m a patient man, Miss Sparkle,” he said. “You can push me away. I won’t chase. But I’ll wait. Even if every bone in my body screamed to do otherwise—grab you, demand answers, break through whatever wall you’d built—I’d wait. Because I’d rather be still than risk scaring you off. Rather be silent than push you further away. But fuck, if you asked me to stay, I would. Every time. That’s the difference.”

A long pause.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know me.”

A soft laugh, with a dangerous edge.

“No, but I want to.”

His voice was calm, but something simmered beneath the surface. It wasn’t a plea—it was a statement. A risk. He watched you carefully, measuring every blink, every breath. Part of him expected silence in return. Maybe even rejection. But another part—quieter, more dangerous—hoped. Because even in your stillness, in the walls you tried so hard to rebuild, there was something between you. Something neither of you could fully deny.

The silence told him everything.

His phone buzzed. Mrs. Harris. Junie was waiting.

He stood.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said. His eyes were on you. “It’s… warm. Like you.”

“It’s small.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He was quiet for a few seconds before speaking—long enough that you wondered if he’d changed his mind, if the vulnerability you thought you saw had been imagined.

Then, rough and steady, he said, “I won’t hurt you. Never you.”

And he meant it—not in the fleeting way men sometimes do when they want something soft. He meant it with the same finality he brought into every mission briefing, every decision that cost blood. If there was one promise he’d keep until his last breath, it would be this. Even if it killed him.

Even if it already was.

He reached out. Brushed a strand of damp hair behind your ear. His fingertips ghosted your skin.

A stroke down your cheekbone. Slow. Careful.

Seconds passed. He searched your face for something—permission, maybe. A sign you felt the same heat that was slowly eating him alive from the inside out.

"Don’t you feel it too?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t answer.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of denial, of fear, of a truth too heavy to name. It pressed on his chest like a weight. Still, he waited for something. A glance. A breath. Anything.

But you only looked at him, guarded, unreadable.

Of course you do, he thought bitterly. But you’ll never say it.

And if you won’t say it... maybe it was never there to begin with.

He stood there for a moment longer, motionless. Seconds stretched thin. A flicker of hope still twisted in his chest like a knife—maybe you'd reach out, maybe you'd stop him, maybe you'd say his name.

You didn’t.

You made it clear, he told himself. You don’t want this. You don’t want me.

The thought hollowed him out. Made something sharp coil behind his ribs.

He wanted to stay. God, he would’ve*.* If you’d said a word. If you’d breathed a little differently. But all he saw was silence, all he heard was distance. And he wasn’t going to be the man who crossed a line he wasn’t invited over.

“You burn too bright,” he wanted to say. Too bright for someone like me.

Instead, with a careful inhale that sounded a lot like regret, he stepped back.

“Thank you, Miss Sparkle.”

And he was gone.

Simon sat motionless in his car, engine idling, rain drumming against the roof in a steady rhythm that matched the dull ache behind his ribs. His eyes remained fixed on your window—the warm light still glowing through the curtains, a beacon he couldn't look away from. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, back and forth, clearing his view only for it to blur again seconds later.

"Fucking idiot," he muttered to himself, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

He could still feel the phantom sensation of your skin beneath his fingertips. The soft give of your cheek. The way your eyes had widened just slightly when he'd touched you—surprise, maybe. Or fear. The memory of it twisted in his gut like a knife.

Simon had spent years reading people in the most hostile environments imaginable. He'd staked his life on his ability to interpret the smallest shifts in body language, the tiniest tells that spelled danger. But with you... with you, he was blind. Lost. Every instinct scrambled.

You felt it too. I know you did.

The certainty of it gnawed at him. He'd seen something flicker in your eyes—a flash of want that matched the burning in his chest. But then that wall had come down, cold and impenetrable, and you'd shut him out so completely it made him question everything he thought he knew.

He shifted the car into drive but didn't move, not yet. Rain streamed down the side windows, distorting the world outside. Appropriate, he thought. Nothing had been clear since the day you appeared in their lives, Junie’s eyes bright with excitement as she'd introduced her teacher—the teacher, the one who'd written the letter that had kept him anchored during those endless nights overseas.

The memory of your handwriting flashed in his mind—neat but with a slight tilt, words easy and honest. He'd read that letter so many times the paper had gone soft at the creases. Now he'd touched your skin, breathed your air, watched you smile at his daughter with such genuine warmth it had cracked something open in his chest.

And he'd fucked it all up.

With a sharp exhale, he finally pulled away from the curb, tires hissing against the wet asphalt. The drive home was a blur of streetlights smeared by rain and the hollow echo of your silence playing on repeat in his mind.

"Don't you feel it too?"

Silence.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The porch light was on—Mrs. Harris watching Junie until he returned. He killed the engine but didn't immediately get out, trying to compose himself, to wash away the rawness he knew must be written all over his face.

Junie would see it. She always did.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, pushing until he saw spots. Get your shit together, Riley.

When he finally stepped through his front door, Junie was sprawled on the living room floor surrounded by colored pencils and paper, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Mrs. Harris looked up from her book on the couch.

"There he is," she said with a smile. "Everything alright? You're later than you said you'd be."

Simon nodded, forcing a neutral expression. "Traffic. The rain."

Mrs. Harris gathered her things while Junie bounded up from the floor, throwing herself at his legs in a hug that threatened to knock him back a step.

"Dad! I drew Miss Sparkle's classroom!" She thrust a paper toward him. "See? There's my desk, and there's where she keeps all the books, and that's her special chair where she reads to us."

Simon took the drawing, something tight constricting in his chest at the sound of your name. The careful detail his daughter had put into capturing your classroom—your space—made his throat close up.

"It's great, June Bug," he managed, ruffling her hair.

After seeing Mrs. Harris out with her goodbyes and promises to drop off some of her homemade bread later in the week, Simon went through the motions of their evening routine. Dinner — leftover pasta he'd made the night before, bath time, teeth brushing, story time. All while part of him remained back in your apartment, frozen in that moment when he'd reached for you.

"Dad?" Junie's voice pulled him back to the present as he tucked her into bed. "You seem sad."

Those observant eyes—too much like his own—searched his face with unsettling perception. He smoothed her blanket, buying time.

"Just tired, sweetheart."

She frowned, not buying it. "Did something happen?"

The question cracked through him like thunder. Sometimes he forgot how sharp his daughter was, how little got past her.

"No," he lied. "Why would you think that?"

Junie shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her comforter. "Because you've been checking your phone a lot."

Simon closed his eyes briefly. "Just go to sleep, Junie."

"Did she not like the plant you got her?" Junie persisted, sitting up.

"June." His voice came out sharper than intended. He softened it immediately. "It's late. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

She frowned but lay back down, her eyes still fixed on him with that penetrating gaze she'd inherited from him. "I think she likes you too, Dad. Miss Sparkle gets all pink when I mention you."

The words sent a jolt through him—hope, painful and unwanted. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Goodnight, June-June."

"Night, Daddy. Love you."

"Love you more."

He left her door cracked open and padded down the hallway to the kitchen, where he poured himself two fingers of whiskey and carried it to the living room. The house was quiet, save for the occasional patter of raindrops against the windows. He sat in darkness, nursing his drink, letting the ‘mask’ fall away now that no one could see.

You get all pink when I mention you.

Was that true? Or just his daughter's wishful thinking, her desire to see her teacher and her father happy together? The thought of you blushing at the mention of him sent a wave of heat through his veins, followed immediately by the cold reality of how you'd looked at him tonight—distant, closed off. That wasn't the face of someone who wanted him.

Simon pulled out his phone and opened your text thread. The last message he'd sent days ago sat there, read but unanswered. A simple question about whether you'd be free this weekend. Nothing pushy, nothing demanding. Just an invitation that you'd ignored.

He started typing, deleted it, started again.

I'm sorry about tonight.

Delete.

I shouldn't have touched you.

Delete.

Tell me what I did wrong.

Delete.

With a frustrated growl, he tossed the phone onto the couch cushion beside him and drained his whiskey in one burning swallow.

The truth was, part of him—needy in a way that terrified him—wanted to go back to your apartment right now. Wanted to pound on your door until you opened it. Wanted to back you against a wall and make you admit what he'd seen in your eyes before the shutters had come down.

He could still feel the softness of your skin, could still see the way your pulse had jumped in your throat when his fingers had brushed your cheekbones. That wasn't indifference. That was fear—not of him, but of what was building between you.

And what exactly is that? he asked himself bitterly. Obsession? Infatuation?

Whatever it was, it was consuming him. He'd found himself tracking your social media with an intensity that bordered on stalking—learning your favorite books from your Goodreads account, noting which cafés you tagged in posts, memorizing the names of friends who commented most frequently. Information gathered and filed away with military precision, all to understand you better. To get closer.

The thought made shame curl in his gut. This wasn't him. He didn't pursue. He didn't chase. He'd never been the type to fixate on a woman like this.

But you weren't just any woman, were you?

You were the anonymous letter writer whose words had gotten him through the darkest nights. You were the teacher who'd brought his daughter out of her shell. You were the woman who'd looked at him without flinching, who'd asked him to teach you to shoot not out of morbid curiosity but with genuine determination.

You were becoming everything.

And that terrified him almost as much as it clearly terrified you.

Simon rose from the couch, carrying his empty glass to the kitchen. As he rinsed it in the sink, his eyes drifted to the small collection of papers held to the refrigerator with magnets—Junie's artwork, school notices, and there, in the corner, a photo of you and Junie from the recent excursion. You were kneeling beside her, both of you grinning. The picture Junie asked to take, he had printed it out without telling you.

He turned away, bracing his hands against the counter.

The problem wasn't that you didn't want him. The problem was that you did—and it scared the hell out of you. He'd seen it in your eyes tonight, in the way you'd held your breath when he touched you. In the way you'd swayed toward him almost imperceptibly before catching yourself.

You wanted him. But you wouldn't let yourself have him.

And Simon, who'd spent his entire adult life fighting battles most people couldn't imagine, found himself completely unarmed against this one.

What would you do if I didn't back away next time? The thought slithered through his mind, dark and tempting. If I pushed past those walls you keep building? If I showed you exactly what you're running from?

He knew the answer. He'd never force anything. That wasn't who he was. But the fantasy of breaking through your defenses, of making you admit what you so clearly felt—it burned in him, a shameful, desperate need.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He glanced at the clock—nearly eleven. Too late for casual visitors.

When he opened the door, Mrs. Linton from next door stood on his porch in a rain jacket, holding a covered dish.

"I saw your lights were still on," she said by way of greeting. "Thought you might want some of the cobbler I made. Tom won't eat it all, and I know Junie likes it." She peered at his face more closely. "You alright, Simon? You look like hell."

He managed a tight smile, taking the dish. "Just tired. Thank you for this."

"That teacher of hers still coming around?" she asked, and Simon stiffened. "Junie talks about her all the time when I watch her."

"Not really," he said flatly.

Mrs. Linton's eyes narrowed slightly. "Hmm. Well, that's a shame. Junie adores her. And from what I've seen, she'd be good for you both."

Simon didn't respond, not trusting himself to speak.

"Anyway," Mrs. Linton continued, "tell Junie I've got those cookie cutters she wanted to borrow. She can come over anytime this weekend."

After she left, Simon returned to the kitchen and set the cobbler on the counter, not hungry despite having barely touched his dinner. His eyes drifted back to the photo on the refrigerator—to your smile, to the way your hand rested protectively on Junie's shoulder.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he'd give you space. He'd respect the distance you'd put between them.

But the day after?

The day after, he'd find a reason to see you again, be closer to you.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived with the same obstinate brightness it always did, uncaring of the weight in your chest or the memory of Simon's calloused fingers almost—almost—brushing your cheek. You blinked at the ceiling, Selina purring against your ribs, and wondered if the indent in your couch cushion still held his shape.

Last night felt like a fever dream. The rain. His car. The tea you'd made with trembling hands. The way he'd looked at your things with such fascination, as if your small creations were worth his attention. The almost-touch that sent electricity through your body before you'd flinched away.

Your alarm blared, and reality rushed back in. Thursday. School. Twenty-four small faces waiting for Miss Sparkle.

The mask slid on with practiced ease as you dressed—white shirt with tiny daisies along the collar, high-waisted skirt, comfortable shoes. You dabbed concealer under eyes that hadn't seen much sleep, pinched color into your cheeks, and painted on the smile you'd perfected years ago.

Miss Sparkle never had nightmares. Miss Sparkle never lay awake wondering what a soldier's mouth might taste like. Miss Sparkle was sunshine incarnate.

"What do you think, Selina?" you asked your cat, who blinked slowly from your unmade bed. "Convincing?"

The cat yawned, thoroughly unimpressed.

"Miss Sparkle! Miss Sparkle! I made this for you!"

Archie bounded toward your desk, waving a crayon drawing of what appeared to be a purple unicorn with your face. His bright smile was infectious, and you felt the first genuine warmth of the day spread through your chest.

"It's beautiful, Archie. I'll hang it right here." You carefully pinned it to your 'Wall of Fame' beside your desk.

Junie Riley watched from her seat, her own drawing clutched in her small hands. Unlike Archie's exuberance, she carried herself with a careful dignity that sometimes made your heart ache. So much like her father in the smallest ways.

"Junie? Did you want to share yours too?"

She nodded, approaching with measured steps. "It's my dad and me. And Mrs. Harris's dog she talks about." She hesitated, then added shyly, "And you're here too." She pointed to a figure with a wide smile and what looked like stars around the head.

Your throat tightened. "It's perfect. Thank you."

The day flowed in its familiar rhythm. You read stories with dramatic voices, guided tiny hands through letter practice, and laughed at jokes only seven-year-olds could invent. You helped Milo when he spilled paint on his shirt, mediated when Lily and Parker argued over blocks, and reminded everyone that boogers were private body treasures that belonged in tissues, not on friends.

You were good at this—being present, being theirs. If only your mind would stop wandering to the shape of Simon's shoulders under his dark jacket as he'd leaned against your kitchen counter.

Dismissal came with its usual controlled chaos. You held Archie's hand in your left and Junie's in your right as you led your students toward the parent pickup area. The late spring sun warmed your face, and you thought about how only two more weeks remained in the school year. The children would move up a grade.

Your eyes found him before Junie's did.

Simon Riley stood beside his black SUV, sunglasses obscuring his eyes, arms crossed over his chest. Even from a distance, the hard lines of his body commanded attention. Several mothers lingered nearby, pretending not to stare.

"Daddy!" Junie released your hand and ran toward him, her backpack bouncing.

You raised your hand in a small wave, a peace offering after last night's retreat.

He didn't wave back.

Something cold settled in your stomach as you watched him kneel to embrace his daughter, his attention deliberately focused only on her. The moment stretched, painful and clear in its intention.

You turned away, busying yourself with other students, pretending your cheeks weren't burning with the sting of rejection.

Later, as Simon drove them home, Junie twisted in her seat to look at him. "Daddy, why didn't you wave to Miss Sparkle? She waved at you."

Simon's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on the road. "I didn't see her."

"But she was right there! She was holding my hand!"

"I was looking for you, Junebug. Just you."

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He'd seen you the moment he'd arrived—how could he not? The soft curve of your smile as you led the children, the way the breeze caught your hair, how your skirt swayed around your knees. He'd cataloged every detail, adding it to the mental archive he kept of you.

But after last night... The way you'd pulled back when he'd nearly touched you. The fear in your eyes. It had gutted him. Made him feel like the monster he sometimes feared he was.

So he'd ignored your wave. Pretended you weren't there burning like a beacon he couldn't stop following.

"She looked sad when you didn't wave," Junie said, her voice small.

Simon's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Good, a dark part of him thought. Let you feel a fraction of what I felt when you pulled away.

"Daddy?"

"We'll bring her cookies tomorrow," he said finally, hating how easily he gave in. "To say sorry."

Junie beamed. "With sprinkles?"

"With sprinkles," he agreed, already imagining the blush that would spread across your cheeks when he appeared at your classroom door.

Spring was ending. You could feel it in the particular weight of the evening air as you stood at your kitchen window, staring out at nothing in particular.

Two weeks. Two weeks until summer break. Until you wouldn't have the daily privilege of seeing Junie's careful drawings or hearing her stories about her father.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Mia: Arrived at my parents'. Dad already asking when I'm giving him grandchildren. Send help and alcohol.

You smiled despite yourself. Mia would be gone for two weeks, helping her parents pack up their house for a move.

Another buzz: Olivia this time. A selfie from an airport lounge, her expression comically harassed. Aunt Bianca already critiquing my "airport outfit." Two weeks in Italy with her. Pray for me.

And just like that, your support system had vanished. Not that you would have told them about Simon anyway. About how his presence in your apartment last night had left a ghost you couldn't exorcise. About how he'd looked at you with such intensity before you'd panicked and pulled away.

You opened the refrigerator, staring blankly at its contents. You should eat something. Be an adult. You pulled out vegetables with vague intentions of making stir-fry.

Halfway through chopping a red pepper, the knife slipped, nearly cutting your finger. You set it down, hands shaking.

The tears came without warning. One minute you were standing in your kitchen, the next you were sliding down against the cabinets, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing into your hands.

This was ridiculous. You were crying over a man who wouldn't even wave to you. A man who looked at you like he wanted to consume you one moment, then went cold the next. A man whose daughter drew pictures with you in them, like you belonged in their world somehow.

Your phone buzzed again. Not Mia or Olivia this time, but Principal Hargrove.

Don't forget the faculty social tomorrow evening at Westbrook Hotel. 7pm sharp. Dress code: cocktail. Your attendance is expected this time, Miss Sparkle. Don’t blame it on another “house emergency.”

You groaned, wiping tears with the back of your hand. The annual end-of-year faculty social. You'd successfully avoided it for the past two years with increasingly creative excuses. But Hargrove had cornered you last week, pointedly mentioning that department participation factored into performance reviews.

So now, on top of your emotional meltdown, you had to spend tomorrow evening making small talk with colleagues who knew Miss Sparkle but had no idea who you really were.

Perfect. Just perfect.

You woke with swollen eyes and a headache pulsing behind your temples. The school day passed in a blur. If the children noticed your subdued mood, they didn't mention it. You kept expecting Simon to appear with those cookies Junie mentioned when she arrived, but he never did.

By evening, dread had pooled in your stomach as you stood before your closet, contemplating what "cocktail attire" meant for someone whose wardrobe consisted primarily of hoodies, jeans, casual clothes, and comfortable dresses.

You finally settled on a forest green wrap dress you'd bought for your cousin's wedding two years ago. It hugged your curves more than your usual clothing, with a neckline that dipped just low enough to make you self-conscious. You curled your hair, applied eyeliner with careful precision, and slipped on the only pair of heels you owned.

The woman in the mirror looked like you, but... not. Like a version of you from another timeline where you were confident, where you didn't flinch from touches, where you might meet Simon Riley's intensity without retreating.

The Westbrook Hotel was across town, its ballroom transformed with twinkling lights and floral arrangements that probably cost more than your monthly rent. You arrived exactly eighteen minutes late—enough to avoid the awkward early arrivals, but not so late as to draw attention.

"Miss Sparkle!" Vice Principal Daniels approached, two glasses of champagne in hand. "You actually came! Here, you look like you need this."

You accepted the glass with a polite smile, though alcohol was the last thing you wanted. "The decorations are lovely."

"Oh, you should have seen Carol from Accounting arguing with the florist. Absolute bloodbath." He laughed, then launched into a detailed account of administrative drama you couldn't bring yourself to care about.

The evening stretched before you like an endurance test. You circulated, engaging in the expected small talk, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, and nursing the same glass of champagne for over an hour. All the while, anxiety hummed beneath your skin—the persistent fear that everyone could see through you, that Miss Sparkle was just a paper-thin disguise about to tear.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

You turned to find Mark Hensley, the eighth-grade history teacher, smiling down at you. Tall, conventionally handsome, with the easy confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world.

"I've been avoiding everyone equally," you replied, attempting a light tone.

He laughed. "Fair enough. But now that I've caught you, how about a dance?"

Before you could formulate an excuse, his hand was at your waist, guiding you toward the small dance floor where other faculty members swayed to a jazz quartet.

"I've been meaning to ask you out for coffee," Mark said, his hand sliding a fraction lower than was strictly professional. "Maybe this weekend?"

Your skin crawled at his touch. "I'm actually busy this weekend. End-of-year preparations."

"The weekend after, then." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You can't hide in that classroom forever, you know."

Watch me, you thought.

By midnight, your feet ached, your smile felt permanently fixed to your face, and Mark had cornered you three more times despite your increasingly obvious attempts to avoid him. Worse, your colleagues had decided it was their mission to see you "loosen up."

"Come on, Miss Sparkle, don't play angel! One shot!" Carol from Accounting pressed a small glass into your hand while others cheered.

The burn of tequila down your throat made you wince, but the warmth that followed was... not unwelcome. Another appeared. Then another. Somewhere between your fourth shot and Mark's sixth attempt to get your number, the room began to tilt pleasantly.

By one in the morning, the party showed no signs of ending, but you'd reached your limit. You slipped away to a quiet corner, pulling out your phone to call a taxi.

Three attempts. No answer. You tried another service. Busy signal.

The hotel lobby tilted sickeningly as you paced near the entrance, each step making your head spin a little more. Your fourth attempt at calling a taxi service had gone straight to voicemail, and panic was starting to claw its way up your throat.

"Shit," you whispered, the curse word foreign on Miss Sparkle's lips. You clutched your small purse to your chest, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your bare arms. Why hadn't you brought a jacket? Why had you let them talk you into those shots?

The streets were eerily quiet at this hour. A couple stumbled past, laughing too loudly, the woman's stilettos clicking against the pavement. They didn't even glance your way.

You were alone. Truly alone.

Mia was at her parents' house across the state. Olivia was somewhere over the continent. Your other friends were acquaintances at best—certainly no one you'd call at 1 AM.

Except...

Your thumb hovered over Simon's name in your contacts. The memory of him ignoring your wave at school pickup twisted in your chest. But beneath that pain was something else—the certainty that had settled in your bones the moment you'd met him. The strange, inexplicable knowledge that this man, this soldier with danger in his eyes, would never let harm come to you.

Before you could change your mind, you pressed call.

Each ring stretched into eternity. What if he didn't answer? What if he saw your name and ignored it, the way he'd ignored your wave?

"Hello?" His voice was rough with sleep, deep and disoriented.

Your breath caught. "Simon?" You hated how your voice trembled.

The change in his tone was immediate—sleep vanishing, replaced with sharp alertness. "What's wrong?"

The concern in those two words nearly undid you. You explained your situation, words tumbling out, embarrassment making your cheeks burn despite the cool air.

"Where exactly are you standing?" he asked, all tactical precision.

"Front entrance. I'm wearing a green dress." You looked down at yourself, suddenly aware of how the fabric clung to your curves, how the neckline dipped lower than anything you'd normally wear.

"Don't move. Fifteen minutes." And he was gone.

You sank onto a bench, hugging yourself against the chill. Fifteen minutes. You could do this. You counted seconds, then gave up and watched the hotel's revolving door instead, each spinning cycle making your stomach lurch.

When his SUV pulled up, you weren't prepared for the relief that crashed through you. It was so intense it made your eyes sting with tears.

He emerged from the driver's side, and your alcohol-hazed brain struggled to process the sight of him. Simon Riley, stripped of his usual calculated coldness, looking rumpled and urgent in hastily pulled-on jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. His hair was mussed, as if he'd run his hands through it while driving.

"You came?" The question escaped before you could stop it, small and vulnerable.

His expression in the dim light was impossible to read. "You called."

Those two words, spoken as if they explained everything, made something warm bloom in your chest despite the night chill.

He approached cautiously, eyes scanning you from head to toe. The intensity of his gaze made heat rise to your cheeks. Were you swaying? You felt like you were swaying.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

You nodded confidently, then immediately betrayed yourself by stumbling as you stood. His arm shot out, steadying you, his grip firm around your waist. The contact sent electricity across your skin, even through the fabric of your dress.

"Sorry," you mumbled, mortification burning through the alcohol fog. "They kept handing me shots and I don't drink and—"

"It's alright, pet." The endearment slid from his lips like honey, soft and low in a way that made your insides flutter.

Then he was lifting you—one arm behind your back, the other under your knees—as if you weighed nothing at all. The world tilted dizzily, and you instinctively curled into him, your head finding his shoulder.

"I can walk," you protested weakly, even as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

"Humor me." His voice rumbled through his chest against your ear, and you fought the urge to press closer.

In your inebriated state, you couldn't help but notice everything about him—the solid warmth of his chest, the controlled strength in his arms, the clean scent of his skin mixed with something that was uniquely Simon. Not cologne, something more primal. Something that made you feel inexplicably secure.

"You smell nice," you mumbled before you could stop yourself. "Like... safety."

Something flickered across his features—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper you couldn't name. He placed you carefully in the passenger seat, reaching across to buckle your seatbelt. His face passed inches from yours, and you caught another breath of him, closer now.

The drive passed in a blur of streetlights and silence. You kept your eyes half-closed against the spinning sensation, but it didn't stop your thoughts from spilling out.

"Why didn't you wave back?" The question that had been eating at you all day tumbled from your lips unbidden.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "We're not discussing that while you're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," you lied. "Just... wobbly."

A sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sigh that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

The car's interior was intimate, dark except for the dashboard lights that cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the intensity of his profile. You couldn't stop looking at his hands on the wheel—strong, capable hands with visible calluses. Soldier's hands.

"Your hands are so nice," you heard yourself say, the words flowing without your permission. "Thought about them a lot. Since... since you almost touched my face that night."

You saw his grip tighten, knuckles going white. "What did you think about them?" His voice was carefully controlled, almost dangerously low.

A dreamy sigh escaped you. "How they'd feel. On my skin. You have calluses. I noticed when you took the teacup from me."

"You should stop talking now, angel." There was a strained quality to his voice that some sober part of your brain recognized as warning.

But the tequila had dissolved your usual filters, your careful walls. "Called me angel," you murmured, smiling softly. "Like it when you do that. Makes my stomach feel funny. Like butterflies, but... warmer."

The silence that followed was heavy, charged. You let your head rest against the window, watching his profile through half-lidded eyes. The streetlights illuminated him in flashes—jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road, shoulders tense beneath his t-shirt.

"I dream about you sometimes," you confessed, your voice dropping to a whisper. "S'embarrassing."

"What happens in these dreams?" The question came out rough, almost reluctant.

You turned toward him, feeling a giggle bubble up. "Can't tell you that. Miss Sparkle doesn't have those kinds of thoughts."

At your apartment, he lifted you again, and you melted against him, your arms looping around his neck. The world spun pleasantly, and you buried your face against his neck, inhaling deeply.

"You're so strong," you mumbled against his skin. "Is that from all the... soldier things? You have tattoos too, don't you? I saw them, when you reached for the mugs in my kitchen, at school too."

Your fingers found the edge of one peeking from his sleeve, tracing it clumsily. "I like your tattoos. Wanted to ask about them but was too nervous. You make me nervous. In a good way. Like... like when you're about to jump into deep water. Like—fwshhhh… PLOOSH!"

He carried you through your apartment, his steps silent despite his size. When he laid you on your bed, the sudden absence of his warmth made you reach for him, catching his wrist.

"You're looking at me like that again," you murmured, fighting to keep your eyes open.

"Like what?" His voice was quiet, tightly controlled.

"Like you want to eat me up." A giggle escaped you, dissolving into a yawn. "S'okay. I like it. Scary, but... nice scary."

Guilt suddenly pierced through the pleasant haze of alcohol. "I'm sorry. For calling you. For... for last night. I got scared."

"I know, angel." His expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No. Not at you." He reached out, brushing hair from your face with a gentleness that contradicted the strength you knew those hands possessed.

You leaned into his touch without thinking, your eyes fluttering closed. "Your hands are warm," you observed dreamily. "Thought they'd be cold. Like your eyes sometimes."

"My eyes are cold?" Something in his tone made you open your eyes again.

"Mmm, sometimes. When you're being all... soldier-y. But not always. Not when you look at Junie. Not when..." Sleep was pulling at you now, making your thoughts fuzzy.

"Not when what?" he prompted softly.

"Not when you look at me when you think I don't notice," you whispered, struggling to form the words. "Then they're like... like fire."

He turned to leave, and panic flared through you. "Simon?"

He paused in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the light from the hall.

"Thank you for coming when I called." The gratitude welled up, genuine and overwhelming.

The silence stretched so long you thought he might not answer. "I'll always come when you call. Remember that." His voice was low, intense, almost a vow.

"Promise?" you murmured, sleep claiming you fast now.

"Promise."

Relief washed through you, pure and simple. "Good," you sighed, the final truth slipping out as consciousness faded. "Cause I think I might be falling for you. S'terrifying."

Darkness claimed you before you could see his reaction, before you could take back the words that had lived in your heart for weeks.

Your last sensation was the distant feeling of movement, the ghost of something warm against your forehead—like a touch, like a claim.

Like a kiss.

The pounding in your head arrived before consciousness fully did—a steady, vengeful drumbeat against your temples that made opening your eyes seem like a terrible mistake. You did it anyway, wincing as sunlight stabbed through your curtains.

Your phone informed you it was 11:48 AM. Saturday. As if the universe had mercy.

Memories from the night before came in fragments—tequila shots, Mark's wandering hands, the hotel spinning, and then... Simon. Simon carrying you. Simon's scent. Simon's arms.

You groaned, burying your face in your pillow. Had you really told him he smelled like safety? Had you actually asked about his tattoos?

The glass of water and pills by your bed confirmed it wasn't a dream. You swallowed them gratefully, then noticed the note. Reading it made something flutter in your chest—the precise handwriting, the commands disguised as concern, the lingering scent of him on the paper.

Locksmith coming at 2pm. Security system installation at 4pm. Don't argue. You need both. Call if you need anything. I mean it. —S

You traced your finger over the words. Don't argue. You need both.

So very Simon—making decisions for you, taking control. You should be irritated. Instead, you found yourself pressing the note to your chest like a lovesick teenager.

A series of knocks at your door jolted you upright. The clock now read 1:57 PM.

"Coming!" you called, voice raspy. You scrambled for clothes, pulling on leggings and an oversized sweater, running fingers through your tangled hair.

The man at your door wore a navy uniform with "Sentinel Locksmith" embroidered on the chest. "Hello, Miss. I'm here for the lock change. Premium package. Already paid for."

You blinked. "Already paid for?"

"Yes ma'am. By Mr. Riley. Said to tell you it's non-refundable, so..." He shrugged apologetically.

Of course Simon had paid. Of course he'd anticipated your objections.

For the next hour, you hovered awkwardly as the locksmith replaced your flimsy lock with what he called "military-grade security"—a deadbolt that required both key and keypad entry.

"Your boyfriend must really care about your safety," he commented as he finished up.

"He's not my—" You stopped. What was Simon, exactly? The father of your student? Your midnight rescuer? The man whose almost-touch had haunted you for days? "He's just a friend."

The locksmith gave you a knowing look. "Sure thing. Here's your keys and the code sheet. The gentleman already has copies."

Simon already had keys to your apartment. The thought should have alarmed you. Instead, it felt strangely... right.

Barely an hour later, another knock announced the security system installer—a cheerful woman who proceeded to attach sensors to every window and door, install a control panel by your entryway, and set up a doorbell camera.

"Top-of-the-line system," she explained, showing you how to operate it. "Motion sensors, silent alarm option, direct alert to police and to your emergency contact."

"My emergency contact?"

"Mr. Riley." She handed you a paperwork packet. "All set up. He's primary, but you can add others."

By the time she left, your apartment had been transformed into what felt like a miniature fortress. You stood in your living room, surrounded by blinking sensors and new locks, feeling overwhelmed by the extent of Simon's intervention.

You needed to thank him. That was the polite thing to do, right? After sending the locksmith and security company. After carrying you home. After everything.

You picked up your phone, staring at his name in your contacts. A text seemed safer than a call.

Thank you for last night. And for the locks. And the security system. It's all very... thorough. I'll pay you back.

His response came so quickly you wondered if he'd been waiting for your message.

Good 👍🏻

You stared at the screen. Good? A thumbs-up emoji? After everything that had happened?

"That's it?" you said aloud to your empty apartment. "Good?"

You typed and deleted five different responses, ranging from passive-aggressive to pleading. In the end, you set your phone down without replying.

What had you expected? Flowery declarations? Some acknowledgment of the electricity between you? The man who didn't wave to you at school pickup.

And yet, he'd come when you called. He'd carried you. He'd made sure you were safe.

You sank onto your couch, Selina immediately claiming your lap. "I don't understand him, Sel," you murmured, scratching behind her ears. "One minute he's looking at me like I'm water in a desert, the next he's... 'Good'"

You mimicked his deep voice, then laughed at your own absurdity.

Your head still throbbed, your stomach felt hollow, and your heart—your stupid, guarded heart—ached with longing for a man who communicated in thumbs-up emojis and security systems.

Chapter Text

Sleep never came easily to Simon Riley. Years of military service had trained his body to rest in fragments, always partly alert. But tonight was worse than usual.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the moment you'd pulled away from his touch. The fear in your eyes.

Christ, the way you looked at me like I was some kind of monster.

But wasn't he? The thought that had crossed his mind when his fingers had almost touched your cheek - it hadn't been gentle. It had been raw and overwhelming, like a brand burned into his skin. He'd wanted to grip your chin, tilt your face up, make you look at him while he claimed your mouth. Make you understand that your face—your eyes, your smile, the softness in your expression—had carved itself into his fucking soul.

He'd pushed too far, too fast. Frightened you with the intensity he couldn't seem to control around you.

Should have been more careful. Should have eased you into it. Should have made you want it first.

The thought sent heat coursing through him. Making you want it. Making you beg for his touch instead of flinching from it. The fantasy bloomed in his mind - you, soft and pliant, reaching for him instead of pulling away. Your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, those sweet lips parting in invitation.

Fuck.

So he'd pulled back today. Ignored your wave. Made himself look away from the hurt that flashed across your face.

The way your face fell when I didn't acknowledge you. Like I'd slapped you.

It had taken every ounce of restraint not to cross that fucking parking lot and press you against his car. Not to explain that ignoring you was the only way he could function, because looking at you made him want to do things that would send you running. Made him want to corner you in that empty classroom and find out if you tasted as sweet as you looked.

It's better this way, he told himself. Safer for her. Safer for everyone.

Because the truth was, what he felt for you terrified even him. An ache that bloomed past affection, twisting into something desperate to claim, make you understand that you were his—had been since the moment he'd unfolded that letter with its bright stickers and looping handwriting.

He'd thought about you constantly during deployment—you—a talisman against the blood and horror. He'd created you in his mind long before he'd seen your face. In his fantasies, you'd been soft and sweet, yes, but also his. Completely, utterly his. He'd imagined coming home to you, burying his face in your neck, feeling your small hands soothing away the violence that lived under his skin.

He'd jerked off thinking about those hands. About that sweet voice saying his name. About making you forget every other man who'd ever existed.

Miss Sparkle. Fucking Miss Sparkle.

It had taken every ounce of his military discipline not to grab you right there, to demand why you'd given him hope and comfort and then tried to disappear. Why you'd made him fall for a ghost only to turn out to be real, solid, perfect.

Too perfect. Too fucking good for someone like me.

His phone vibrated on the nightstand. 1:07 AM. Who the hell—

Your name on the screen sent a shock of adrenaline through his system, followed by something darker. You were calling him. Not someone else. Not some friend or family member or—God forbid—another man. Him.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he answered, every nerve ending firing with the possibility that you needed him. That you'd chosen him.

"Hello?"

Your voice came through unsteady, frightened. Something primal awakened in his chest—the instinct to hunt, to eliminate threats.

Someone's hurt you. Someone's made you afraid.

The thought sent violence coursing through his veins. Who? Where? He'd find them. He'd make them pay for putting that tremor in your voice.

As you explained your situation, he was already moving, pulling on jeans, grabbing keys. His mind narrowed to a singular focus: get to you. Now.

Drunk. Alone. Vulnerable.

The thought of you in that state, surrounded by strangers, made something feral claw at his insides. Anyone could approach you. Touch you. Take advantage of your lowered defenses.

Not happening. Not my girl.

My girl. When had he started thinking of you like that? When had his longing twisted so deep that the idea of you with anyone else made his hands itch for violence?

"Where exactly are you standing?" Strategic assessment. Establish position.

"Front entrance. I'm wearing a green dress."

Green dress. His mind conjured an image that made his blood run hot—you, vulnerable, waiting for him. The fabric clinging to curves he'd only imagined, your hair messed from whatever evening had led to this call. He wondered if the dress was short. If it showed those legs he'd fantasized about having wrapped around his waist.

Christ, focus. She needs help, not your fucked-up fantasies.

But even as he chastised himself, his mind was spinning scenarios. You, grateful for his rescue. You, looking up at him with those wide eyes full of trust instead of fear. You, finally seeing him as a protector instead of a threat.

"Don't move. Fifteen minutes." He hung up, already heading for his car.

Fifteen minutes to get to her. Fifteen minutes she'll be standing there alone.

The thought made him want to punch something. Why hadn't you called him sooner? Why had you waited until you were drunk and stranded to reach out?

Because you scared her, you fucking idiot. Because you made her think you didn't want her around.

Mrs. Harris was already halfway out the door, purse slung over her shoulder, when he caught her by the arm.

"Wait. Can you stay? Just the night. I know it's last minute—I'll pay extra."

She blinked in surprise. "Is something wrong with Junie?"

"No. Nothing like that," he lied smoothly. "Just a situation I need to take care of. Won't be long. She’s sleeping, but I don’t want her alone."

The woman hesitated, clearly torn between rest and worry. She glanced back toward the house.

He softened. "Please. Just this once."

Mrs. Harris sighed, then nodded, tired smile appeared on her face. "Sure. But you owe me breakfast."

"Deal."

He made the fifteen-minute drive in twelve, breaking speed limits, running a red light on an empty street. The entire time, his mind raced with violent scenarios—you waiting alone, vulnerable. Someone approaching you. Someone touching you.

The rhythm of it echoed through him—no name, no sound, just a pull. A quiet fury in his chest. A sense that you were meant to stay close.

He should’ve been alarmed by how deeply it had rooted itself. But all he felt was a strange calm. Like the truth had always been there, waiting for the right moment to bloom—and now it had.

You called me. Out of everyone you could have called, you chose me.

The thought sent heat through him. Trust. You trusted him enough to call when you were vulnerable. Maybe you felt it too - that pull, that connection. Maybe the fear in your eyes wasn't about him specifically, but about the intensity between you.

When he pulled up to the hotel entrance and saw you—small, shivering in a dress that clung to curves he'd only imagined—something dark and hungry unfurled in his chest.

Fuck me.

The dress was everything he'd imagined and worse. Green fabric that highlighted your eyes, cut low enough to tease at cleavage. Your hair was messed, your makeup slightly smudged, and you looked so fucking perfect it hurt.

Look at you. Look at what you're doing to me.

His jeans were already tight, his body responding to the sight of you despite— or maybe because of— your vulnerable state. You looked like you needed taking care of. Like you needed someone strong enough to handle your softness.

Like you needed him.

"You came?" Your voice held such genuine surprise it made him want to hunt down everyone who'd ever let you down and make them pay for making you doubt.

Of course I fucking came. I'll always come for you.

"You called." As if there had been any other option. As if he wouldn't burn cities to the ground if you needed him.

The surprise in your voice cut through him. What kind of men had you known before? What kind of disappointments had taught you not to expect reliability?

I'm not them. I'm not going anywhere.

He assessed you quickly—dilated pupils, unsteady posture, the slight slur in your speech. Drunk, but not dangerously so. Just enough to make you vulnerable.

Just drunk enough to be honest. Just drunk enough to let me take care of you.

When you stumbled, his decision was immediate. He lifted you into his arms. You were delicate in a way that made his hands feel too large, too rough, too capable of breaking you if he wasn't careful.

So fucking small.

The feel of you in his arms sent electricity through every nerve ending. Your body was soft, warm, perfect. He could feel the shape of you through the thin fabric of your dress— the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip. Your head tucked against his shoulder like you belonged there.

This is what it would feel like. Coming home to you. Carrying you to bed.

The thought of bed sent his imagination spiraling. You, naked between his sheets. Your hair spread across his pillow. Those soft sounds you'd make when he finally got his hands on you properly.

He settled you carefully against his chest, breathing in the scent of you—vanilla and something floral, mixed with the lingering sweetness of alcohol.

Christ, you smell like everything I've ever wanted.

The thought of anyone else seeing you like this, vulnerable and soft, made something violent twist in his gut. Had someone touched you at that hotel? Had someone's hands been on you before he arrived?

I'll kill them. I'll fucking kill anyone who touched you.

Whatever it was, it hit like a trigger pulled—swift, final, and unforgiving. You were his. Had been his since the moment he first laid eyes on her—soft voice, shy smile, and every bit of her carved into his memory like scripture. Tonight was just making it official.

"I can walk," you protested, even as you nestled closer.

"Humor me." Let me have this, he didn't say. Let me hold you while you'll allow it. Before you remember to be afraid of me.

Before you remember I'm not good enough for someone like you.

Your head rested gently against his shoulder, breath soft against the curve of his neck—each exhale a warmth that unraveled him in quiet threads. He walked slowly, steadily, eyes fixed ahead, though everything in him threatened to turn back and hold you tighter.

It took everything he had to focus on the motion of his steps, on the steady rhythm of breath and silence, instead of the rising tide beneath his skin—something fierce, something ancient—pulling him toward you with the weight of a name he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t gentle. But he carried it like a prayer.

Don't fuck this up. Don't scare her again.

But having you in his arms felt so right it was hard to remember why he was supposed to be careful. This was what he'd been created for - protecting you, caring for you, making sure nothing bad ever happened to you again.

"You smell nice," you murmured, your lips so close to his skin he could feel each word. "Like... safety."

The comment hit like a punch to the ribs—sharp, unexpected, and hard to recover from. Safety. The last thing anyone had ever associated with him. He was danger. Destruction. Death. He'd taken lives with these same hands that now cradled you.

I've killed people with these hands. Tortured them. Broken them.

But to you... safety.

Maybe I can be that for you. Maybe I can be something other than a weapon.

He closed the passenger door, taking a moment to compose himself before walking around to the driver's side. He wanted to drive you somewhere else—somewhere only he knew about, somewhere he could keep you, make sure nothing and no one ever saw you again.

A cabin in the mountains. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere I could take care of you properly.

The thought should have disturbed him. It didn't.

Instead, he imagined waking up with you every morning. Making you coffee. Watching you read in the sunshine. Having you all to himself, no distractions, no other people trying to get your attention.

Meant for me. Written in bone, carved in fate.

"Why didn't you wave back?" Your question cut through the quiet of the car.

The hurt in your voice made his chest tight. He'd done that. He'd put that pain there because he was too fucked up to handle his own feelings like a normal person.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Not now. Not when you were drunk and he was fighting every dark impulse—to pull over and confess everything, to tell you how he'd searched for you, how he'd realized who you were, how he drove by your apartment last night just to make sure your lights were on, that you were safe.

Can't tell you I've been watching you. Can't tell you I know your schedule better than you do.

"We're not discussing that while you're drunk."

We're not discussing it because I can't explain without sounding like a stalker.

Which maybe he was. The line had blurred somewhere between watching your Instagram obsessively and memorizing your routine. Between protecting and possessing.

"I'm not that drunk," you lied. "Just... wobbly."

Wobbly. The childlike word from your lips nearly undid him. You were so soft, so gentle, so painfully innocent. Everything he wasn't. Everything that had been beaten, shot, and burned out of him years ago.

What the fuck are you doing with someone like me?

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wasn't letting you go. Whatever this was between you, however fucked up his feelings had become, you were his now. Tonight had made that clear.

You called me. You trusted me. That means something.

Your head lolled against the window, eyes half-closed. "Your hands are so nice," you mumbled, the words slurring together. "Thought about them a lot. Since... since you almost touched my face that night."

Simon's grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. He shouldn't ask. Shouldn't encourage this. But he couldn't stop himself.

You've been thinking about my hands?

The knowledge sent heat straight to his cock. What exactly had you been thinking? Had you imagined them on your skin? In your hair? Between your legs?

"What did you think about them?"

Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do to you.

You hummed softly, a dreamy sound. "How they'd feel. On my skin. You have calluses. I noticed when you took the teacup from me."

Christ. His calluses - rough from weapons, from violence, from years of controlled brutality. And you'd noticed them. Thought about them touching your soft skin.

You want my violent hands on you. You want a killer touching you.

Every muscle in his body tensed. "You should stop talking now, angel."

Because if you keep talking, I'm going to pull this car over and show you exactly how those hands feel.

But you didn't. The alcohol had dissolved whatever barriers usually kept your thoughts locked away. "Called me angel," you murmured, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Like it when you do that. Makes my stomach feel funny. Like butterflies, but... warmer."

Warmer. The word sent his imagination spiraling. Warm butterflies meant arousal. Meant you felt something when he called you angel. Meant maybe you wanted him too, even if you didn't fully understand it yet.

My sweet angel. My innocent little angel who doesn't know what she's asking for.

"I dream about you sometimes," you confessed, voice dropping to a whisper. "S'embarrassing."

His cock twitched, pressing painfully against his jeans. Dreams. You dreamed about him. His mind raced with possibilities - what kind of dreams? Innocent ones about holding hands and sweet kisses? Or something darker, needier?

Please let them be dirty dreams. Please let me not be the only one losing my fucking mind.

He shouldn't ask. He really shouldn't. "What happens in these dreams?"

Tell me. Tell me you wake up wet thinking about me.

You turned your head toward him, eyes heavy-lidded. "Can't tell you that," you giggled softly. "Miss Sparkle doesn't have those kinds of thoughts."

Those kinds of thoughts.

The implication sent heat coursing through him. What kind of thoughts did you have about him that made you blush even while drunk? Thoughts about his hands? His mouth? About him pinning you down and making you forget your own name?

Dirty thoughts. My sweet teacher has dirty thoughts about me.

The knowledge was intoxicating. You weren't as innocent as you seemed. Underneath all that sweetness was a woman who thought about him in ways that would make you blush. A woman who wanted him, even if you were too shy to admit it sober.

I'll make those dreams come true, sweetness. Every fucking one of them.

At your apartment, he lifted you again, savoring the feeling of you in his arms, knowing it might be the last time you allowed it. Your head tucked against his neck, your breath warming his skin.

This is torture. Having you this close and not being able to keep you.

"You're so strong," you mumbled, your lips brushing his collarbone. "Is that from all the... soldier things? You have tattoos too, don't you? I saw them, just a little, when you reached for the mugs in my kitchen, at school too."

You notice everything. Every little detail.

The knowledge that you'd been watching him, cataloging details about his body, sent satisfaction through him. You were paying attention. You cared enough to notice his strength, his tattoos.

He said nothing, afraid his voice would betray the effect your innocent observations had on him. Yes, he had tattoos—reminders of battles fought, brothers lost, blood spilled. The thought of you noticing, wondering about them, perhaps tracing them with those delicate fingers... it made his skin burn with want.

Would you trace them with your tongue? Would you ask about each one while you kissed your way across my chest?

"I like your tattoos," you continued, fingers clumsily tracing the edge of one. "Wanted to ask about them but was too nervous. You make me nervous. In a good way. Like... like when you're about to jump into deep water. Like—fwshhhh… PLOOSH!"

Your fingers on his skin, even through the fabric, sent electricity straight down. You made yourself nervous. You wanted to ask about his tattoos. The intimacy of it, the curiosity, the gentle way you touched him - it was everything he'd fantasized about.

Nervous in a good way. That had to mean something. Had to mean the tension between you wasn't just fear.

Like jumping into deep water. Perfect analogy. Because that's exactly what being with him would be like - diving headfirst into something that could drown you if you weren't careful.

Your apartment was exactly as he remembered—soft, cluttered, lived-in. So different from his spartan home. Everywhere he looked, there were traces of you - books stacked on every surface, art supplies scattered around, photos of students and friends. It was warm, welcoming, everything his place wasn't.

This is what a home looks like. This is what I want to come back to every day.

He carried you directly to your bedroom, laying you on sheets that smelled like you. He allowed himself one moment to look at you there, small and vulnerable on your bed, hair spread across your pillow. The image burned into his memory, feeding darker thoughts he refused to acknowledge.

This is what you'd look like in my bed. Soft and sweet.

Your dress had ridden up slightly, exposing more of your thighs. The fabric clung to your curves, outlining the shape of you in ways that made his mouth go dry. You looked perfect. You looked like everything he'd ever wanted.

I could climb into that bed right now. You're drunk enough that you might let me. Might even want me to.

The thought sent guilt crashing through him. You trusted him. You'd called him for help, not for him to take advantage of your vulnerable state.

But you want me. You admitted it. Dreams and thoughts and nervous butterflies.

"You're looking at me like that again," you murmured, eyes fighting to stay open.

He froze. Caught. "Like what?"

Like I want to devour you. Like I want to mark every inch of your skin. Like I want to make you mine in every possible way.

"Like you want to eat me up." Your giggle turned into a yawn. "S'okay. I like it. Scary, but... nice scary."

Nice scary. Fuck, you were killing him. You liked the way he looked at you. You weren't afraid - you were intrigued. Maybe even turned on.

You have no idea what I want to do to you. What I'm capable of.

When you caught his wrist, those wide eyes looking up at him, something inside him cracked. Your fingers were so small around his wrist, so delicate. He could break free easily, but the trust in your touch held him more securely than any restraint.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "For calling you. For... for last night. I got scared."

Don't apologize. Never apologize for needing me.

The hurt in your voice made his chest tight. You thought calling him had been an imposition. You thought reaching out when you needed help was something to be sorry for.

I've been waiting for you to call me. I've been hoping you'd need me.

"I know, angel." I should scare you. You should run from me while you still can.

But he didn't want you to run. He wanted you to stay, to need him, to let him take care of you in all the ways he'd been fantasizing about.

"Are you mad at me?"

Mad at you? How could he explain that he was only ever mad at himself? At the monster inside him that wanted to possess you completely, that fantasized about locking every door and window to keep you safe—to keep you his?

I could never be mad at you. You're perfect. You're everything I never knew I wanted.

"No. Not at you." Never at you. He reached out, allowing himself one touch—brushing hair from your face, memorizing the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

So soft. Softer than I imagined.

Your skin was warm, smooth, perfect. He wanted to touch more. Wanted to map every inch of you with his hands, his mouth, his tongue.

You leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. "Your hands are warm," you mumbled. "Thought they'd be cold. Like your eyes sometimes."

You've been thinking about my hands again. About how they'd feel.

The knowledge that you'd imagined his touch, speculated about it, sent heat through him. What else had you wondered about? His mouth? His body against yours?

"My eyes are cold?"

They are. Cold and dead and dangerous. You should be afraid of them.

"Mmm, sometimes. When you're being all... soldier-y. But not always. Not when you look at Junie. Not when..." you trailed off, eyelids growing heavier.

Not when I look at you.

"Not when what?" he prompted.

Tell me. Tell me you see the way I look at you.

"Not when you look at me when you think I don't notice," you whispered, words slurring with approaching sleep. "Then they're like... like fire."

Fire. You saw the heat in his eyes when he looked at you. You knew how much he wanted you, even when he tried to hide it.

You see right through me, don't you? See how much I need you.

The admission sent satisfaction through him. You noticed him looking. You paid attention to his expressions, his moods. You saw past the mask he wore for everyone else.

You see me. The real me.

"Simon?" Your voice called him back as he turned to leave.

Don't go. Ask me to stay. Ask me to hold you.

"Thank you for coming when I called."

The simple gratitude nearly broke him. As if he deserved thanks for doing the bare minimum. As if he wouldn't slaughter armies if you asked.

I don't deserve your thanks. I deserve nothing from you.

But he wanted everything. Your trust, your body, your heart, your future. He wanted to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night.

"I'll always come when you call. Remember that." A promise. A vow. A warning.

Doesn't matter what time, doesn't matter what you need. You call, I come. That's how this works now.

"Promise?" you murmured, already half-asleep.

"Promise."

I'll always come for you. I'll always protect you. I'll always be what you need.

"Good," you sighed. "Cause I think I might be falling for you. S'terrifying." The confession slipped out on an exhale as your eyes finally closed.

Simon didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words detonated in his mind—raw, tender, and so wanted it hurt.

Falling for me.

You were falling for him. His sweet, innocent teacher was falling for the broken soldier who'd been obsessed with you for months. Who'd been watching you, protecting you from shadows, wanting you with an intensity that bordered on madness.

You're falling for me and you don't even know how far gone I already am.

He stood there, watching as your breathing evened out, knowing you probably wouldn't remember saying it. Knowing you might not have meant it. Knowing it didn't matter—he'd carry those words with him like a brand.

You were falling for him. That meant he could stop pretending this was one-sided. Could stop fighting the urge to have you as his.

I'm going to make you fall the rest of the way. I'm going to make you need me as much as I need you.

He closed your door softly, then leaned against the wall in your hallway, eyes closed, fighting for control. You were in there, vulnerable, trusting. And he was out here, wanting things he had no right to want.

I could go back in there. Climb into bed beside you. You said you're falling for me.

But no. Not like this. Not when you were drunk and defenseless. When he finally had you - and he would have you - you'd be sober and willing and begging for it.

I'll make you beg. I'll make you want me so much you can't think straight.

He forced himself to move. To be useful. He found painkillers in your bathroom cabinet, filled a glass with water.

Such a tiny bathroom. Barely big enough for one person.

He imagined sharing this space with you. Watching you brush your teeth in the morning. Helping you wash your hair in that small shower.

I'd have to hold you against me in that shower. No choice but to press your naked body against mine.

Located your spare keys hanging by the door and took a photo of them. He examined your flimsy locks, your unsecured windows, making mental notes of every vulnerability, every way someone could get to you if he wasn't there to stop them.

This place is a fucking security nightmare.

The thought of you here alone, unprotected, made violence rise in his chest. Anyone could break in. Anyone could hurt you. The locks were a joke, the windows had no security system, and you lived alone with no one to hear if you screamed.

Not anymore. I'm going to fix all of this.

He'd have proper locks installed. Security cameras. An alarm system. Motion sensors. He'd make this place a fortress so nothing could reach you.

Or maybe I'll just convince you to move in with me.

Before leaving, he wrote the note, hesitating over the wording. Too commanding? Not clear enough? He settled for directness. You needed better security. He would provide it. He'd make sure no one could reach you—no one but him.

I'm going to take care of you whether you like it or not.

He returned to your bedroom, allowing himself one more look. You'd curled onto your side, one hand tucked under your cheek, lips slightly parted in sleep. Defenseless. Perfect.

So beautiful.

Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead—a benediction, a claim. His lips lingered longer than they should have, savoring the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

"My girl," he whispered against your skin, so softly even he barely heard it. A confession. A prayer. A sin.

I'm going to keep you. I'm going to make you happy. I'm going to love you until you can't remember what life was like before me.

He let himself out, locking up with the inadequate lock he'd replace tomorrow. In his car, he fired off late-night messages—one to a locksmith he trusted, another to a veteran-run security company. Even at 4 a.m., replies pinged back. Money transferred, appointments quietly booked.

By tomorrow night, she'll be safe. By tomorrow night, I'll know she's protected.

Only when he was back home, checking on Junie's sleeping form, did he allow himself to revisit the feeling of you in his arms. Small, trusting, smelling of vanilla and saying he smelled like safety.

Junie's going to love having her around more.

The thought came unbidden but felt right. You already cared about his daughter, already treated her with the kind of gentle affection she deserved. You'd be good for her. Good for both of them.

A family. We could be a family.

He wouldn't sleep again that night. But for the first time in years, the insomnia wasn't filled with the ghosts of war.

Instead, he thought of you. Your soft body against his chest. Your drunk, honest words. The taste of your skin under his lips. Your green dress and messy hair and the trust you'd placed in him.

I think I might be falling for you. S'terrifying.

The words echoed in his mind, dangerous and addictive. If you were falling, he was already drowning—had been since that letter arrived in his hands.

I'm going to catch you when you fall. I'm going to make sure you never hit the ground.

And for once, Simon Riley didn’t feel like a weapon—cold, controlled, forged for orders.

He felt like something older. Sharper. A predator not hunting, but circling something he already considered his. Not a blade waiting to be drawn—

But hunger, finally fed.

And you're going to let me catch you. You're going to fall right into my arms.

Chapter Text

The last day of school always carried a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. You watched your students scribble their summer bucket lists with the kind of fierce concentration usually reserved for standardized tests. Their pencils scratched against paper as they documented dreams of swimming pools, camping trips, and staying up past bedtime.

"Miss Sparkle, can I put 'learn to skateboard' even if I don't have a skateboard?" Emma asked, her pigtails bouncing as she looked up from her paper.

"Of course, sweetheart. That's what makes it a goal to work toward." You smiled, making your rounds through the classroom one last time before summer.

The dismissal bell rang with its usual jarring buzz, and chaos erupted. Twenty-four children suddenly remembered they needed to hug you goodbye, grab forgotten lunch boxes, and locate missing sweaters. You herded them toward the pickup area, your teacher voice cutting through the noise.

"Walking feet, everyone. We've made it this far without injuries—let's not break that streak now."

The pickup zone hummed with end-of-year energy. Parents clustered in their usual groups, some already sporting vacation tans, others looking as ready for summer break as their children. You stood at your designated spot, checking off names as familiar faces collected their kids.

That's when you saw him.

Simon stood apart from the other parents, his military bearing making him instantly recognizable even in civilian clothes. Dark jeans, black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, and those eyes that seemed to catalog everything around him. When your gazes met, your stomach did something complicated.

He approached with that measured walk of his, and suddenly you were hyperaware of your end-of-school-year appearance—pen stains on your cardigan, chalk dust on your hands, messy hair.

"Hello," he said, his voice carrying that familiar roughness that did things to your pulse.

"Hi." You managed a smile that felt too bright, too forced. "How are you?"

"Good." His eyes searched your face. "You?"

"Good. Yeah, good." The word was losing all meaning. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Thank you again. For everything. The other night, I mean. Taking care of—"

"You don't need to thank me."

But you pressed on, needing to address the elephant that had been sitting on your chest for days. "The security system, the new locks... I'll pay you back. First payment when my salary comes in next week, and then we can work out a plan—"

A sound escaped him that might have been amusement. He shook his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Stop."

"I'm serious, Simon. I can't just—"

"You're not paying me back." His tone was gentle but final. "I wanted to do it."

Heat crept up your neck. The way he looked at you made your chest tight, like there was something important hovering just beneath the surface of this conversation. Something neither of you was brave enough to name.

"Daddy!" Junie's voice cut through the moment as she launched herself at Simon's legs. "Did you see my art project? Miss Sparkle said it was museum-worthy!"

"Museum-worthy, huh?" Simon's entire demeanor softened as he looked down at his daughter. "Show me."

You watched them together, something aching in your chest at the tenderness in his voice, the way his large hand smoothed over her hair. This man who carried himself like danger incarnate became someone entirely different with his little girl.

"Have a wonderful summer, Junie," you said, crouching to her level. "Keep practicing your reading, okay?"

"I will! Daddy promised we could go to the library every week." She beamed, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He bought like ten new books already."

"Did he now?" You glanced up at Simon, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

"She mentioned she wanted to read more," he said simply.

Of course he had. Of course this man who noticed everything would remember a passing comment from his daughter and turn it into a summer of literary adventures.

After Junie skipped off to say goodbye to her friends, you and Simon stood in awkward silence. Parents flowed around you, children's laughter echoing across the courtyard, but it felt like you existed in a bubble.

"Well," you started, then stopped. What were you supposed to say? 'Thanks for installing a security system in my apartment after carrying my drunk ass home'? 'Sorry I've been avoiding you because you make me feel things I'm not ready to feel'?

"Have a good summer," you settled on, safe and generic.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "You too."

But he didn't move, and neither did you. You stood there like idiots, looking at each other while the world continued around you.

Finally, Junie returned to claim her father, and you watched them walk away. Simon glanced back once, and the look he gave you made your heart stutter. Like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words either.

Two days later, you were elbow-deep in classroom prep when your phone buzzed with the parent group chat notification. You'd posted asking for help moving furniture and setting up for next year—standard end-of-school maintenance that was easier with extra hands.

Anyone available to help tomorrow morning? Nothing too strenuous, just rearranging desks and hanging some new shelves. Coffee and donuts provided! 🍩

The responses came quickly. Sarah could come for an hour. Mike had to work but could swing by after lunch. A few others offered regrets but well wishes.

Simon read the message—you could see—but didn't respond. Not that you expected him to. He had his own life, his own responsibilities. It wasn't like he owed you anything.

You tried not to think about how disappointed you felt.

The next afternoon, you were assembling what the instructions optimistically called an "easy-mount shelving unit" when you heard footsteps in the hallway. You looked up from the disaster of screws and brackets scattered across your desk to see Mark peering around the doorframe.

"Need help?" he asked, stepping into the room without waiting for an answer.

"I've got it, thanks." You turned back to the instructions, hoping he'd take the hint.

He didn't. Instead, he moved closer, leaning over your shoulder to examine the shelf pieces. "This model's tricky. I installed the same one in my classroom last month. Took me three tries to get it right."

You could smell his cologne—something overly sweet that made your nose wrinkle. "Really, Mark, I'm fine."

"Don't be stubborn. Here, let me—"

"She said she's fine."

Both you and Mark turned toward the doorway. Simon stood there, unmistakably fresh from base, still in his military gear—sans mask. He filled the frame with his presence, his eyes locked on Mark with an intensity that made the air feel charged.

"Oh." Mark straightened, suddenly looking less confident. "Simon, right? Junie's dad?"

"That's right." Simon stepped into the room, and somehow the space felt smaller. "What are you doing here?"

"Helping out." Mark's voice had taken on a defensive edge. "Same as you, I imagine."

"Is that right?" Simon's gaze flicked to you, then back to Mark. Something passed across his features—a calculation, maybe, or recognition of some kind of challenge.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. You could feel tension radiating off both men, though you couldn't quite understand why. Mark shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable under Simon's stare.

"Well," Mark said finally, "I should probably get going. Got plans tonight." He shot you a smile that felt forced. "Call if you need anything else."

"Actually," Simon's voice stopped Mark at the door. "You can go ahead and leave now. I've got this handled."

Mark's face flushed. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Simon's tone was deceptively casual, but there was unmistakable steel underneath. "Thanks for stopping by, but your help isn't needed anymore. Erase her number from your phone. Remove it like a bad habit, and don’t ever make the mistake of dialing it again."

"Now wait just a—"

"Mark." Simon took a step forward, and Mark took one back. "Walk away."

You watched this exchange with growing confusion. What the hell was happening? Mark looked between Simon and you, his jaw working like he wanted to say something else. But whatever he saw in Simon's expression must have changed his mind.

"Right. Well. See you next semester, I guess." Mark practically fled the classroom.

You stared at the empty doorway, then at Simon. "What was that about?"

He shrugged, already moving toward the scattered shelf pieces. "Nothing important."

"Simon." You crossed your arms. "You just essentially threatened my colleague."

"Did I threaten him?" He picked up the instruction manual, frowning at the diagram. "I don't remember making any threats."

"You know what I mean."

His gaze locked with yours—dark, unreadable, the kind of look that made your breath catch for reasons you couldn’t name. Not because it frightened you. Because it didn’t. Because you felt safe, even as something beneath that stillness smoldered like a fuse.

“Didn’t like how close he got,” he murmured, quieter this time. “Didn’t like it at all.”

The way he said it—soft, careful, reverent—made it sound less like a warning, and more like a vow.

"He was trying to help."

"He was trying to get close to you." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. "There's a difference."

Heat crept up your neck. "And you could tell that how, exactly?"

"The way he looked at you. The way he found an excuse to touch you." Simon set down the manual, his attention fully on you now. "The way he's been looking at you all year, according to Junie."

Your mouth fell open. "Junie told you—"

"She mentions things. Like how Mr. Peterson always finds reasons to visit your classroom. How he brings you coffee you don't drink. How he makes you uncomfortable."

"She said I looked uncomfortable?"

"She's observant." He moved closer, and you caught that scent you were beginning to associate with safety—something clean and masculine and warm. "Kids notice more than we think."

You felt exposed, like he could see right through you. "You didn't have to run him off."

"Yes, I did."

The certainty in his voice made something flutter in your chest. You stared at each other for a moment that felt loaded with meaning you weren't ready to examine.

"So," you said finally, trying to break the tension. "You're here to help?"

"If you'll let me."

You gestured at the chaos around you. "Fair warning—I'm hopeless with assembly instructions."

That almost-smile appeared again. "I noticed."

You worked in companionable silence for a while. Simon made quick work of the shelf assembly while you sorted through supplies and cleaned out desk drawers. It was domestic in a way that made your chest ache. Easy. Natural. Like you'd been doing this together for years.

"Simon?" you said eventually, not looking up from the stack of papers you were organizing.

"Yeah?"

"About the other night..." You forced yourself to meet his eyes. "Did I say anything... inappropriate? I know I was pretty drunk."

He went very still. "What do you remember?"

"Not much after you got me home." Which was a lie. You remembered fragments—his hands gentle as he helped you out of your shoes, the careful way he tucked a blanket around you, the sound of his voice as he made sure you were okay. You also remembered, or maybe only dreamt, the moment your mouth had spilled a truth too soft to carry in daylight—that you were falling for him. But you weren’t sure if you'd said it aloud or if it had only echoed in the haze of your mind. "I just want to make sure I didn't say anything that made you uncomfortable."

He was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than usual.

"You didn't say anything wrong."

But there was something in his tone that made you think you had said something. Something he wasn't telling you.

"Are you sure? Because if I did something—"

"You didn't." He stepped closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "Don't worry about it."

You wanted to push, to ask what exactly you'd said that put that look on his face. But the way he was looking at you made your thoughts scatter. There was something intense in his gaze, something that made your pulse quicken.

"Okay," you said softly. "If you're sure."

He nodded, but didn't step back. You stood there in the quiet classroom, surrounded by the detritus of another school year, and you felt like you were on the edge of something important.

"Actually," you said, sudden impulse overriding your usual caution. "Since we're both free this weekend, maybe we could... I don't know, do something? Get dinner? Junie could come too, of course. Or we could go somewhere kid-friendly. Amusement park, maybe, or—"

The change in his expression stopped you cold. Something shuttered behind his eyes, and you watched him retreat even though he hadn't moved.

"I can't," he said.

The words struck with the silent weight of a closing door—final, unflinching, and hard to breathe through. "Oh. Okay, that's—"

"I'm deploying tomorrow."

You blinked. "Tomorrow?"

"Got the call yesterday. Two weeks, maybe longer." His jaw was tight, like the words cost him something.

"Oh." Disappointment crashed over you, sharper than it had any right to be. "That's... wow. Short notice."

"Yeah."

You stood there in awful silence. You felt stupid for asking, for assuming he'd want to spend time with you outside of chance encounters and parent-teacher obligations.

"But I would," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Want to spend time with you." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "If I could. When I get back, maybe we could..."

"Yeah," you said quickly. "When you get back. That sounds good."

But it didn't feel good. It felt like loss, like missing something before it even started.

You turned back to your respective tasks, but the easy atmosphere was gone. Now there was tension, expectation, the weight of things unsaid.

"Can I ask you something?" you said as you arranged supplies on the newly mounted shelves.

"Sure."

"Junie's mother." You kept your voice carefully neutral. "Do you mind me asking what happened there?"

He was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, he didn't look at you.

"Some people aren't meant to stay," he said simply. "She realized that about herself before it got ugly."

"Does she... does she see Junie at all?"

"I tried to make that work. Offered visitation, whatever she wanted." He shrugged, but the gesture carried a deeper ache. "She said she was fine. That sometimes, things like this just happen. For her, Junie was a mistake. For me... she was the one thing in my life that ever felt like a blessing.

Your chest ached for him, for Junie. "I'm sorry."

"It is what it is." But his voice was rough around the edges.

"What about your family?" you asked gently. "Do you have anyone else?"

The tools in his hands went still. "No."

Something in that single word made you look at him more closely. There was grief there, old and deep.

"Simon?"

"They're gone." He set down the hammer with deliberate care. "All of them."

Your heart broke a little. Without thinking, you moved closer, drawn by the pain in his voice.

"I'm sorry," you said again, inadequate words for what felt like enormous loss.

He looked at you then, and you saw something raw in his expression. "It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't make it easier."

A sound escaped him—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "No. It doesn't."

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing his arm. "You don't deserve that. All that loss. You're such a good father, such a good person..."

He was looking at you like you'd said something surprising. Like kindness was unexpected.

"Simon." His name came out barely above a whisper.

You were standing close now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. His eyes searched your face, and you felt like you were drowning in the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't remember what I said the other night," you said, the words spilling out like your brain had disconnected entirely from reason—because that's what happened when he was near. "But... can I kiss you?"

Something shifted in his expression. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin with devastating gentleness.

"Out of pity?" he asked, voice rough.

"No." The word came out fierce, certain. "God, no. Never pity."

That was all the permission he needed. His mouth found yours, and the kiss was nothing like you'd expected. Gentle, careful, like you were something precious that might break. His lips were warm and soft, and he tasted like coffee and something uniquely him.

When you broke apart, you stayed close, foreheads almost touching. Your heart was racing, and you could feel his breath against your skin.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," you admitted.

"How long is a while?" His voice was lower than usual, intimate.

"Since our first meeting."

Something like wonder crossed his features. "Really?"

"You're not exactly easy to ignore, Simon Riley."

You finished the classroom setup in a different kind of silence—charged, aware, full of possibility. Every accidental brush of fingers felt electric. Every shared glance carried weight.

When everything was done, he insisted on driving you home. The black SUV was parked outside the school, imposing and sleek against the late afternoon sky. You climbed into the passenger seat, hyperaware of the confined space, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the vehicle.

The drive was quiet, charged with the kind of tension that made your skin feel too tight. You watched the familiar streets pass by through the tinted windows, stealing glances at Simon's profile as he navigated traffic. His hands on the steering wheel were steady, confident, and you found yourself remembering how those same hands had cupped your face just minutes before.

When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved to get out. The engine ticked quietly as it cooled, and the reality of his deployment settled between you like a wall.

"How long did you say?" you asked, your voice softer in the enclosed space.

"Two weeks. Maybe longer."

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your chest tightened. "Be safe, okay?"

"Always am."

"Simon." You turned to face him fully, needing him to understand. "I mean it. Be safe."

Something softened in his expression. "I will."

You leaned across the center console and pressed a kiss to his cheek, soft and quick. When you pulled back, he was looking at you like you'd given him something precious.

"When you get back," you said.

"When I get back," he agreed.

You climbed out of the SUV and watched him drive away until the taillights disappeared around the corner, your fingers pressed to your lips where the taste of him still lingered. Two weeks felt like forever.

But for the first time in longer than you could remember, you had something to wait for.

The afternoon sun filtered through your classroom windows as you gathered the last of your things, checking your phone to find a string of voice messages from Olivia.

You pressed play on the first one as you shouldered your bag, her bright voice filling your ear through your earbuds.

"Okay so get this—Mia literally told a customer today that decaf wasn't real coffee, it was just brown water pretending to have purpose. I'm not even kidding."

The next message was Mia's voice, clearly having stolen Olivia's phone: "It's called honesty, babe. The woman needed to hear the truth about her life choices."

You grinned, starting your walk home as you listened to their back-and-forth banter. Another message from Olivia: "She looked personally offended. Like Mia had insulted her entire bloodline. Anyway, speaking of bloodlines, how's your brooding soldier? Still making you spontaneously combust with those intense stares?"

Your cheeks warmed as you paused to send a quick text to Simon about summer camp—something professional and appropriate that definitely didn't make you think about the way his hands had felt in your hair a few days ago—how his mouth had found yours in the still hush of your classroom, a kiss that had started tentative and reverent, and deepened with each breath until the rest of the world faded away. You hadn't told them about the kiss. Something about it felt too tender, too precious to dissect with their well-meaning but chaotic commentary.

Hi! Summer camp starts next week for kids who are interested. Junie mentioned she might want to join. Info packet attached. Let me know if you have questions! 😊

You hit send and kept walking, letting the next voice message play. It was Mia again: "You're being weird about him, aren't you? Using that teacher voice where you pretend you're not completely gone for someone."

Before you could record a response, another message from Olivia came through: "Oh my boy, still thinking of that moment when Mark tried to help her with those shelves? And Simon just materialized like some kind of protective shadow? I thought Mark was going to wet himself. The way you retold the whole story made it sound like a ridiculous sitcom episode—except with a six-foot soldier in military gear instead of a laugh track."

You couldn't help but laugh out loud at that, earning a strange look from a passing jogger. It really had been satisfying to watch Mark's cocky demeanor crumble the moment Simon stepped into the room.

Mia's voice again: "Mark totally deserved it. God, men like him are the worst. All swagger and no substance. Probably compensating for something, you know?"

That hit home. You pulled out your phone, recording a voice message back: "Right? He was so gross back at the hotel. Ugh."

But then you decided to text instead, your fingers moving quickly as you waited at a crosswalk: "And honestly, I bet he's one of those men who think they're all that and still have a dick the size of a thimble. Fuck. He gives me the ick."

You hit send without thinking, muscle memory taking over as you started listening to the next voice message from the girls. It wasn't until you were climbing the stairs to your apartment that you grabbed your phone to check for any responses from Simon about the summer camp.

Your blood turned to ice.

The text thread with Simon stared back at you, your message about Mark's anatomy sitting there like a neon sign of mortification. But worse—so much worse—was Simon's response, timestamped just fifteen minutes ago.

If that was meant for someone else, I'd tell you to double-check next time.

And then, because apparently the universe had decided to personally victimize you today:

You know, if you wanted to talk about my dick, you could've just asked.

You screamed. Actually screamed, a sound that sent Selina bolting from her perch on the windowsill as you fumbled with your keys, nearly dropping your phone in the process.

He thought—oh fuck, he thought you were talking about him. That you'd been discussing his... with your friends. After he'd kissed you. After that perfect, tender moment in your classroom when everything had felt like it was finally falling into place.

Your fingers moved without conscious thought, deleting the messages—yours and his—watching them vanish as if they'd never existed. But of course, that didn't actually solve anything. Simon had still seen your text. Still thought you were... discussing him.

You buried your face in your hands, sinking onto your couch as the full magnitude of the disaster hit you. This was catastrophic. This was relationship-ending. This was—

Your phone buzzed again.

Just so we're clear, that wasn't about me, right?

The relief in realizing he was giving you an out was immediately overshadowed by the fresh wave of mortification. You stared at the message for a full minute before your fingers started moving, typing and deleting and typing again.

Oh my GOD no! It was about Mark! I was talking to the girls about Mark and I accidentally sent it to you instead and I'm MORTIFIED and I would never dare talk about you like that and I'm so sorry and I want to disappear forever

You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately wanted to take it back because you probably sounded completely unhinged.

His response came faster than you expected:

Breathe. It's fine.

And then, a moment later:

For what it's worth, I've got a ruler if you ever want to settle any debates.

Despite everything—the mortification, the panic, the way your heart was still hammering against your ribs—you felt your lips twitch. Leave it to Simon to defuse the situation with the driest possible humor.

You stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back a single word:

Stop.

It was the best you could manage without combusting entirely. You set the phone aside and buried your face in your hands again, where Selina found you a few minutes later, purring as she settled in your lap.

"I'm a disaster, Selina," you whispered, scratching behind her ears. "A complete and utter disaster who can't even insult the right man properly."

But at least Simon knew it hadn't been about him. That was something, right?

Even if you were never going to be able to look him in the eye again.

The mess hall felt too loud after the briefing, full of that particular energy that came after a job well done. Simon pushed eggs around his plate, his mind already thousands of miles away from this desert base where everything tasted like dust and diesel.

Soap stabbed at his mashed potatoes like they'd personally offended him. "These taste like concrete," he muttered, then took another bite anyway.

Gaz leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the room with lazy interest. A woman from logistics laughed too loud across the room, clearly trying to get attention from half the soldiers in the place.

"New girl from logistics smiled at you, Ghost," Gaz said, nodding toward her. "You gonna act on it or just grunt at her like usual?"

Simon didn't look up from his tray. "Not interested."

"Come on, she's cute," Soap added, following Gaz's stare. "Bit obvious, but cute."

"Not interested," Simon repeated, that flat tone that usually ended conversations.

But Soap was feeling bold today, riding high from another successful mission. "When's the last time you even talked to a woman, Ghost? And I don't mean whoever takes your coffee order."

Simon's hand found his phone in his pocket without thinking—a habit that had become as natural as breathing over the past few days. Four days since that text had lit up his screen and nearly made him smile in the middle of a patrol.

"Already got soft eyes waiting for me back home," he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear a pin drop. Soap's fork froze halfway to his mouth, potato hanging off the end like it was scared to fall. Gaz's chair creaked as he slowly turned back to the table, his face cycling through confusion, shock, and pure delight.

"Soft eyes?" Gaz repeated, voice pitched higher than normal.

Soap made a choking sound. "WAIT. WAIT. WAIT. BACK IT UP."

Simon felt heat creep up his neck—something that hadn't happened since he was a teenager. He'd survived torture, lived through hell, but apparently his teammates finding out about his personal life was enough to make him uncomfortable.

"You've been holding out on us, mate," Gaz continued, leaning forward like he was interrogating a prisoner. "Soft eyes? You?"

"Who is she?" Soap demanded, his choking fit forgotten. "What's she like? Does she know you stare like a war criminal or is that still a surprise?"

Simon pulled out his phone, thumb swiping to his messages with the kind of desperate casualness of someone trying to look busy. The screen lit up, and his chest did something weird when he saw the same conversation that had been haunting him for days.

You: Everything alright?

Sent three days ago. Read, but no response.

You: Haven't heard from you. Just checking in.

Two days ago. Also read. Also ignored.

"You texting Junie again, mate?" Gaz asked, though his tone suggested he knew it wasn't that simple.

"Nah. She's asleep." Simon glanced at his watch—six-hour time difference meant it was way past her bedtime. "Just... checking in."

Soap's eyes narrowed like he was reading Simon's tells. "Wait. Who are you texting, then?"

Simon's thumb hovered over the keyboard, already thinking of another message he probably wouldn't send. The honest answer sat on his tongue like a live grenade.

"Her teacher," he said, distracted, like he was talking to himself.

Another silence, but this one felt different. Heavier. Simon looked up to find both men staring at him with expressions ranging from shock to absolute glee.

"GHOST'S GOT A CRUSH ON THE TEACHER!" Soap announced, loud enough for half the mess hall to hear.

"Operation Ghost Goes Soft: confirmed," Gaz added, grinning like he'd won the lottery.

Soap started what might generously be called singing: "You're hot for teacher—"

"I will end both of you," Simon muttered, but the threat had no bite. He was too busy staring at his phone, at the messages hanging there like unanswered prayers.

The thing was, he'd been thinking about that text for four straight days. The one that had popped up during a routine patrol and made him stop so suddenly that Price asked if he was having a stroke—because the text was a mistake, clearly meant for someone else, and you’d deleted the whole chat like it never happened. It had made him cackle, actual sound bubbling from his chest, startling the squad around him.

He'd stared at those messages for a full minute, processing the image of his sweet, soft-spoken teacher—the woman who blushed when he looked at her too long—talking about another man's anatomy with casual brutality. It was like finding a hidden weapon in a bouquet of flowers.

And then he'd smiled. Actually smiled, standing in the middle of a dusty road thousands of miles from home, because you had fire in you after all.

You: For what it's worth, I've got a ruler if you ever want to settle any debates.

My Sparkle: Stop.

He'd wanted to say more. Wanted to tell you that your embarrassment was unnecessary, that he found your unfiltered honesty more attractive than any careful flirtation. Wanted to ask if you knew how often he thought about you, how your voice had become the soundtrack to his quiet moments.

But then the silence started.

Read receipts told him you were seeing his messages, but no responses came. No updates about your day, no pictures of Selina being dramatic, no random thoughts that made him feel connected to something beyond sand and gunpowder.

Just silence.

"Earth to Ghost," Soap's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're staring at that phone like it contains state secrets."

Simon looked up to find both men watching him with expressions that had shifted from teasing to actual concern.

"She's not responding," he admitted, the words scraping his throat.

"Women do that sometimes," Gaz offered. "Could be busy. Could be playing hard to get."

Simon's jaw tightened. He'd thought about that—that you were hiding from him out of embarrassment, that your silence was shame rather than lack of interest. The thought made something protective unfurl in his chest.

You were probably spiraling, he realized. Probably convinced you'd ruined everything with one misplaced message, when all you'd really done was show him another side of yourself that he was rapidly becoming obsessed with.

His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop them.

You: Miss you.

He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then immediately wanted to throw his phone across the room. Too much. Too honest. Too vulnerable for someone who made his living in the shadows.

But it was true. He did miss you. Missed your smile and nervous laugh and the way you tucked hair behind your ear when you were thinking. Missed the easy feeling of working beside you in your classroom, the way you made him feel like he could be something other than a weapon.

He kept thinking about that afternoon in your classroom. The way you'd looked at him when you asked, voice barely above a whisper, "Can I kiss you?" Like you were asking for something precious. Like you thought he might say no.

As if he could ever say no to you.

The kiss had been gentle, careful—you'd tasted like coffee and something uniquely you. And then later, in his SUV outside your building, when you'd leaned across the console and pressed your lips to his cheek, soft and quick. The memory of that simple gesture still made his chest tight.

"What'd you send?" Soap asked, trying to see the screen.

"Nothing," Simon lied, putting the phone away.

"Bullshit. You look like you just confessed to murder."

"I look the same as always."

"Nah, mate," Gaz said. "You've got that face. The one you get when you're thinking too hard about something that scares you."

Simon wanted to argue, but the truth was stuck in his throat like a splinter. You did scare him. Not like enemies did—he knew how to handle threats, how to eliminate danger. This was different. This was the bone-deep terror of wanting something so much that losing it would break him.

The mess hall had mostly emptied while they talked, leaving behind empty trays and the smell of bad coffee. Simon's phone stayed silent in his pocket, a dead weight against his leg.

"How long's this deployment?" he asked, though he already knew.

"Two weeks minimum," Soap replied. "Could be longer if intel pans out."

Two weeks of not knowing if you were okay. Two weeks of wondering if you'd decided he was too much trouble, too complicated, too dangerous for your carefully ordered life.

The thought made him want to hit something.

Instead, he stood up, grabbing his untouched tray with movements that were maybe too controlled.

"Where you going?" Gaz asked.

"Equipment check."

"We just did equipment check."

"Doing it again."

He walked away before they could comment on his obvious lie, phone burning in his pocket with its silence. Outside, the desert air hit him like a wall, dry and harsh under a sky that stretched forever.

Somewhere under that same sky, thousands of miles away, you were probably curled up on your couch with that ridiculous cat, probably convinced you'd ruined everything with one embarrassing text. Probably not knowing that he'd give anything to be sitting beside you, to tell you that your embarrassment was unnecessary, that he thought about you constantly, that the only thing scarier than losing you was never really having you at all.

His phone buzzed.

Heart racing, he pulled it out, hoping to see your name.

Instead: Price: Briefing in twenty. Gear up.

Simon stared at the message until the screen went dark, his reflection staring back at him in the black glass. He looked tired. Older. Like someone carrying too many unspoken words.

Two weeks minimum. Two weeks of silence and mission briefings and trying not to think about soft eyes and nervous laughter and the way you'd asked permission before kissing him, like he was something precious that might break.

He put the phone away and headed toward the armory, leaving behind the mess hall and his teammates' knowing looks and the crushing weight of silence from the one person whose voice he most wanted to hear.

Somewhere in the distance, a radio crackled with coordinates and tactical updates and all the necessary noise of war. But the frequency he really wanted to tune into stayed stubbornly, devastatingly quiet.

The next evening found Simon back in his quarters, still dripping sweat from the makeshift gym they'd rigged up behind the barracks. His knuckles were raw and bloody from forty minutes on the heavy bag, but the tight coil of frustration in his chest had barely loosened.

The mission had gone sideways. Not dangerous sideways - just the kind of clusterfuck that meant paperwork and delayed timelines and another week minimum in this godforsaken desert. Another day of your silence eating at him like acid. Another week of checking his phone like an addict needing a fix.

He stripped off his soaked shirt and caught his reflection in the small mirror above his sink. Dark eyes, split knuckles, fresh bruises painting his ribs purple where he'd gotten too aggressive with his sparring partner. He looked like what he was - a weapon trying to pretend he was something softer.

The truth was, five days of your silence had him unraveling. He'd killed men with less provocation than being ignored. Had tracked enemies across continents for lesser slights. But you - sweet, soft-spoken you - had him twisted up in knots with nothing but quiet.

His phone sat on the table like a taunt, face down because looking at it and finding nothing was starting to feel like torture.

He picked it up anyway, muscle memory stronger than self-preservation.

Three messages from the only person who still saw him as something other than a monster.

Junie 💜: Daddy!!!!! Me and Mrs. Harris made cookies today! They look like stars and hearts and one looks like a cat but she says it looks like a blob

Junie 💜: [Image]

Junie 💜: I saved you some but they're really good so I might eat them all before you come home 😝 I love you daddy. Miss you SO much

The photo showed his daughter covered in flour, grinning at the camera with cookie dough smeared on her cheek. Innocent. Pure. Everything he fought to protect in this world.

Simon felt something ease in his chest - the only soft part of him left, reserved entirely for a seven-year-old girl who still thought her daddy hung the moon.

You: Look at you, master chef. Those cookies look professional.

You: Save me at least one heart. That's an order, soldier.

You: Love you too, baby girl. Be good for Mrs. Harris.

He set the phone aside and reached for his shower gear, already mentally calculating days until he could see her again. Almost week since he'd left her small arms wrapped around his neck, whispering "come home safe" like a prayer.

The shower beckoned - he needed to wash the day's violence off his skin, needed the scalding water to burn away the edge that had been riding him since your last message. Since you'd accidentally shown him a glimpse of the fire you kept hidden beneath all that sweetness.

Five days later and he could still see those words perfectly, could still remember the dark satisfaction that had curled through him reading them. His sweet teacher had claws after all. Had a sharp tongue and dirty thoughts and apparently, opinions about men.

The image of you thinking about it - even dismissively - had been doing things to him he wasn't proud of. Made him wonder what other filthy thoughts lived behind those careful smiles, what you might say about his anatomy if given the chance.

His phone buzzed.

Simon glanced at it without thinking, expecting another message from Junie about eating his cookies.

My Sparkle: Miss you too

The phone nearly slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

Three words that hit him like a sniper's bullet - clean, precise, devastating. After four days of silence that had been slowly driving him insane, you'd finally responded. Not with explanations or apologies or careful distance.

Miss you too.

Simon sank onto his cot, staring at the message like it might vanish. His heart hammered against his ribs, blood rushing south as his body responded to the simple admission. You missed him. Sweet, innocent Miss Sparkle missed the big scary man who thought about her in ways that would probably terrify her.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, a dozen responses fighting in his throat. Dirty ones. Desperate ones. Confessions that would send you running screaming if you knew the kinds of things he thought about doing to you.

Like how many times he'd jerked off in this very cot thinking about your mouth. How he'd imagined those soft hands on his skin, those careful fingers learning every scar. How he wanted to find out if you tasted as sweet as you looked, wanted to make you gasp his name in ways.

Four days of silence had stripped away his careful control, left him raw and wanting and dangerous.

But you'd finally reached out. Finally given him something to hold onto.

Simon forced himself to put the phone down, muscles rigid with restraint. Don't respond immediately. Don't seem desperate. Don't let her see how close to the edge her silence had pushed him.

The shower could wait. Everything could wait while he processed this gift you'd given him - three words that meant you'd been thinking about him too, missing him too, maybe lying awake at night the way he had been.

He closed his eyes and let himself imagine it - you in your apartment, curled up with that ridiculous cat, phone in your hands as you finally worked up the courage to text him back. Maybe wearing one of those soft sweaters that hugged your curves just right. Maybe thinking about him in ways that would shock anyone who knew sweet Miss Sparkle.

The thought made him hard, made him want to touch himself while thinking about your voice saying his name, about what you might look like under those careful clothes, about whether you knew what you did to him.

But he didn't. Wouldn't. Not yet.

Instead, he lay back on his cot and stared at the ceiling, letting the ache of wanting you settle into his bones alongside all the other hungers he'd learned to live with. You'd texted him back. After days of silence, you'd reached out.

Tomorrow he'd figure out how to respond without scaring you. Tonight, he'd just hold onto the knowledge that somewhere under these same stars, you were missing him too.

His phone stayed silent beside him, but the quiet no longer felt like punishment. It felt like anticipation.

Chapter Text

The humid summer air clung to your skin as you stared at the screen of your cracked phone. Three simple words from Simon glowed back at you: "Miss you." The message was two days old now, still hanging there unanswered, an invisible thread connecting you to a man halfway across the world.

You set the phone face-down on the coffee table, ignoring how the screen flickered pathetically—another reminder of all the things falling apart around you. The bank notification from this morning still burned in your mind. Not even enough for rent, which had jumped another hundred this month thanks to your building's new management.

The words were short. Cold. "Due to inflation, rent will increase by 15% starting next month.”

You stared at the message until the screen dimmed, the light gone, the weight still there.

You weren’t made of money. And you weren’t some influencer with brand deals or a husband who paid bills. You were a teacher on summer break, trying to stretch savings like soft taffy until it snapped. A cracked phone screen. A leaky kitchen faucet. Two missed calls from your internet provider. And now, this.

You had cried, a little. Then laughed, because crying didn’t change facts.

Your fingers found the camera on your lap, the one luxury you'd allowed yourself years ago, before life had become this precarious balancing act. It was the one thing you wouldn't sell, couldn't sell. Teaching was your profession, but photography was your breath.

"Come on, Selina," you murmured to the cat stretching across your windowsill. "I can't just sit here feeling sorry for myself."

Outside, the summer light painted everything golden. You captured a cardinal perched on a fence, a child splashing in a puddle, an elderly couple holding hands on a park bench. Each shot felt like oxygen, like something other than the crushing weight of bills and loneliness and the memory of Simon's lips against yours in your empty classroom the day before he deployed.

The idea struck you while photographing a young couple laughing beneath an oak tree. Their joy was palpable, and your finger pressed the shutter button almost involuntarily. When they noticed you, instead of anger, the woman approached with curiosity and you showed them the picture.

"That was beautiful, how you just... saw us," she said, looking at the preview on your camera. "Do you do this professionally?"

A day later, you had your first paying client. Not enough for the phone. But enough to feel like maybe you could keep treading water.

The young couple had overpaid you—"because you captured us better than our wedding photographer did"—and you used the money to buy groceries. Little victories. You tried not to think about how Simon would have called them "tactical advantages" in that serious way of his that always made you want to kiss the corner of his mouth until he smiled.

You even found a listing for photography classes—tutoring. Not stable. But something. You'd taught kids before. Maybe you could teach this, too.

After days of twelve-hour hustle between photography sessions and preparing materials for your impromptu classes, you finally collapsed onto your couch. Selina immediately claimed your lap, purring loudly enough to drown out the apartment's faulty air conditioning.

But that meant you hadn't written back.

Not to him. Not to the man whose message you'd read three times a day like a blessing and a bruise. Not to the man who’d seen you—really seen you—and still looked at you like you were something tender in a world of sharp things.

You told yourself it was because you were busy. Because you didn’t want to reach out with cracked nails and a cracked screen, with no brightness left in you. But the truth?

You were ashamed.

Ashamed that while he was out there surviving things you couldn’t imagine, you were crumbling over rent and rice and whether the cat litter would last the month. Ashamed that your voice trembled when you recorded that stupid message and then deleted it in a panic. Ashamed that you missed him so much it made your hands shake sometimes, and all you had to offer were secondhand apologies and half-finished thoughts.

So you went quiet. And you hated yourself for it.

Your phone—now at 22% battery with no charger in sight—still showed his message.

"Miss you."

Your thumbs hovered over the screen. What could you say? "Sorry I disappeared, my life is falling apart?" or "I can't stop thinking about how you tasted like coffee and something sweeter when you kissed me goodbye?" Instead, you typed the only truth that mattered:

"Miss you too."

You hit send before you could overthink it, then watched as the message status changed from "Delivered" to "Read" almost immediately. Your heart clenched. He was there, right now, somewhere dangerous probably, reading your words. The typing indicator appeared and then disappeared.

You could almost hear his voice—that low, slightly rough quality it got when he was trying to sound casual but wasn't. Your fingers itched to tell him everything—about the rent increase, about your adventures, about how sometimes you woke up reaching for him even though he'd never spent a night in your bed.

A week passed in a blur of photography sessions and tutoring. Your bank account looked less desperate, though still precarious. You'd managed to replace your phone charger but not find time for a proper conversation with Simon.

The guilt of this absence of communication ate at you. Every night, you composed messages in your head: explanations, confessions, questions about when he'd return. Every morning, you convinced yourself not to burden him with your problems while he was focused on staying alive.

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store made your eyes ache as you calculated prices against your budget. Store brand pasta, yes. Fresh vegetables, only what was on sale. You were so focused on comparing two cereal prices that you almost bumped into the couple in the next aisle.

The woman smiled politely and continued examining soup cans. Her husband, however, let his gaze linger on you—traveling slowly from your face down to your hips and back up again. When his wife turned to place something in their cart, he winked at you, his wedding ring catching the harsh light.

A wave of disgust washed over you. In that moment, all you could think was how Simon had never once made you feel like an object to be appraised. Even when tension crackled between you like electricity, his eyes had always sought permission, had always seen you.

You abandoned your half-filled basket and fled to the self-checkout, grabbing just the essentials. Outside, the summer evening wrapped around you like a blanket, but you couldn't shake the chill of that man's gaze. You wondered, not for the first time, what Simon was facing right now. Was he cold? Scared? Thinking of you?

The park was quieter than usual as you cut through on your way home. The playground stood empty except for a small figure on the swings and an elderly woman watching from a nearby bench. As you drew closer, recognition dawned.

"Miss! Miss!" The little girl's voice rang out across the playground as she jumped from the swing and ran toward you, pigtails bouncing.

"Junie!" you called back, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. Simon's daughter threw her arms around your waist, nearly knocking you off balance with her enthusiasm.

"Mrs. Linton, hello," you greeted the older woman who approached at a more sedate pace.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," Mrs. Linton said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Junie's been telling me all about the butterfly project you did at the end of term."

Junie tugged at your hand. "Dad said you're the best teacher ever. He told me on the phone."

Heat crept up your neck at her words. "Did he now?"

"He talks about you all the time," Junie continued, oblivious to your flustered state. "He's always asking how are you."

You blinked, heart stuttering. Of course he was. Of course he’d be clawing for breadcrumbs, anything to tell him you hadn’t vanished completely. Because right now, his only lifeline to you—the only thread still warm—was this little girl with sunshine in her voice and your name on her tongue. You imagined him asking gently over the phone, quiet and desperate, trying not to sound like he was unraveling.

Trying to find you through her.

Mrs. Linton chuckled. "The lieutenant certainly seems taken with you, dear."

Something in her tone made you wonder how much Simon had shared with her. You cleared your throat, desperate to change the subject. "How's he doing? Have you heard from him recently?"

"Oh yes, just yesterday." Mrs. Linton adjusted her cardigan despite the heat. "He'll be home tomorrow, actually. Earlier than expected."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, something about the mission wrapping up early. Junie's off to summer camp in the morning—terrible timing, but these things can't be helped."

Junie pouted momentarily before brightening. "But Dad promised to visit me there next week! You should come too, Miss!"

You knelt down to Junie's level, trying to keep your voice steady. "That sounds wonderful, sweetheart. We'll see, okay?" You hugged her tightly, partly to hide the panic you knew must be written across your face. Tomorrow. Simon would be home tomorrow, and you'd barely spoken to him in weeks.

As you walked home, your mind raced with all the things you hadn't said, all the explanations you owed him. The grocery bags felt heavier with each step, as if weighted down by your own silence.

The key stuck in the lock like it always did, but Simon's left shoulder screamed in protest when he had to use both hands to force it. Everything hurt—the fresh stitches pulled tight under the gauze, the bone-deep ache that came from sleeping on a transport plane for eighteen hours, the exhaustion that sat behind his eyes like broken glass.

He dropped his duffel bag in the hallway with more force than necessary. The sound echoed through the empty house, a sharp reminder that Junie was at summer camp for another week. Part of him was grateful—she didn't need to see him like that, pale and shaking and pretending the makeshift field dressing wasn't already bleeding through his shirt.

Part of him was also grateful because it meant no witnesses to what he might do if he found out why you'd been playing games with him.

Soap and Price had cornered him at base, voices raised in that way that meant they were worried and trying not to show it.

Hospital, Ghost. That's not a request.

Just needs cleaning and proper stitches. I can handle it.

You're being a stubborn bastard.

Nothing new there.

He'd won that argument through sheer force of will and the promise that he'd see a medic stateside. Lies, but they'd let him go anyway, probably figuring Mrs. Linton would talk sense into him once he was home.

The bathroom mirror showed him exactly what they had been worried about. His face was gray with fatigue, dark circles carved deep under his eyes like bruises. Like someone who'd been hunting and hadn't slept in days. When he peeled off his shirt, the bandage came with it, stuck to his skin with dried blood and whatever antiseptic the field medic had doused him with.

"Fuck," he breathed, gripping the sink as the wound started bleeding again. It wasn't life-threatening—he'd had worse, much worse—but it was deep enough that it should have been properly cleaned and stitched hours ago. Instead, he was standing in his bathroom at midnight, trying to clean shrapnel wounds with hotel soap and the kind of stubbornness that had kept him alive through worse situations than this.

The alcohol he poured over it burned like hellfire, but it was nothing compared to the burn in his chest when he thought about his phone, sitting silent in his bag. You'd finally texted back after days of radio silence—miss you too—but then nothing. Radio silence again, like those three words had cost you everything you had.

Or like someone had been watching over your shoulder when you typed them.

Simon wrapped fresh gauze around his shoulder, taping it down with hands that shook more from fury than blood loss. The pills they had given him were still in his bag, but he reached for the bottle of whiskey instead. Jack Daniels, because he was too tired to pretend he had sophisticated taste and too angry to care about liver damage.

The first sip burned down his throat and settled warm in his stomach. The second made the edge of everything softer. By the third, he was sitting on the couch in his empty living room, staring at his phone like it might spontaneously generate an explanation for why you'd been torturing him.

Miss you too.

Three words. After weeks of wondering if he'd said something wrong, done something to scare you off, pushed too hard too fast. Three words that felt like salvation and damnation all at once, because they proved you were thinking about him but weren't brave enough—or weren't allowed—to say anything else.

The thought that someone might be keeping you from him made something violent twist in his chest. He knew what fear looked like, knew the difference between choosing silence and being forced into it. He'd spent his career reading people, breaking them down, finding their weak spots and pressure points.

If someone was pressuring you, threatening you, keeping you quiet...

He'd kissed you in your classroom before he left. Pressed you against your desk like he was drowning and you were air, tasted the sweetness of your mouth and felt you melt against him like you'd been waiting for it as long as he had. Your hands had fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and for a moment the world had narrowed down to just you—your warmth, your softness, the little sound you made when he deepened the kiss.

That wasn't fake. That wasn't politeness or pity. That was real, raw need, and he knew the difference.

"Be safe," you'd whispered back.

And he'd carried those words with him through three weeks of hell. Through firefights and interrogations and the kind of wet work that would give normal people nightmares.

He'd kept his promise. Texted you every chance he got, even when he was running on three hours of sleep and adrenaline. Told you about the mission he could share, asked about your summer, sent you pictures of sunsets from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he'd found himself in.

Your responses had been sweet at first. Detailed. Then they'd gotten shorter. More distant. Days between responses turned into a week, until he was staring at his phone in a bunker somewhere, wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing.

Or wondering if someone else had started filling the space he'd left behind.

The whiskey made everything sharper and duller at the same time. The ache in his shoulder, the silence of the house, the memory of your laugh and the way you'd looked at him like he was something worth coming home to. Worth surviving for.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe that kiss didn't mean what he thought it meant. Maybe you were just being polite, too kind to tell him directly that whatever this was between you had run its course.

Or maybe someone else had been whispering poison in your ear. Telling you he was dangerous. That men like him didn't deserve soft things like you. That you'd be better off with someone safer, someone who didn't come home covered in other people's blood.

The thought made his grip tighten on the bottle until his knuckles went white. He had killed men for less than touching what was his. And you were his, whether you wanted to admit it or not. He'd marked you that day in the classroom, claimed you with that kiss, and the fact that you'd kissed him back meant you felt it too.

So why the silence? Why the games?

Simon was halfway through the bottle when he heard the soft knock at the front door. For a moment, hope flared bright and dangerous in his chest—maybe it was you, maybe you'd come to explain, maybe you'd finally stopped running from what was between you.

He was already planning what he'd say, how he'd corner you against the door and make you tell him the truth. How he'd use every interrogation technique he knew to break through whatever wall you'd built between you.

But when he opened the door, it was Mrs. Linton standing on his porch, holding a covered dish and wearing the kind of expression that meant she was about to mother-hen him whether he liked it or not.

The disappointment was so sharp it almost doubled him over.

"Simon," she said, and then her face went pale. "Oh, dear God, what happened to you?"

He probably looked like hell. Shirtless, bandaged, swaying slightly from the whiskey and blood loss and the kind of rage that had been building for weeks. The gauze on his shoulder was already showing spots of red, and he could feel the warm trickle down his back that meant the bleeding hadn't stopped.

Good. Maybe the pain would keep him focused. Keep him from doing something stupid like driving to your apartment and demanding answers.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, but his voice came out rougher than intended. Dangerous.

"You are absolutely not fine." She pushed past him into the house, and some distant part of his brain appreciated that she wasn't afraid of him. Most people were, when they saw him like that. "Sit down before you fall down."

There was something about her tone—firm but gentle, worried but not panicked—that reminded him of his own mother. It made something tight in his chest loosen, just a little. Enough to remember that Mrs. Linton was innocent in all this. That she didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his fury.

He sank back onto the couch, and she disappeared into his kitchen, returning with a clean dishrag and a glass of water.

"Drink this," she ordered, pressing the water into his hand. "And tell me what happened."

"Work," Simon said, which was both true and completely inadequate. He didn't tell her about the three men he'd killed with his bare hands, or the way he'd enjoyed it more than he should have. Didn't tell her that violence was the only thing that made sense anymore, the only language he was fluent in.

She gave him a look that could strip paint. "Simon Riley, I've been worried sick about you for three weeks. Don't you dare 'work' me."

So he told her. Not the classified parts, not the details that would give her nightmares, but enough. Enough to explain the bandages and the exhaustion and why he was sitting there drinking alone instead of celebrating being home.

He didn't tell her about the darker thoughts. About how he'd fantasized about coming home to you, about what he'd do if he found out someone had been keeping you from him. About the plans he'd made during long, sleepless nights in hostile territory.

She listened without judgment, occasionally tutting and shaking her head. When he was finished, she stood up and started gathering the bloody gauze he'd left scattered around the bathroom.

"You should be in a hospital," she said matter-of-factly.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding all over my casserole dish."

Simon looked down and realized she was right. There was a dark stain spreading across the cushion beneath him, and his fresh bandage was already soaked through. The sight of his own blood should have bothered him more than it did.

"Let me look at it," she said, and there was something in her voice that brokered no argument.

He let her. Let her clean the wound properly with steady hands and the kind of competent care that came from raising four children and keeping a household running for sixty years. She didn't flinch at the sight of the jagged cuts or the bruising that was already blooming purple across his ribs.

She didn't flinch at the scars either. The old ones, from missions that went sideways and enemies who got too close. From the kind of work that marked a man permanently.

"This needs stitches," she said quietly.

"I know."

"You're going to get it infected, you stubborn fool."

"I know that too."

She finished bandaging him properly, then sat back and studied his face with the same intensity she probably used to determine which of her children had broken her favorite vase.

"She's been asking about you," she said finally.

Simon's heart did something complicated. Something that felt like hope and rage and hunger all twisted together. "Who?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Simon. Junie's teacher. The woman you've been moping about for three weeks."

Heat crept up his neck. "I haven't been moping."

"You texted me seventeen times asking if I'd seen her."

"That's not moping, that's—" Reconnaissance. Intelligence gathering. Making sure he was safe.

"Moping." She smoothed down his fresh bandage with gentle fingers. "She's been asking about you too. Junie and I saw her at the park the other day. She looked... tired. Thin. Like she'd been carrying something too heavy."

Something twisted in his chest. You'd been asking about him. Which meant you'd been thinking about him, missing him, wanting him. So why the silence? Why the games?

Unless someone's been hurting you. Threatening you. Keeping you quiet.

The thought made his vision go red around the edges.

"She’s been ignoring my messages," he said, and his voice came out flat. Dead. The voice he used right before he killed someone.

"Have you considered that maybe she has a reason?"

Simon thought about that for a moment, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece. He'd been so focused on his own worry, his own frustration with your silence, that he hadn't really considered what might be driving it.

But now that Mrs. Linton mentioned it, there were other possibilities. Darker ones.

"What kind of reason?"

Mrs. Linton gave him a look that's equal parts fond and exasperated. "Oh, Simon. For such a smart man, you can be remarkably dense sometimes."

She stood up, gathering the dirty gauze and heading toward his kitchen. He heard the sound of running water, the clink of dishes being washed.

When she came back, she was carrying the covered dish she'd brought.

"Eat this," she said, setting it on the coffee table. "All of it. And get some rest. Proper rest, not whatever this is." She gestured at the whiskey bottle.

"Mrs. Linton—"

"And call her," she added, heading toward the door. "Whatever's going on, whatever's keeping her quiet—fix it. That girl cares about you, Simon. More than I think even she realizes."

She paused at the door, turning back to look at him with something soft and sad in her eyes.

"You're a good man. Better than you think you are. Don't let fear—yours or hers—ruin something that could be beautiful."

Then she was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the smell of homemade pot roast filling his empty house.

Simon stared at his phone for a long time after that, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. The whiskey had made everything fuzzy around the edges, but Mrs. Linton's words sat clear and sharp in his mind.

That girl cared about you.

Whatever was keeping her quiet—fix it.

Maybe she was right. Maybe there was more to your silence than he had thought. Maybe instead of sitting there feeling sorry for himself, he should do something about it.

Maybe he should find out who or what had been keeping you from him, and eliminate the problem.

The thought brought the first smile he'd had in weeks. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the kind of smile that made hardened soldiers take a step back. The kind that promised violence and enjoyed the anticipation.

But first, he needed to eat Mrs. Linton's pot roast and sleep off the whiskey and the blood loss. Tomorrow, when he could think clearly, when he could plan properly—tomorrow, he'd figure out how to reach you.

Tomorrow, he'd stop being patient.

And if someone had been hurting you, keeping you from him, threatening what's his...

Well. Ghost had always been better at hunting than healing.

Yes. He would fix it.

Simon opened his laptop and began typing. He still had access to databases most people didn't know existed. Background checks, credit reports, phone records—all fair game when national security was involved. And you were definitely a matter of national security now. His security. His sanity.

The first thing he pulled up was your financial records.

What he found there made him lean back in his chair, a slow smile spreading across his face. Not the kind of smile that reached his eyes—the kind that made grown men confess to crimes they hadn't committed.

Your checking account was a disaster. Overdraft fees stacked on overdraft fees. A maxed-out credit card. Some payments that were three weeks overdue. And scattered throughout the mess, small deposits labeled "Photography Classes - Private Session."

Twenty here. Fifty there. Never more than a hundred at a time.

You'd been giving photography lessons. Sweet, desperate little photography lessons to make ends meet, probably teaching moms how to take better pictures of their kids while your own world was falling apart financially.

The irony was fucking delicious.

Here he'd been, thinking someone had threatened you. Thinking some enemy had gotten to you, used you against him. Ready to burn down half the city to get you back.

When all along, you'd been pulling away because you were ashamed. Too proud to let him see how badly you were struggling. Too fucking stubborn to accept help from a man who could solve all your problems with a single transfer.

Simon scrolled through more transactions, each one painting a clearer picture of your desperation. A declined payment at the grocery store. A late fee on your rent. A medical bill that had been sent to collections.

His sweet, soft teacher. Living on ramen and prayer while she taught spoiled rich people how to hold a camera steady.

The documentation was extensive. You'd been giving lessons every weekend. Sometimes during the week too as it were summer holidays. The amounts were pathetic—barely enough to cover essentials, let alone make a real dent in your debt.

But you kept trying. Kept fighting. Kept clawing your way through independence even when it was killing you.

God, you were perfect.

Simon opened a new browser window and logged into his own account. The numbers there told a very different story. Multiple income streams from various military contracts. Investment accounts that had been growing untouched for years. Savings that could buy your freedom ten times over without him even noticing the loss.

He could fix this. All of it. Every single problem you had could disappear with a few keystrokes. Your debt, your rent—cleared. Your sad little photography business could become a real studio with proper equipment and professional lighting.

All he had to do was make the transfers.

But that would be too easy. Too simple. You'd try to pay him back, try to maintain some illusion of independence. You'd see it as charity, as pity, and that pride that was currently destroying you would never let you accept it.

No. This required a more... nuanced approach.

But then something else caught his eye. Small deposits with a familiar name: "Etsy - PixelAndPrint."

His fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced precision, pulling up your Etsy shop. The page loaded slowly, revealing a modest storefront with the kind of earnest, homemade aesthetic that made his chest tight.

"PixelAndPrint - Capturing Life's Quiet Moments"

Your shop had forty-three sales total. Forty-three. The photos were beautiful—soft, intimate shots of everyday things. A coffee cup in morning light. Rain on a window. A child's toy forgotten in a park. Each one priced between five and twenty dollars.

Five to twenty fucking dollars.

The most recent sale was three days ago. A digital download of a sunset photo for ten dollars. Before that, nothing for over a week.

Simon clicked through your gallery methodically, studying each image with the same focus he used to analyze satellite intelligence. You had an eye for it—real talent that was being wasted on desperate housewives looking for cheap wall art.

The shop description made something dark and hungry curl in his stomach:

"Hi! I'm a teacher who loves capturing the beauty in ordinary moments. Each photo comes with a story, and I hope they bring a little joy to your space. Custom shoots available on weekends!"

Custom shoots. Fucking hell. You were probably meeting strangers in parks, taking family portraits for fifty dollars while risking your safety because you were too proud to ask for help.

His sweet, stubborn little teacher. Selling pieces of her soul for grocery money.

Simon opened a new browser window and created an account. John MacMillan, he decided. Generic enough to be forgettable, professional enough to seem legitimate. He used one of his secure email addresses and a prepaid credit card that couldn't be traced back to him.

Then he went back to your shop and picked his favorite photo.

It was simple—a bookshelf in golden afternoon light, with a cup of tea sitting next to an open novel. Something about it felt intimate, like he was glimpsing a quiet moment in your life. Like you'd taken it in your own apartment, during one of those peaceful moments when you thought no one was watching.

The price was twenty dollars.

Simon typed in his order: one digital download, maximum resolution.

Then he changed the price to five thousand dollars.

Your shop's messaging system let him add a note: "Saw this piece and knew it was perfect for my company's new branding campaign. Hope the price adjustment reflects its true value. No shipping needed - digital file is perfect. Thank you for your art."

He hit purchase and sat back to wait.

The payment would hit your account immediately. Five thousand dollars, more than you'd made in the entire two months your shop had been open. Enough to cover your overdue internet payment and put a real dent in your credit card debt.

His phone sat next to the laptop, and he realized he was waiting for you to text him. Hoping you'd be so excited about the sale that you'd break your silence to share the news.

When thirty minutes passed with no message, he went back to your Etsy shop and saw you'd already responded to his order.

"Hi John! Thank you so much for your purchase, but I think there might be a mistake with the price? The photo is only $20. I can refund the difference right away!"

Simon smiled. Of course you'd try to give it back. Of course, your conscience wouldn't let you keep money you thought you hadn't earned.

He typed back quickly: "No mistake at all! Your work is exceptional, and this piece is exactly what we need. The price reflects its commercial value to our brand. Please keep the full amount - you've earned it."

Your response came within minutes: "Are you sure? This is incredibly generous, but I want to make sure you're getting what you paid for. If you need different dimensions or editing, I'm happy to adjust!"

Even when someone was trying to give you a financial lifeline, you were worried about delivering value. About earning what you received. It made something feral and tender twist in his chest.

"I'm completely sure. Your eye for capturing intimate moments is remarkable. This photo tells a story - that's worth far more than $20. Enjoy the success you've earned."

A longer pause this time. Then: "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much this means to me right now. I hope your campaign goes wonderfully!"

Simon closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, satisfaction washing over him like warm whiskey. You were probably staring at your bank account right now, watching that deposit settle and feeling the relief that came with breathing room.

You'd sleep better tonight than you had in months. Wake up tomorrow with less weight on your shoulders. Maybe even smile when you thought about your mysterious buyer who saw value in your work.

His work phone buzzed with updates from his team, but he ignored them. This was more important than any mission briefing. This was you, grateful and happy and completely unaware that your salvation had come from him.

Later when you posted a new piece he particularly liked—a close-up of rain-soaked flower petals that looked like tears—he bought it for eight hundred dollars.

Your message came faster this time: "John! You're too generous - this is another beautiful surprise. Are you building quite the collection?"

"Your work speaks to me. There's something honest about how you see the world. I have a feeling you're going to be very successful."

"Thanks to buyers like you! This has completely changed things for me. I was able to pay off some debt and even buy proper lighting equipment. You've literally changed my life."

Changed your life. The words made heat pool in his chest. You had no idea how literally true that was.

"I'm glad I could help. True talent deserves recognition and support."

By the end of the day, Simon had bought six of your photos for a total of four thousand dollars. Your Etsy shop had gone from desperate clearance pricing to confident professional rates. You'd updated your bio to mention "commercial clients" and raised your prices across the board.

The best part was watching you come alive again through your messages. The stress lines he'd memorized from your face were probably smoothing out. The worry that had been eating you alive was loosening its grip.

First, he wanted to see you smile. Really smile, without the weight of financial stress dragging down the corners of your mouth. He wanted to watch you talk about your dreams like they were actually achievable.

Then he wanted to take you home and show you exactly how much he'd missed you. How much he'd thought about you during those long, violent weeks overseas.

Eventually, when you were completely dependent on your anonymous buyer's continued patronage, when your new life was built entirely on the foundation of his generosity, maybe he'd tell you the truth.

Maybe he'd show you just how thoroughly you belonged to him now.

But for now, he was content to be your secret benefactor. Your guardian angel. Your salvation.

The man who'd saved you from drowning without you ever knowing you'd been pulled into his web.

The painkillers weren't doing shit anymore.

Simon Riley lay sprawled across his unmade bed, staring at water stains on the ceiling that looked like your face if he squinted just right. Day two of medical leave. Day two of losing his fucking mind.

His shoulder was getting worse, not better. The wound had started weeping yesterday, edges red and angry despite the antibiotics they'd pumped him full of. Infection, probably. He should call the base medic, should probably drag himself to hospital, but the thought of leaving the house—of missing you if you finally came to see him—made his chest tight with panic.

Because you would come. You had to.

Thousands of dollars. Thousands of fucking dollars he'd transferred into your desperate little hands, and you hadn't even had the courtesy to visit the man who'd made it possible. Oh, you didn't know it was him—yet—but common decency dictated you should be checking on him. He was wounded. Home from deployment.

Yet his doorbell remained silent. His phone cold and still.

Simon reached for the prescription bottle with shaking fingers, dry-swallowing two more pills that wouldn't touch the real ache. The one that lived somewhere between his ribs and his throat, clawing at him every waking moment.

You.

Through his laptop monitoring, he knew exactly what you were doing instead of caring for him. Yesterday you'd been out celebrating—dinner at that trendy place downtown, the one you could finally afford thanks to his generosity. Today you'd been shopping. New camera equipment. Professional lighting. Building the business he was funding while he rotted alone in this fucking house.

Ungrateful little tease.

His cock stirred despite the pharmaceutical fog clouding his brain, and Simon's good hand drifted down to palm himself through sweatpants that hadn't been changed in two days. He was hard again. Had been on and off since he'd started playing anonymous benefactor, his body responding to the intoxicating mix of control and yearning.

The rational part of his mind—what was left of it—knew you couldn't visit someone you didn't know was hurt. But the parts of him twisted by fever and pain and weeks of obsession whispered different stories. Whispered that you should sense his need. Should feel drawn to him the way he was consumed by you.

Simon closed his eyes, and there you were—probably trying on new clothes with money he'd given you, sparkly makeup catching light as you smiled at yourself in dressing room mirrors. The image morphed, twisted by infection and want. In his fevered imagination, you were wearing those new clothes for him. Coming to thank him properly for saving you from financial ruin.

You'd be grateful. Overwhelmed. Looking at him with those wide, trusting eyes as you whispered how much his mysterious purchases had meant to you. How they'd changed your life. How you wished you could repay such kindness.

And he'd show you exactly how you could repay him.

"Fuck." He squeezed himself harder through the fabric, chasing the fantasy even as it tore at something raw in his chest. In his fevered mind, you were on your knees beside his bed, those perfect lips wrapped around his cock while you looked up at him with tears of gratitude streaming down your face.

Thank you, you'd whisper between desperate kisses to his thighs. Thank you for saving me. How can I ever repay you?

And he'd bury his hands in your hair and show you exactly what your salvation had cost.

The fantasy shattered as pain lanced through his shoulder. He'd moved wrong, pulled at the infected wound. Fresh blood was seeping through his bandage, hot and sticky against his skin.

Simon stared at the red stain spreading across white gauze and laughed. Actually laughed, the sound harsh and broken in the empty house. Here he was, jerking off to fantasies of gratitude while bleeding all over himself, and you were out there living your best life on his money without a thought for the man who'd made it possible.

The fever was getting worse. He could feel it burning behind his eyes, making everything sharp and desperate and wrong. His hands shook as he tried to check his phone again—nothing. No missed calls. No texts asking how he was doing.

You were probably too busy enjoying your newfound financial freedom to remember the wounded soldier who'd held your student's hand at pick-up. Too busy shopping and celebrating to wonder if he'd made it home safely from whatever hell had put those fresh scars on his body.

The house felt like a tomb. Mrs. Linton had been by yesterday with worried looks and soup he couldn't keep down, but mostly it was just him and the fucking silence. Even the pain was better than the quiet—at least when his shoulder screamed, he could focus on something other than your absence.

His laptop sat open on the nightstand, your Etsy shop still displayed on the screen. You'd posted three new photos since his last purchase, and each one made his chest tight with pride. They were better. More confident. You were growing as an artist because he was nurturing your talent.

But you didn't know that. Couldn't thank him for it. Couldn't show proper appreciation for the salvation he'd provided.

Simon's vision blurred as another wave of fever crashed over him. Through the haze, he could see your latest update—a sunset photo taken from what looked like the roof of your apartment building. The same building he'd ensured you could afford to keep living in.

The caption read: "Celebrating new beginnings and unexpected blessings. Sometimes life surprises you with exactly what you need, exactly when you need it. Grateful for mysterious angels and second chances."

Mysterious angels.

The words made something hot and possessive unfurl in his chest. You knew. Maybe not consciously, but some part of you understood that your salvation hadn't been random chance. Some part of you was already looking for him, reaching out to the darkness that had pulled you from financial ruin.

Outside, evening was falling across the city. Two-three days and Junie would be home from camp, all sunshine and chatter, and he'd have to pull himself together. Be the father she deserved instead of the obsessed bastard he was becoming.

But until then...

Simon reached for the bottle of painkillers, shook two pills into his palm, and dry-swallowed them both. The rational voice in his head screamed warnings about dependency and dosage, but he crushed it down. Tonight, he just wanted to stop thinking about the taste of your laugh.

Tonight, he wanted to stop wanting you so desperately it felt like dying.

The pills hit his empty stomach like a warm wave, dragging him under. As consciousness blurred at the edges, Simon's last coherent thought was of your beautiful face and sparkly makeup and the promise he was making to his fractured reflection:

You owe me, Miss Sparkle. Whether you know it or not, you owe me everything.

And I'm done waiting.

Then the darkness took him, and for a few blessed hours, the wanting finally stopped.

When he woke to the sound of footsteps on gravel outside, heart hammering as his drug-addled mind tried to process who the hell would be visiting him, Simon Riley felt something shift in his chest.

Someone was coming.

Chapter Text

The three weeks stretched like a wound that wouldn't heal. Simon's absence felt different this time—heavier, more pointed. You'd catch yourself reaching for your phone to text him, but you didn't. You sent sparse replies when he checked in about you, replying with: Miss you too.

Three fucking weeks. That's how long it had been since Simon left on deployment, how long since you'd seen those dark eyes that haunted your dreams. He'd responded professionally, and you'd convinced yourself he was busy, that bothering him would be selfish.

Nothing more. Nothing real.

Junie had been at summer camp for the entire three weeks, living in the countryside with her classmates, learning pottery and swimming in the lake. Mrs. Harris checked on the house daily, Mrs. Linton made her rounds to ensure everything was secure. You were on summer vacation, spending most days at home with Selina, doing some photoshoots, and earning good money from an unknown person.

The photography gig was supposed to be easy money—a local magazine wanted summer lifestyle shots, and you'd agreed to a full afternoon session. You'd even picked out the perfect outfit: a vintage camera bag and a plan to capture golden hour at the botanical gardens.

But then the phone rang.

"Miss Sparkle? This is Janet from Willowbrook Camp. I'm so sorry for the short notice, but we've had an emergency with our evening coordinator. The summer fair is tonight, and we desperately need help with the children's activities. I know it's your vacation, but you're so wonderful with them, and—"

You were already reaching for your sundress before she finished.

The dress was a soft butter yellow with tiny white flowers scattered across the fabric, that caught the fading sunlight—and adjusted the delicate straps that kept slipping off your shoulders, the kind that made you feel like you were wearing sunshine. The fabric was light and airy, dancing around your thighs with every movement, and you'd spent longer than usual on your makeup: shimmery eyeshadow that made your eyes sparkle like captured starlight, a careful sweep of eyeliner that made you feel prettier than you had in weeks. You grabbed your camera bag. The fair could wait for professional photos another day.

The countryside camp was alive with string lights and laughter when you arrived. Children ran between booths selling homemade jam and flower crowns, their faces sticky with cotton candy and bright with joy. You fell into the rhythm easily—helping with face painting, organizing relay races, kneeling in the grass to tie shoelaces and wiping tears.

"Miss Sparkle, can you help me with the ring toss?" Archie tugged at your dress, his face sticky with cotton candy, and you smiled despite the ache that had taken up permanent residence in your chest.

"Of course, sweetheart."

By evening, the sky had turned soft purple, and you were covered in glitter and completely content. That's when you saw Mrs. Linton. She was making her way through the crowd, her usual warm smile replaced by something tighter, more worried.

"Junie, darling!" she called, and Junie bounded over from where she'd been painting a ceramic mug, her face bright with joy.

"Mrs. Linton! Look what I made!" Junie held up her creation—a lumpy but enthusiastic mug painted with flowers and what might have been a cat.

Mrs. Linton smiled, but you caught the way her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed Junie's hair. "It's beautiful, love. Absolutely beautiful."

Junie hugged her fiercely, planting a wet kiss on her cheek before racing back to the art station. "I'm going to make one for Daddy too!"

Mrs. Linton's face crumpled for just a moment—so brief you almost missed it—before she collected herself. But you noticed. You always noticed.

You approached her quietly, your heart already beginning to pound with unnamed dread. "Mrs. Linton? Is everything alright?"

She startled slightly. "Oh, Miss. Yes, well—" She glanced toward Junie, now throwing rings at bottles several yards away. "Simon's back," she said quietly.

Your heart leapt. "Oh? That's wonderful news."

She glanced around, making sure Junie was out of earshot before leaning closer. "He's wounded," she added, her voice dropping further. "Nothing life-threatening, thank heavens, but he's in rough shape. Junie doesn't know yet. Thought it best she enjoy her time here rather than worry.”

The world tilted. Your face went cold, then hot, then cold again. "How badly?"

"Shoulder, and his arm. He was trying to hide it, but I could see it, it’s bad." Mrs. Linton's voice was heavy with worry.

"Bad enough that he's home instead of at base," she said. "He's as stubborn as they come, insisted on being alone. I've been checking on him daily, but...”

"He looked exhausted, love. Worn thin. I offered to stay, but he sent me away. Said he was fine, but men always say that, don't they?”

She sighed. "It's good Junie's here for now.”

You nodded, barely hearing the rest of her words.

Your mind was racing, your heart hammering against your ribs. Simon was hurt. Simon was home. Simon was alone and wounded and probably being his usual stubborn self, refusing help, refusing comfort.

"I have to go," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Mrs. Linton nodded as if she'd been expecting this. "I hoped you might. He'd never ask—too proud for that—but I think... I think he needs someone. And Junie adores you. If something happened to him..."

You were already moving, your sundress floating around you as you made your way through the fair. You found the head counselor, made some excuse about a family emergency, your voice steady even though your hands were shaking. The counselor nodded sympathetically, told you not to worry about cleanup, to take care of yourself.

The taxi ride into the city felt endless. Your camera bag sat heavy in your lap, the summer dress suddenly feeling too bright, too cheerful for whatever waited ahead. Your hands shook as you gave the driver Simon's address, your mind racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.

The house sat dark except for a single light in the front window. You paid the driver with trembling fingers and stood on the sidewalk, staring at the door you'd walked through only once before.

You raised your hand to knock, then hesitated. What if he didn't want to see you? What if—

The door opened before you could complete the thought, and you found yourself staring at a woman in military fatigues. She was tall, professional, with short-cropped dark hair and sharp eyes that assessed you quickly.

"Oh," you said, taking an automatic step backward. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize..."

Your heart plummeted. Who was she? Why was she here? The rational part of your brain supplied innocent explanations—colleague, friend, official business—but the irrational part, the part that had been aching for him for three weeks, whispered darker possibilities.

You were already turning away, cheeks burning with embarrassment, when his voice stopped you cold.

"Where are you going, love?"

His voice cut through the evening air like a blade, rough and tired and unmistakably him. You turned to find Simon standing in the doorway, shirtless except for a white bandage wrapped around his left shoulder and upper arm. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his hair was mussed like he'd been running his hands through it.

He was watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch, those dark eyes taking in every detail of your appearance—the sundress, the makeup, the way you'd obviously dressed up for something that wasn't him.

Christ, look at you, Simon thought, his chest tightening at the sight. Standing there in that little yellow dress like some fucking angel. Three weeks of hell, three weeks of wondering if I'd make it back, and you show up looking like sunshine. His jaw clenched as he fought the urge to drag you inside immediately. Want to press you to the door and bruise that delicate throat with my mouth—just enough to make it clear who you come home to. Want to leave marks where no one else should ever dare look, like prayers pressed into your skin.

The military woman cleared her throat. "I'll be going then, Riley. Remember what I said about the physical therapy."

"Yeah," he said, but his eyes never left yours. "Thanks for bringing the paperwork."

She nodded professionally, then looked between you and Simon with what might have been amusement. "Take care of yourself. And actually listen to the doctors this time."

"I..." you started, then stopped. The woman was getting into a car at the curb, and you couldn't help but track her movement.

Simon caught the direction of your glance, and his jaw ticked—barely. Jealous little thing.

It stirred something in him, low and ancient—the kind of satisfaction that came with knowing no one else got to keep you.

Good.

"She brought papers," he said flatly. "Medical leave. Work from home orders."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and took a hesitant step toward him. He looked exhausted, pain etched around his eyes, but alive. Beautifully, frustratingly alive.

"How are you?" you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

I should shut the door in your face, he thought darkly. Make you feel what it's like to be dismissed, ignored. The rage that had kept him alive during the mission—the cold, calculated fury that made him so effective at his job—simmered just beneath the surface.

Something in his expression hardened. The anger was sharp and hot, mixing dangerously with the relief of seeing you safe. Should bend you over my knee for the worry you put me through. Should make you understand what your silence did to me. But you looked so small standing there, so genuinely concerned, that the violent edge of his thoughts softened slightly. "Now you care?"

The words hit like a slap. You blinked, taken aback by the cold edge in his voice. "I... what?"

"Three weeks," he said, not moving from the doorway. "Three weeks of fucking silence. 'Miss you too.'" He mimicked your text tone mockingly. "That's it? That's all I get?"

Heat crept up your neck. "You were busy. I didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Bother me? Christ, woman, your voice in my ear was the only thing keeping me sane. Should show you exactly how much I need to be bothered by you. Should make you understand that I'd rather have you rambling about your bloody cat than the deafening silence you gave me. "I'm getting shot at in some godforsaken desert, wondering if I'll make it home to my daughter, and the one person I can't stop thinking about can't be arsed to send more than three words."

The accusation hung between you like a live wire. You wanted to explain, to tell him about the sleepless nights, about how you'd typed and deleted dozens of messages, about how terrified you were of saying too much, revealing too much. But the words stuck in your throat.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you—standing there in that delicate summer dress, your eyes wide with concern, and something in his chest constricted painfully. You looked like everything he wasn't: light, soft, pure. The darkness in him recoiled at the thought of tainting you.

"That's not fair," you whispered.

"Isn't it?" His eyes raked over you again—then again—the sundress, the shimmer on your eyelids, the way the yellow fabric clung to your curves. His jaw clenched. Fuck me, you’re gorgeous. How am I supposed to stay angry when you look like that? But the frustration was still there, sharp and demanding. Want to rip that pretty dress right off you. Want to show you what you do to me, what these weeks without you have been like. "You look beautiful."

The compliment felt like another slap, delivered with such frustrated anger that it made your chest tight.

"I came as soon as I heard you were hurt," you said, stepping closer despite the tension radiating off him. "Mrs. Linton told me, and I just... I had to see if you were okay."

"Did you now?" But some of the fight was leaving his voice, replaced by something warmer, hungrier. His eyes kept dropping to the neckline of your dress. Lower. The way the fabric skimmed your thighs.

The knowledge landed like heat in his chest—steady, primal, grounding. Like maybe, for once, he was worth coming back for. My sweet girl. My beautiful, stubborn, impossible girl.

He paused, taking in your appearance with something that might have been appreciation if it weren't twisted with bitterness. "You look like you've been having a good time.”

"Can I..." you gestured toward his bandage, ignoring his words. "Can I help? I know first aid."

"I want to help." Your voice came out smaller than you'd planned, but you didn't back down. "Please. Let me help."

For a long moment he just looked at you, and you could see the war playing out behind his eyes. Pride warring with exhaustion, stubborn independence battling against something that looked almost like longing.

You want to take care of me. The thought made something fierce and protective surge in his chest. Could let you. Could be gentle. Christ knows you deserve gentle after the hellish three weeks I've put us both through.

Finally, he stepped aside. "Come in, then."

You slipped past him into the house, catching the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something sharper—antiseptic, maybe, or pain medication. The living room was exactly as you remembered it, but there were signs of his recent return: a duffel bag by the door, gear scattered on the coffee table, an empty whiskey glass on the side table.

"How bad is it?" you asked, turning to face him.

He closed the door, then leaned against it, and you could see now how carefully he was holding himself, favoring his left side. "Shrapnel. Caught some debris from an explosion. Doc says I'll be fine in a few weeks."

The casual way he said it made your chest tight. "An explosion."

"Part of the job, love." His voice was gentle now, seeing your distress. "I've had worse."

Somehow that didn't make you feel better. You took a step closer, then another, until you were close enough to see the way the bandages pulled tight across his shoulder, the slight bruising that extended beyond the white gauze.

"Have you changed the dressing today?" you asked.

"This morning."

"It should be changed again. Twice a day, at least." You looked up at him, meeting those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through you. "Where are your supplies?"

"Bathroom." He was studying your face with an intensity that made you feel exposed. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." The words came out firmer than you felt. "Please. Let me take care of you."

Something shifted in his expression, something raw and vulnerable that made your heart clench.

"Alright then."

You followed him, your heels quiet on the carpeted steps. The bathroom was larger than you'd expected, with a walk-in shower and double vanity. He gestured to a basket on the counter filled with medical supplies—fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze pads.

"Sit," you said, pointing to the closed toilet seat.

He obeyed without argument, sinking down with a barely suppressed wince. You washed your hands thoroughly, then gathered what you needed, hyperaware of his eyes tracking your every movement that made your pulse jump.

"I need to remove the old bandage," you said softly.

"Go ahead."

"I can handle pain," he added, and something in his tone made you wonder if he was talking about more than physical wounds.

You stood between his thighs, your sundress pooling around your legs, and began carefully peeling away the medical tape that secured the gauze. He was perfectly still under your touch, but you could feel the tension radiating from him, could hear the slight change in his breathing when your fingers brushed his skin.

The wound was angry-looking but clean—a jagged line across his shoulder where something sharp had torn through muscle and flesh. It was stitched neatly, already beginning to heal, but the sight of it made your stomach clench with a mixture of sympathy and something darker. Someone had hurt him. Someone had tried to take him away from—

You caught yourself before that thought could complete itself.

You’re being so careful, Simon thought, watching your delicate fingers work. Like you’re afraid you'll break me. The irony wasn't lost on him—here he was, trained to kill with his bare hands, and you were treating him like he was made of glass. Want to grab those soft hands, show you exactly how unbreakable I am. Want to press you against this wall and make you feel how hard you make me just by breathing. But the gentle concentration on your face stopped him. No. You need this. Need to feel useful, needed. And fuck, I need your touch more than I need my next breath.

"It's healing well," you murmured, trying to keep your voice clinical even as your hands trembled. Being this close to him, touching his warm skin, breathing in his scent—it was overwhelming.

"Mmm," he hummed, watching your face with dark eyes. Want to corrupt that sweet mouth. Want to hear you making those pretty sounds you made in my dreams.

"Why are you really here, Miss Sparkle?" he asked, voice low and dangerous as you applied antiseptic cream to his stitches.

"I told you—"

"You've been avoiding me for weeks," he cut in. "Then you show up at my door looking like this—" His eyes traveled down your body, lingering on the way your dress clung to your curves. "What game are you playing?"

"No game," you whispered, unraveling fresh gauze with fingers that wouldn't stay steady. "I was worried."

"Worried," he repeated, disbelief coloring the word. "Worried enough to put on that dress? That makeup?" His hand—his right, uninjured one—caught your wrist as you reached to place the gauze. "Tell me why you're really here."

"Why didn't you text me?" he asked suddenly, his voice low and rough.

Your hands stilled. "What?"

"Three weeks, love. Three weeks, and you barely said a word to me."

You could hear the hurt in his voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Your heart clenched with guilt and something more complicated—the urge to explain warring with the fear of revealing too much.

"I had already said—I thought you were busy," you said softly, not meeting his eyes. "I didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me?" There was something almost dangerous in his tone now. "Do you have any idea what it's like, being in that goddamn desert, dodging bullets and thinking about..."

He stopped himself, jaw clenched tight.

"Thinking about what?" you whispered.

His eyes met yours, dark and intense and full of something that made your breath catch. "You know what."

The air between you felt charged, electric. Your hands were still resting against his shoulder, and you could feel his pulse under your fingertips, fast and strong. The antiseptic sat forgotten in your other hand.

"Simon," you breathed.

"You look beautiful," he said suddenly, roughly. "In that dress. With your makeup all done up. Where were you tonight?"

The question caught you off guard. "The camp fair. I was helping with Junie's—"

"And who was there?" His voice had taken on an edge you'd never heard before. "Who got to see you looking like this?"

You blinked, startled by his tone. "Parents. Other teachers. It was just a camp fair."

"Just a camp fair," he repeated, and there was something bitter in his voice. "And here I've been, thinking about you every goddamn night, wondering if you were thinking about me at all."

Your breath caught as you smoothed fresh gauze over the wound. His skin was warm under your fingertips, solid and real and alive. "I was so scared," you whispered before you could stop yourself.

"Were you?" His voice was rough velvet. Good. Want you scared. Want you to understand what losing me would mean. The thought was dark and claiming.

"Couldn't tell from your texts."

Guilt and frustration bubbled up in your chest. "I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to—"

"Didn't want to what?" He stood slowly. His thumb stroking over your pulse point. Racing heart. You’re affected as I am. The knowledge sent satisfaction through him, dark and hungry. "Didn't want to admit you missed me?"

Your eyes met his in the mirror, and something electric passed between you. "Of course I missed you."

"Say it properly." His voice dropped lower, commanding. Need to hear it. Need you to admit what this is between us. There was something almost predatory in his stillness. Could make you say so much more. Could make you beg. But not yet. Not until I'm sure you can handle it. "Say you missed me, not that you 'miss me too.'

The air in the small bathroom felt thick, charged. "I missed you, Simon."

"How much?" Tell me. Tell me you were as wrecked as I was.

Heat pooled low in your belly at the intensity in his voice. "So much it hurt."

"Every day," you admitted. "Every moment. I'd check my phone, hoping you'd texted, then hate myself for not texting first. I'd lie in bed thinking about you, wondering if you were safe, if you were thinking about me too."

Your confession landed with quiet devastation—no violence, no force. Just truth, stripped bare.

And in its wake, something inside him faltered. The sharp edges dulled. The heat behind his fury began to cool.

Anger ebbed. Bitterness slipped loose.

Because honesty like that didn’t beg to be forgiven.

It simply was. And somehow, that was enough to shake him.

"I was," he said quietly. "Thinking about you. Every goddamn day."

Something snapped in his expression. That's my girl. My honest, beautiful girl. The dark satisfaction warred with something gentler, more protective. Wants to ruin you tenderly. To crawl inside your skin and stay. Wants to take and take and take—until even your breath tastes like surrender. But you’re so fucking fragile. Like a butterfly that would crumble if I gripped too tight. Before you could react, he was spinning you around until your back hit the sink counter. His good arm braced beside your head while his injured one hung carefully at his side.

"Then why?" he growled, his face inches from yours. Why did you torture us both? The questions came from somewhere dark. "Why did you pull away from me? Every time I try to get close, you flinch like I'm going to hurt you."

"I don't—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You do. You go all skittish and sweet, hiding behind that teacher smile. But I see you." His free hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone. See right through you, beautiful. See how much you want this, how much you want me. The predator in him purred at your responsiveness. Could take you right here. Against this wall. But the way you looked up at him—trusting despite fear—made him gentle his touch. "I see how you look at me when you think I'm not watching."

Your breath came in short pants. The yellow dress suddenly felt too thin, too tight. "Simon..."

"Tell me why," he demanded softly. Tell me so I can fix it. So I can make you understand you're safe with me. "Tell me why you keep running from this."

"Because I'm scared," you whispered, the truth tumbling out. "Because I don't know how to want someone the way I want you. Because every time you touch me, I feel like I'm going to fall apart."

Fall apart for me, he thought fiercely. Want to be the one who breaks you open, who puts you back together. His pupils dilated, and for a moment the only sound was your shared breathing. You’re admitting it. Admitting you want me. The knowledge sent something dark and claiming through his veins. Then his mouth was on yours, desperate and hungry and perfect. You melted into him with a soft moan, your hands fisting in his hair as three weeks of longing exploded between you.

So sweet, he thought, kissing you deeper. So fucking perfect. Could kiss for hours. Could lose myself in this mouth. But his body was demanding more, harder, claiming. Control yourself. You’re not ready for what you really want to do to you.

"Fuck," he breathed against your lips, then kissed you deeper, his tongue sliding against yours until you were dizzy with it. "Fuck, I missed you. Missed this."

When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His eyes were dark with desire and something else—determination. Time to show you. Time to make you understand exactly how good I can make you feel.

"I'm done playing games," he said, his voice rough. Done pretending I'm not completely obsessed with you. The thought was shadowed and quiet, but it clung to him—greedy in its silence. "I'm done pretending I don't want you so bad it makes me crazy. And I'm done letting you pretend you don't want me back."

Before you could respond, he was lifting you, carrying you out of the bathroom and down the hall. My bedroom. My bed. Where you belong.

"Simon, please, you're hurt—" you protested weakly, even as your body arched against his.

"Nothing," he growled, kicking open his bedroom door, "will stop me from having you tonight. Nothing."

I'd tear my own arm off if it meant getting to taste you, he thought, the darkness in him rising. I'd burn the world to ashes just to see you come undone.

The bedroom was new territory—you'd only glimpsed it once. The large bed dominated the space, dark sheets neatly made, masculine and clean—before he set you gently on your feet beside his bed.

"Simon, you're hurt," you protested again, even as your body buzzed with anticipation.

He laughed, low and dangerous. Hurt? The only thing that hurts is how hard I am for you. "Love, nothing could stop me right now. Nothing." Could fuck you with a bullet in my chest if that's what it took.

His good hand traced the strap of your sundress, and you shivered. "Been thinking about this dress all evening. Thinking about what's underneath it." Thinking about tearing it off with my teeth. Thinking about hearing you beg.

"Have you?" you breathed.

"Every fucking day you ignored me," he said, fingers trailing down your arm. Every night in that godforsaken desert, stroking myself to thoughts of you. "Every night I was lying in some bloody desert, wondering if you were thinking about me at all."

Guilt twisted in your chest. "I was. I thought about you constantly."

"Did you touch yourself thinking about me?" Please say yes. Need to know I wasn't the only one going mad with want.

The question hit you like lightning, your cheeks flaming red. "Simon..."

"Did you?" His voice was pure command now, and something deep inside you responded to it, going liquid and warm. Answer me, beautiful. Tell me you were as desperate as I was.

"Yes," you whispered.

Fuck yes. "Good girl." The praise made you whimper. But I bet you stopped yourself. Bet you didn't let yourself come properly. "But I bet you didn't come, did you? Bet you got all worked up and then stopped yourself, just like you do with everything else."

He was right, and the knowing look in his eyes said he knew it. Your breath came in short pants as he slowly, carefully, pulled the straps of your dress down your shoulders. The fabric pooled around your waist, leaving you in just a lace bra.

Jesus Christ. Simon's control nearly snapped at the sight of you, so beautiful and trusting in his bedroom. Want to bite those perfect tits. Want to leave marks all over you so you remember who you belong to. But the way you looked at him—nervous but willing—reminded him to be gentle. Careful. You’re precious. Can't break you on the first night.

"Christ," he breathed, his eyes drinking you in. "Look at you."

Self-consciousness warred with desire as his gaze burned over your exposed skin. "Simon, your bandage—"

"The bandage is fine." His hand cupped your breast through the lace, thumb stroking over your nipple until it hardened. So responsive. Wonder how loud you'll get when I really start playing with you. "This is about you. About making up for all those nights you left yourself wanting."

He guided you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pressed you down gently onto the dark comforter. My bed. My woman. Finally. The thought sent heat through his veins. Going to taste every inch of you. Going to make you come so hard you forget your own name. You'd never been in his bedroom before—now you were surrounded by him, by the scent of his cologne on the pillows, by the weight of his gaze.

The contrast between his violent fantasies and your delicate reality struck him again. In his darkest thoughts, he'd taken you roughly, claimed you with bruising force, marked as his with teeth and hands. But looking at you now—your skin like porcelain, your eyes trusting, your body so small beneath his—he knew he couldn't unleash that savagery on you.

You'd shatter under that force, he thought, tempering his desire with careful restraint. You need to be handled like fine china.

His lips returned to yours, then trailed down your neck, collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When he reached the lace edge of your bra, he looked up at you, seeking permission again. You nodded, and he unhooked it with practiced ease, tossing it aside.

Look at you, he thought, something fierce and protective swelling in his chest. Lying in my bed like you were made for it. Like you were made for me. But there was something darker there too. Want to tie you to this bed. Want to keep you here until you understand you're never leaving.

"Perfect," he whispered, his mouth closing over one nipple while his hand caressed the other. The dual sensation made you arch off the bed, a soft moan escaping your lips.

I could make you scream, the darkness in him whispered. Could wreck you so thoroughly you'd never be the same.

But he held back, gentling his touch, containing the beast that wanted to devour you. For you, he would be careful. For you, he would be gentle, even as it went against every violent instinct coursing through his veins.

Simon settled between your legs, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs wider.

"That's for ignoring my texts," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh that made you gasp. And I'm just getting started. "And this..." His mouth moved higher. "This is for making me think you didn't want me."

"I did want you," you breathed, your hands fisting in the comforter. "I do want you."

I know you do, beautiful. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it. "I know." His fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly. So fucking perfect. "But you need to learn to take what you want instead of running from it."

The first touch of his mouth against your pussy made you cry out, your back arching off the bed. Sweet as I imagined. Sweeter. He was gentle at first, soft kisses and kitten licks that had you trembling, but when you whimpered his name, something shifted. You can take more. You want more.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groaned against you, his voice vibrating through your core. Soaking for me already. Perfect girl. The dark satisfaction was overwhelming. Could eat this sweet cunt for hours. Could make you come until you pass out. "So sweet. Been thinking about this for weeks—thinking about how you'd taste, how you'd sound when I made you come."

His tongue circled your clit, teasing, exploring, learning what made you gasp and what made you moan. When he slid one finger inside you, curling it to find that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids, you nearly came undone.

"That's it," he encouraged, adding a second finger while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. "Let me hear you, love."

The pleasure was overwhelming—his skilled mouth, his knowing fingers, the sight of his head between your thighs. Your hips began to move of their own accord, seeking more, chasing the building pressure.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours over the plane of your stomach. "This is for not answering me," he said, punctuating his words with a particularly wicked flick of his tongue. "This is for making me think about you every fucking night I was away." Another devastating curl of his fingers. "This is for looking so goddamn beautiful in this dress that I can't even stay mad at you."

"This sweet cunt is mine, and I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

The filthy words combined with the relentless pressure of his mouth pushed you higher, closer to the edge than you'd ever been. You’re close. Can feel you trembling. Going to make you come so hard you see stars. Your thighs trembled around his head, and he groaned like he was the one being pleasured. Love how you respond to me. Love that I'm the one making you fall apart.

"That's it," he murmured, his good arm wrapping around your thigh to hold you still. No running now, beautiful. Going to take what I give you. "Stop running from it. Let it happen."

His lips sealed around your clit and sucked, and the world exploded. Yes. Come for me. Come all over my tongue like the perfect girl you are. You came with a broken cry, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over you. He worked you through it with gentle licks and kisses, until you were gasping and oversensitive.

When you finally came down, you found him watching you with dark, satisfied eyes. Your face burned as you realized how completely you'd fallen apart, how loud you'd been.

"Beautiful," he said simply, pressing a soft kiss to your hip. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You felt boneless, dazed with pleasure, but as your head cleared you became aware of the obvious bulge in his sweatpants. Hard as a rock for you. Want to bury myself so deep inside you feel me for days. But something softer, more protective overrode the savage need. Suddenly shy but determined, you reached for his waistband.

"Your turn," you whispered.

His hand caught yours, stopping you. Want to. Christ, want to fuck that pretty mouth so badly it hurts. But the way you looked—soft and satisfied and trusting—made him gentle his response. You’re not ready for what I really want to do to you. What I will do to you, eventually. "Not tonight."

You blinked up at him in confusion. "But you're..."

"Rock hard, yeah." He shifted with a slight grimace. Harder than I've ever been. Could probably come just from looking at you like this. "But tonight was about you. About showing you how good I can make you feel, how much I want to take care of you."

"Simon..."

"This is just the beginning, love." His voice was soft but intense, his eyes burning into yours. Going to corrupt you slowly. Going to teach you exactly how good it can be between us. "I want our first time to be perfect. When I'm healed, when I can give you everything you deserve." His eyes softened slightly. "Tonight was just the beginning of me showing you how seen you are, how much I want to take care of you.”

The promise in his voice made you shiver. He disappeared for a moment, returning with a glass of water and a chocolate bar from his nightstand drawer.

"Drink," he commanded gently, helping you sit up. Take care of you. Always take care of you. "And eat something. Can't have you getting lightheaded on me."

The chocolate was dark and rich, and the water was cold and perfect. You felt cared for in a way that went bone-deep, like he was tending to every part of you. This is how it should be. This is how I'll always take care of you.

Simon watched you eat the chocolate, something protective coiling in his chest. You looked so small, wearing nothing but the aftermath of pleasure he'd given you, your hair tousled, lips swollen from his kisses.

I could keep you here forever, he thought, the idea both appealing and frightening. Lock the doors. Never let you leave.

The darkness in him liked that idea—keeping you all to himself, away from the world, away from other men's eyes. The rational part knew it was madness.

He'd spent his life taking what he wanted, eliminating threats, protecting what was his. And now, you were his—or at least, you were beginning to be.

I'd kill anyone who touched you, he realized with stark clarity. Without hesitation, without remorse.

The thought should have disturbed him. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Later, you began gathering your things, assuming you'd call a taxi home.

"What are you doing?" Simon asked, watching you from the bed where he'd been waiting.

"Getting ready to head home," you explained, confused.

Simon's eyebrows shot up. The fuck you are. The response was immediate and fierce. You’re not leaving this bed. Not leaving me. Not again. "Like hell you should."

"I don't have—"

"You're not going anywhere." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Staying right here where I can keep you safe. "It's late, you're exhausted, and I'm not letting you leave after that."

Something warm unfurled in your chest. "Are you sure?"

"Dead sure." He was already moving around the room, pulling out a soft grey t-shirt that would drown you. Want to see you in my clothes. Want you smelling like me. "Shower's yours if you want it. Towels are in the cupboard."

The shower felt like heaven, washing away the glitter and cotton candy residue from the fair. His soap smelled like him—clean and masculine and comforting. When you emerged in his oversized shirt, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in just boxers, his bandage freshly changed.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect in my shirt. The sight sent satisfaction through him.

"Come here," he said softly, patting the mattress. "Which side do you want?"

The question was so domestic, so intimate, that it made your chest tight. "I don't know."

"Try the left," he suggested. Want you on the left so I can keep my good arm around you. "See how it feels."

The sheets were soft and smelled like fabric softener and him. As you settled against the pillows, he slid in beside you, careful of his injured shoulder. This is right. This is how it should be. You in my bed, safe and sated.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

You nodded, suddenly shy again. He reached over to turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness just as the first drops of summer rain began pattering against the windows.

"Thank you," you whispered into the dark.

"For what?"

"For not letting me leave. For taking care of me. For..." you trailed off, not sure how to put it into words.

"For showing you how good you deserve to feel?" His voice was warm with affection.

"Yes."

He shifted closer, his good arm coming around you to pull you against his chest. "Get used to it, love. This is just the beginning."

Outside, the rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof like a lullaby. Wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by his scent, you felt something inside you finally settle. For the first time in weeks, you weren't running from anything.

My girl, Simon thought as he felt you breathing slow against his chest. My beautiful, perfect girl. And tomorrow I'm going to show you exactly what that means.

You were here.

In his space. In his orbit. In the silence between everything he couldn’t say.

And somehow, that felt right—like the universe had finally tilted into place.

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

With him. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to quiet the war in his chest.

Chapter Text

Simon woke to emptiness, his good arm stretching across sheets still warm from your body. Pain radiated through his injured shoulder as he jerked upright, eyes scanning the room for any trace of your presence. The borrowed t-shirt lay folded at the foot of the bed, a silent confirmation that last night hadn't been a fever dream born of painkillers and loneliness.

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Memories flooded back in vivid detail—your sundress catching the last light of day, your gasp when his fingers first pushed inside you, the way you'd trembled against his mouth. He'd barely slept, too consumed with the reality of you in his bed, afraid you'd dissolve like morning mist if he closed his eyes for too long.

And now you were gone.

The digital clock on his nightstand read 7:17 AM. Early, but not unreasonably so. The house creaked around him, silent in a way that confirmed his solitude. No note that he could see. Just the lingering scent of you on his pillowcase and the ghost of your taste on his tongue.

Simon swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed. The doctor's words echoed in his mind—rest, hydrate, take it easy. Advice he'd ignored for the better part of his adult life. His fingers fumbled for the prescription bottle on the nightstand, dry-swallowing two pills before pushing himself to standing.

The bathroom mirror reflected a man he barely recognized. Hollowed cheeks, eyes ringed with shadows dark as bruises, the angry red line of stitches peeking from beneath loosened gauze. He looked feral, dangerous—like the kind of man good women ran from.

Is that why she left?

The thought sliced through him, sharper than the shrapnel that had torn his flesh. He'd been too much, too fast. Had taken what you offered with the desperation of a starving man, caging you while you stood pressed against his bathroom wall. Christ, he had barely even made it to the bedroom before dropping to his knees for you.

"Stupid fucking bastard," he growled at his reflection, splashing cold water on his face with his good hand.

The living room showed no signs of disturbance. Your purse, your shoes—gone without a trace. As if you'd never been here at all. Only the faint scent of vanilla in the air confirmed you hadn't been a hallucination born of blood loss and longing.

Simon's phone sat where he'd left it on the coffee table. No messages. No missed calls. His thumb hovered over your contact information, pride warring with the raw, gnawing need to hear your voice. To know why you'd left. To demand you come back.

Because you own her? Because you’ve stitched yourself into her silence and now she carries the sound of you everywhere?

He tossed the phone aside, disgusted with himself. This wasn't who he was—needy, desperate, unraveling over a woman who clearly regretted the night they'd shared. Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley didn't beg. Didn't chase. Didn't need anyone but his daughter and his team.

The kitchen offered no distraction, just Mrs. Linton's leftovers in the fridge and the whiskey glass still sitting on the counter—his evidence before he'd led you to his bed. Before he'd wrapped himself around you like he had any right to you warmth.

His fingers pressed into the countertop, knuckles pale as a rush of feeling tore through him — fierce, unspoken, impossible to contain. You'd been here. In his home. In his arms. Your taste still lingered on his tongue, your scent embedded in his sheets. And now you were gone, leaving without a word, taking pieces of him he hadn't realized were vulnerable to theft.

The pain in his shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse, a steady reminder of his mortality. Of all the ways his body could fail him. Of all the reasons a woman like you—soft, gentle, untouched by the violence that defined his existence—would run from what he offered.

Simon grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle from the counter, unscrewing the cap with his teeth. The first swallow burned, a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in his chest. The second went down easier. By the third, his hands had stopped shaking.

Outside, dawn painted the sky in shades of gold, a mockery of beauty when everything inside him felt leaden and gray. He stepped onto the porch, bottle dangling from his fingers, and sank into the weathered rocking chair that had been there since before Junie was born.

His gaze drifted to the empty driveway where your taxi had dropped you off just hours before. Had you called another to take her away? Walked the three miles back to town in darkness? The thought of you alone on the country roads, vulnerable in the night, sent a fresh surge of anger through him—at you for leaving, at himself for letting you go.

The whiskey bottle was nearly empty now, amber liquid catching the early light as he swirled it absently. The medication was mixing dangerously with the alcohol, blurring the edges of his vision and loosening the careful restraints he kept on his darker thoughts.

She used you. Got her rocks off and left.

The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his father's—bitter, accusatory, steeped in the conviction that nothing good ever lasted.

She saw the real you and ran.

Simon's free hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white with tension. The real him. The man beneath the careful facade he presented to Junie's teacher. The soldier with blood on his hands and nightmares that woke him screaming. The man who'd pinned you against a wall and devoured you like he had any right to your body.

He'd shown you exactly who he was last night—desperate, hungry, barely controlled. Had watched your eyes widen at the filth spilling from his mouth, had felt your hesitation before surrendering to his demands. Of course you’d run. Any sane woman would.

But you'd wanted it too. Had trembled beneath his touch, had begged so sweetly as he'd worked you with his fingers and tongue. Had come apart for him, his name on your lips like a prayer.

Because she pitied you. Poor wounded soldier, all alone in his empty house.

The bottle slipped from his fingers, shattering on the porch boards. Whiskey splashed across his bare feet, glass fragments glittering in the morning sun. Simon stared at the mess, too numb to feel the sting where a shard had sliced his heel.

Inside, his phone began to ring. The sound cut through his alcohol-induced haze, sending him stumbling back into the house, leaving bloody footprints on the hardwood floor. He snatched up the device, heart hammering against his ribs when he saw your name on the screen.

For one terrible moment, he considered letting it ring out. Letting you taste the bitter pill of rejection you'd fed him by disappearing without a word. His thumb hovered over the decline button, pride and hurt warring with the desperate need to hear her voice.

"Riley," he answered finally, voice rough with whiskey and unshed emotion.

"Simon?" Your voice was small, uncertain. "Are you okay? You sound—"

"Drunk?" he supplied, letting the edge of bitterness show. "Disappointed? Fucking furious? Take your pick, love."

A pause, long enough that he wondered if you'd hung up. Then, softer: "I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye."

"That what you call it? Goodbye?" He barked a laugh, hollow and sharp. "Most people leave a note. Or, you know, actually say the fucking word."

"I didn't want to wake you," you explained, a tremor in your voice. "You needed rest, and I had to—"

"Had to what?" he cut in, the alcohol making him cruel. "Run? Hide? Pretend last night never happened?"

"No!" The protest was immediate, forceful enough to catch him off guard. "God, Simon, no. I had to get back to Camp. I'm the substitute face painter, remember? I couldn't just not show up."

The explanation was so mundane, so reasonable, that it punctured his rage like a balloon. Of course. The summer camp. Junie. The face painting you'd mentioned in passing while he'd been lost in the feel of you against him.

"You could have woken me," he said, the fury draining from him, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. "Left a note. Something."

"I did leave a note," you said, confusion evident in your voice. "On the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker."

Simon pushed himself off the couch, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder at the sudden movement. Sure enough, a folded piece of paper sat beside the coffee pot, his name written across it in neat handwriting. How had he missed it? Had he been so consumed by anger, by fear, that he'd literally walked past the evidence that contradicted his darkest thoughts?

"I see it," he admitted, voice rough with shame. "Haven't had my coffee yet."

"Simon," you said, his name a gentle reproach. "Have you been drinking?"

He glanced at his bare feet, at the blood drying between his toes from the cut he'd barely registered. "Might have had a nightcap."

"At nine in the morning?" The worry in your voice made something twist painfully in his chest. "Your medication—"

"I know what I'm doing," he snapped, immediately regretting the harshness. Softer, he added, "I thought you'd left. For good."

The admission cost him, laid bare a vulnerability he'd spent years burying beneath layers of discipline and detachment. In the field, this kind of weakness got men killed. In his personal life, it had led to nothing but disappointment and abandonment.

"I'm coming back," you said, the simple declaration stealing his breath. "As soon as my shift ends. I promised Junie I'd paint butterflies on her face, but after that, I'm coming back to you."

To you. The words echoed in his mind, sweeter than they had any right to be.

"I'll be here," he managed, throat tight with emotion he refused to name.

"Simon?" your voice had gone soft, intimate in a way that made his skin prickle with awareness. "Last night wasn't a mistake. Not for me."

He closed his eyes, letting your words wash over him, a balm to the festering wound of doubt that had consumed his morning. "Come back to me," he said, no longer caring how it sounded—like pleading, like need. "Please."

"I will," you promised. "Now go clean up whatever you broke, take your medication properly, and get some rest. I'll be there before dinner."

The line went dead, leaving Simon standing in his kitchen, note in hand, blood drying on his foot, and something dangerously close to hope unfurling in his chest.

He unfolded the paper, your handwriting swimming slightly before his eyes as the whiskey and medication fought for dominance in his system.

Simon,

Had to run back to camp for my face-painting shift. Didn't want to wake you—you looked so peaceful finally. Last night was... I don't have words. I'll come back tonight, if you'll have me.

Miss you already,

Your Miss Sparkle

Your Miss Sparkle. The feeling stirred low in his chest, a quiet rumble born of something primal—something that felt dangerously close to contentment. He traced the words with his fingertip, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the pounding in his head and the ache in his shoulder.

You were coming back. To him.

Simon folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket before heading to the bathroom to clean his bloody foot. The man in the mirror looked marginally less haunted now, though no less dangerous. He'd need to shave, to clean up the mess on the porch, to make himself presentable before you returned.

Before you came back to him, as promised.

The dark thoughts that had consumed his morning receded like shadows at dawn, not gone entirely but pushed to the corners of his mind where they couldn't poison this fragile, newborn thing between them. There would be time later to examine his reaction, to question why your absence had unraveled him so completely, why the thought of your leaving had driven him to drink before the sun had fully risen.

For now, he had a promise to hold onto, a note in his pocket, and the lingering taste of you on his tongue—evidence that whatever demons haunted him, he wasn't facing them alone anymore.

You opened the door to Simon's house at precisely 10:07 PM, exhaustion clinging to your bones like wet clothes. The summer evening hung heavy with humidity, stars blurred by heat haze as you'd trudged up the gravel driveway. Your camera bag weighed against your shoulder—a reminder of the two last-minute photoshoots you'd squeezed in after the camp's closing ceremony.

The living room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the television. Empty takeout containers littered the coffee table, alongside a nearly empty bottle of whiskey and a tumbler with amber dregs at the bottom.

"Simon?" you called, setting your camera bag gently by the door.

A grunt from the couch answered you. You rounded the furniture to find him sprawled across the cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other—the injured one—cradled protectively against his chest. He wore nothing but low-hanging sweatpants, his bare chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

"There she is," he slurred, lifting his arm just enough to peer at you with one bloodshot eye. "Miss Sparkle. In the flesh. My girl. My fucking gorgeous girl".

The nicknames pulled a tired smile from you. "You're completely wasted."

"Observant," he replied, attempting to sit up and wincing when he jostled his injured shoulder. "Smart. Pretty. Kind. S'why I like you."

Your heart squeezed painfully at the simple declaration. "Let's get some food in you," you said, moving to help him stand. "When did you last eat?"

He shrugged, then immediately regretted the movement judging by his grimace. "Dunno. Mrs. Linton brought... something." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen.

"And you drank instead," you surmised, slipping an arm around his waist. "Come on, soldier. Up you go."

He leaned heavily against you as you guided him to the kitchen, his body radiating heat like a furnace. The bandage on his shoulder looked sloppy, as if he'd attempted to change it himself and given up halfway through. Dried blood stained the edges.

"You're a disaster," you muttered, depositing him in a kitchen chair.

"'M your disaster," he countered, reaching for you as you stepped away. His fingers caught the hem of your sundress, tugging you back toward him. "Missed you."

His hand squeezed your hip as you walked, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of your sundress. "Need to get you out of this dress," he murmured, voice rough with want despite his intoxicated state. "Been thinking about it all fucking day.”

The simple admission, delivered with drunk sincerity, made your chest ache. "I missed you too," you admitted, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Now sit still while I find something edible."

"Food first," you said firmly, depositing him in a kitchen chair before he could act on that particular thought.

The refrigerator contained several neatly labeled containers—Mrs. Linton's handiwork, you assumed. You selected one marked "beef stew" and set about heating it on the stove. Simon watched you move around his kitchen, eyes tracking your every movement with a predatory focus at odds with his intoxicated state.

"Why're you all dressed up?" he asked suddenly, frowning at your sundress and light makeup. "Someone else see you looking like this?”

"I had a couple of photography jobs after the camp event," you explained, stirring the stew. "Portrait sessions."

"Photography?" His frown deepened. "Thought you were a teacher."

"I am," you said, suddenly self-conscious about your side gig. "But teachers don't get paid enough during summer break, and my rent just went up, so..."

Understanding dawned slowly across his features. "You need money."

The blunt assessment made heat crawl up your neck. "I'm fine," you insisted, turning back to the stove. "Just being proactive."

"No." He shook his head emphatically, then winced at the movement. "No, you shouldn't have to— Fuck. Should've thought of that." His good hand clenched into a fist on the table. "What kind of man am I, letting my girl struggle while I—"

"I'm not your responsibility," you interrupted gently, though something warm unfurled in your chest at his protective instincts.

"The hell you're not," he growled. "Mine to take care of. Mine to protect. Mine to—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

You ladled stew into a bowl, processing his words. It should have alarmed you, but instead it felt like coming home to something you hadn't known you'd been missing.

"Eat," you instructed, placing the bowl before him. "You'll feel better with food in your stomach."

He caught your wrist as you pulled away, thumb stroking over your pulse point. "Stay close," he murmured. "Don't like when you're far away."

You perched on the edge of the table beside him, close enough that his knee pressed against your thigh as he ate. He managed about half the bowl before pushing it away, focus returning to you with laser intensity.

"Missed you," he said simply, free hand sliding up your bare leg to rest just above your knee. "Thought you left for good this morning."

Guilt twisted in your stomach. "I'm sorry. I should have woken you."

"Look," he stood, offering a picture to you, then sat back.

The image showed you and Junie at the spring field trip to the botanical gardens. You were kneeling beside her, pointing at a particularly vibrant butterfly that had landed on a nearby flower. Both of your faces were alight with wonder, captured in perfect focus against the soft blur of the garden background.

"Where did you get this?" you asked, throat suddenly tight.

"Printed it," he said simply. "You sent me this." He tapped the photo with an unsteady finger. "Look at you. The way you see her. Really see her."

You swallowed hard, remembering that day.

"She adores you," you said softly, returning the photo to him. "You're a good father, Simon."

He shook his head, expression darkening. "Not always there. Miss things." He gestured with the photo. "Important things."

You busied yourself cleaning up the kitchen, sneaking glances at him between tasks. Even drunk and injured, there was something magnetic about him—a raw power held in careful check, like a predator at rest. The memory of his mouth on you, his hands gripping your thighs, made heat pool low in your belly.

"You're staring," he said without looking up.

"Just making sure you're okay," you countered, turning back to the sink.

"Liar." The word held no accusation, just amused certainty. "You're thinking about last night."

The directness made you flush. "You need a shower," you deflected, gathering his empty bowl. "And a fresh bandage."

"Join me?" he suggested, his eyes catching the light—mischief first, then the unmistakable pull of something far heavier.

"Not while you're drunk," you said firmly, though the image his words conjured sent a thrill through you. "Can you manage on your own, or do you need help?"

His smile turned wolfish. "Always need your help, love."

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself perched on the edge of the bathtub, helping a very naked, very drunk Simon Riley wash his hair. You'd compromised—he'd stepped into the bathroom alone, but when you'd heard a crash and a curse, you'd rushed in to find him struggling to raise his injured arm high enough to rinse shampoo from his hair.

"Hold still," you admonished, using a plastic cup to pour warm water over his head. "You're worse than my first graders on field day."

"Bet you don't look at them like you're looking at me," he retorted, eyes closed against the water but smile knowing.

He was right, of course. It was impossible not to admire the sculpted planes of his body, even injured and swaying slightly with intoxication. Water cascaded down the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, following the V of his hips down to—

You forced your gaze back to his face, only to find him watching you with heated amusement. "Eyes up here, Miss Sparkle."

"Fucking hell, you're adorable when you're flustered," he chuckled, good arm draped lazily over the edge of the tub. "Never seen a naked man before?"

"Not like..." You gestured vaguely in his direction, face burning. "Not like you."

His grin turned predatory. "Like what?"

"You know what," you mumbled, focusing determinedly on gathering soap and washcloths.

"Tell me," he commanded softly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that made your knees weak. "What about me has you all worked up?"

You refused to answer, instead focusing on gently cleaning around his injured shoulder. He hissed when you touched a particularly tender spot, muscles tensing beneath your touch.

"Sorry," you whispered, gentling your movements.

"You're perfect," he murmured, eyes soft despite his intoxicated state. "So fucking careful with me. Don't deserve it."

"Don't say that," you chided, working soap into a lather. "Everyone deserves to be cared for."

"Not me," he said quietly, something dark flickering across his expression. "Done things... hurt people. You should run."

Your hands stilled on his skin. "I'm not running anywhere."

"Why?" The question was barely audible. "Why stay with someone like me?"

Instead of answering, you resumed your gentle ministrations, cleaning away dried blood and sweat with careful strokes. His good hand found your wrist, thumb stroking over your pulse.

"So soft," he murmured, eyes drifting closed. "Everything about you is soft. Makes me want to be gentle, but I don't know how."

"You're being gentle now," you pointed out, working shampoo through his hair.

He leaned into your touch like a large cat seeking affection. "Only with you. Only ever with you."

When you moved to rinse his hair, he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a kiss to your palm. "Stay," he said simply. "After Junie goes back to school. After summer ends. Stay with me."

Your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his voice. "Simon..."

"I know I'm fucked up," he continued, words slurring slightly as the alcohol and warm water made him drowsy. "Know I'm not what you deserve. But I'd give you anything. Everything. Just say what you need."

"I need you to take care of yourself," you said softly, helping him sit up so you could rinse his back. "I need you to stop drinking yourself into oblivion when things get difficult."

He was quiet for a long moment. "Scared you'd leave," he admitted finally. "Woke up alone and thought... thought I'd dreamed it all."

Understanding flooded through you, washing away the disappointment you'd felt at finding him drunk. "I left a note."

"Found it later," he said, head dropping forward as you worked. "After I'd already convinced myself you were gone for good."

"I'm not going anywhere," you assured him, though you both knew it wasn't entirely true. Summer would end. School would start. Real life would intrude on this bubble you'd created.

But for now, it was enough.

When you'd finished washing him, he was relaxed and pliant, the alcohol and warm water combining to make him drowsy. Getting him out of the tub proved to be a challenge—he was unsteady on his feet and seemed determined to touch you at every opportunity.

"Easy," you murmured, wrapping a towel around his waist. "Let me get you dried off."

His good hand tangled in your hair as you patted his chest dry, thumb stroking along your jawline. "So beautiful," he slurred. "My beautiful girl. Want to protect you from everything."

"I can take care of myself," you said, though you didn't pull away from his touch.

"Shouldn't have to," he insisted, swaying slightly. "Should let me take care of you. Want to give you everything—house, money, whatever you need. Just have to ask."

Your throat tightened at the earnest offer. "I don't need your money, Simon."

"Need something," he said, eyes searching your face. "Everyone needs something. What do you need?"

You, you thought but didn't say. Just you.

Instead, you guided him toward the bedroom, retrieving fresh boxers from his dresser while he collapsed onto the mattress with zero grace. He didn't bother covering himself as he fumbled with the underwear, and you found yourself stealing glances despite your embarrassment.

"Didn’t think I’d make such a sight?" he asked, catching you looking again.

"You're impossible," you muttered, cheeks burning as you gathered fresh bandages from the first aid kit.

"Come here," he commanded softly, patting the space beside him on the bed. "Need to see your face when I tell you things."

You perched on the edge of the mattress, medical supplies in hand. "Arms up so I can see your shoulder."

He complied, though his gaze never left your face. "Know what I thought about today?" he asked as you gently peeled away the old bandage. "Thought about waking up every morning with you in my bed. Thought about making you breakfast and sending you off to work with my marks on your neck so everyone can read the story of us on your skin."

Heat flooded through you at his words, fingers trembling slightly as you cleaned his wound. "Simon..."

"Thought about coming home to you," he continued, voice growing rougher. "About you greeting me at the door in nothing but my shirt. About bending you over the kitchen counter and—"

"Your shoulder looks better," you interrupted, face burning. "The swelling's gone down."

He chuckled at your obvious deflection. "You like it when I talk dirty to you," he observed with satisfaction. "Can see it in your face. In the way you're breathing."

You pressed a fresh bandage over his wound, perhaps more firmly than strictly necessary. "You're drunk."

"Drunk, not blind," he countered, good hand settling on your hip. "Can see exactly what I do to you. Can smell how much you want me."

"You need sleep," you said, securing the bandage with medical tape.

"Need you," he corrected, tugging you down beside him. "Need you right here, in my bed, where you belong."

Despite your protests, you found yourself settling against his uninjured side, his arm immediately wrapping around your waist. He buried his face in your hair, breathing deeply.

"Perfect," he murmured against your temple. "Fucking perfect. Want to keep you here forever. Never let anyone hurt you."

"No one's going to hurt me," you said softly, tracing idle patterns on his chest.

"Would if I let them," he said, arm tightening around you. "World's full of bastards who'd take advantage of someone like you. Someone good."

"Someone like me?"

"Sweet," he said simply. "Gentle. Too fucking trusting for your own good." His thumb stroked along your ribs through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Makes me want to lock you away somewhere safe. Somewhere only I can find you."

You should have flinched at the claim in his voice, but instead it drew something out of you—something that answered it.

“That’s not healthy, Simon.”

"Nothing about what I feel for you is healthy," he admitted, lips brushing your hairline. "Obsessed with you. Think about you constantly."

Your breath caught at the raw honesty in his confession. "You're drunk," you repeated weakly.

"Drunk enough to tell the truth," he corrected. "Sober, I'd try to be better. Try to be the kind of man who deserves you. But drunk... drunk I can admit that I want to keep you. Want to give you everything and never let you go."

Sleep was beginning to claim him, his words growing more slurred, his body relaxing against yours. His hold on you didn’t fade — even as the world tilted, his body remembered what his mind could not: you.

"Stay," he mumbled, face pressed against your hair. "Promise me you'll stay."

"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his collarbone.

"Good," he sighed, contentment bleeding through his voice. "My good girl."

Tonight, there was only this—his need and yours, creating something neither of you had anticipated but both seemed unwilling to relinquish.

"My sweet girl," he mumbled again in his sleep, arm tightening reflexively around you.

And despite every rational thought in your head, you found yourself whispering back into the darkness: "Yours."

As his breathing deepened into sleep, you allowed yourself to study his face in repose. The hard lines of his jaw, the faint scar bisecting one eyebrow, the faint gold of his lashes brushed against his cheeks — a sight already achingly familiar despite how little time you’d shared.

Outside, the summer night hummed with cicadas and distant thunder. Inside, in the circle of Simon's arm, you felt a curious sense of homecoming—as if these four walls contained something you'd been searching for without knowing it.

Tomorrow would bring complications. Questions about your financial struggles that you weren't ready to answer. Conversations about what exactly was happening between you. Decisions about how to navigate this thing with Junie in the middle.

But tonight, with Simon's breath warm against your hair and his heartbeat steady beneath your palm, those concerns seemed distant and manageable. Tonight, there was only this—his need and yours, perfectly matched, creating something neither of you had anticipated but both now seemed unwilling to relinquish.

Chapter Text

The sharp rap at the front door cut through your dreams at 6:45 AM, pulling you from the warm cocoon of Simon's arms. He didn't stir—the combination of alcohol and pain medication had knocked him into the deep, heavy sleep of the thoroughly medicated.

You cursed internally, carefully extracting yourself from his embrace and padding barefoot through the hallway. The knocking came again, more insistent this time, followed by muffled voices.

"—told you it was too early—"

"—needs these documents today, Johnny—"

You paused at the door, suddenly hyperaware that you wore nothing but Simon's oversized t-shirt, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh. Through the peephole, you could see two men on the porch—one with a distinctive mohawk, the other with kind eyes and a concerned expression.

Taking a deep breath, you cracked the door open just wide enough to peer out. "Can I help you?"

The man with the mohawk—broke into a wide grin. "Well, well. And who might you be, love?"

"Johnny," the other man—Gaz—warned, though his own expression was curious and pleased. "Sorry to bother you so early, miss. We're looking for Simon Riley. I'm Kyle, and this is Johnny. We work with Simon."

"He's sleeping," you said, clutching the door frame. "The medication makes him sleep pretty heavily."

"Aye, that'll be the good stuff the doc gave him," Soap said, then his grin widened as he took in your appearance—or more specifically, whose shirt you were wearing. "Simon's shirt, eh? Good for him."

Heat flooded your cheeks. "I—"

"We brought his work documents," Gaz interrupted smoothly, holding up a manila envelope. "Remote work authorization, medical forms. Nothing urgent, but he'll need them when he's feeling better."

"And his new pain meds," Soap added, producing a pharmacy bag. "Picked them up this morning since the stubborn bastard won't leave the house to get them himself."

"That's very thoughtful," you said, accepting both items. "I'll make sure he gets them."

"You're the teacher, aren't you?" Gaz asked, his expression warming. "Junie's teacher. Simon's mentioned you."

"Has he?" you asked, surprised.

"Oh, aye," Soap laughed. "Won't shut up about Miss Sparkle and her pretty face and how good she is with his wee girl."

"Johnny," Gaz warned again, though he was fighting a smile.

"What? I’m just saying, the man’s gone soft — can’t even hide it anymore. Good to see he finally did something about it." Soap's grin turned knowing. "Judging by that shirt and your bedhead, I'd say he did something about it very thoroughly."

"I should go," you stammered, face burning. "Before he wakes up."

"Tell him we stopped by," Gaz said kindly. "And that if he needs anything—anything at all—he just has to call."

"We're happy for him," Soap added, suddenly serious. "Both of you. Simon deserves someone who sees past all his gruff exterior to the good man underneath."

You nodded, throat tight with unexpected emotion. "Thank you. I'll tell him."

You were just about to close the door when another voice called out from the driveway.

"Oh, wonderful! I was hoping to catch you early!"

Mrs. Linton bustled up the walkway, arms laden with covered dishes and a basket of fresh fruit. She beamed at the sight of you in Simon's doorway, looking for all the world like you belonged there.

"Good morning, dear," she said warmly, then nodded to the two men. "Boys."

"Mrs. L," Soap said with obvious affection. "How's the matchmaking business these days?"

"Thriving, apparently," she replied with satisfaction, eyes twinkling as she looked between you and the door to Simon's house. "Now, you two run along. I need to deliver these groceries to the happy couple."

"Happy couple?" you squeaked.

"Oh, don't look so scandalized, dear," Mrs. Linton laughed. "These old eyes have seen enough to know when two people are meant for each other. The way that man looks at you, and the way you fuss over him? It's written all over both your faces."

Soap and Gaz exchanged amused glances. "We'll leave you to it then," Gaz said. "Take care of our boy."

"I will," you promised, watching them head back to their car.

Mrs. Linton swept past you into the house as if she owned the place. "I brought fresh fruit—peaches and strawberries from my garden. And that beef roast Simon loves, plus some of my famous potato salad." She set everything on the kitchen counter with practiced efficiency. "How's his shoulder? Is he taking his medication properly? Men are terrible patients, you know."

"He's sleeping now," you said, following her into the kitchen. "The pain medication knocks him out pretty thoroughly."

"Good, good. He needs rest." She turned to you with a maternal smile. "And you, dear? How are you holding up? It can't be easy, caring for an injured man while working those photography jobs."

You blinked in surprise. "How did you—"

“Word travels fast. Though I must say, I'm impressed by your work ethic. Teaching all year, then picking up extra work during the summer to make ends meet." Her expression grew thoughtful. "Of course, I don't imagine you'll need to worry about that much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing," she said airily, though her smile was positively smug. "Just a feeling I have. Now, I should let you get back to him. Men get so grumpy when they wake up alone after being sick."

She gathered you into a quick hug, smelling of something fresh and garden soil. "You're good for him, dear. Better than good. You're exactly what that man needs."

After she left, you stood in the kitchen surrounded by enough food to feed a small army, processing the morning's events. The easy acceptance from Simon's friends, Mrs. Linton's obvious delight at finding you here—it felt like pieces of a life you hadn't dared imagine clicking into place.

You returned to the bedroom to find Simon exactly as you'd left him, sprawled across most of the mattress with one arm flung over his face. His breathing was deep and even, his injured shoulder finally relaxed without the constant tension of pain.

Sliding back under the covers, you settled against his uninjured side. He stirred slightly, arm automatically wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

"Mmm," he mumbled, face pressing into your hair. "Thought I dreamed you."

"Just got up for a minute," you whispered. "Go back to sleep."

He hummed contentedly, already drifting off again. You closed your eyes and let yourself be pulled back under by his warmth and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The first thing you noticed when consciousness slowly returned was the absence of warmth against your back. Your hand reached across the bed instinctively, finding only cool sheets where Simon's solid presence had been all night. The morning light filtered through his blinds, soft and golden, casting everything in that particular summer glow that made even the most mundane spaces look like scenes from a film.

You stretched languidly, Simon's oversized shirt riding up your thighs as you worked the sleep from your muscles. The fabric still carried his scent—that distinctive combination of clean laundry detergent, something woodsy that might have been cologne, and underneath it all, something that was purely him. It was comforting in a way that made your chest feel warm and full.

The house was quiet except for the distant sound of pages turning, and you followed the soft rustle down the hallway on bare feet. You had never seen the rest of his house beyond the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and armory, and you found yourself curious about the spaces where he spent his private time.

The office door was cracked open, and through the gap you saw Simon bent over a desk, his hair falling across his forehead as he studied what appeared to be official documents. He was already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, looking far more put-together than someone who had been three sheets to the wind just hours earlier.

You knocked gently on the doorframe, still heavy with sleep, and the sound made him look up immediately. The transformation in his expression was instant—his face went from focused concentration to something softer, warmer, like watching the sun break through storm clouds.

The office itself was fascinating in its contradictions. It was clearly a working space—there was a large wooden desk covered in neat stacks of papers, a laptop, and what appeared to be tactical gear laid out with military precision. But there was also a comfortable reading chair by the window, bookshelves lined with everything from military history to, surprisingly, a few romance novels that looked well-worn.

His face lit up when he saw you in the doorway. "There's my girl," he said warmly, immediately pushing back from the desk. "Come here."

You looked around, taking in the space. Military commendations hung on the walls alongside photos of Junie at various ages. On his desk, next to his laptop, sat a bracelet made of colorful beads and elastic string—clearly Junie's handiwork.

"Johnny and Kyle stopped by this morning," you said, settling onto his lap when he patted his thighs. "Brought your work documents and new medication."

"Figured they might," he said, arms wrapping around your waist. His work was completely forgotten the moment you were within reach. "They said anything embarrassing?"

"Just that you've been talking about me for months, apparently."

His ears went slightly red. "They exaggerate."

"Mrs. Linton came by too. Brought enough food to feed the entire neighborhood." You traced the edge of his laptop with one finger. "She seems to think we're a couple."

"Are we?" he asked quietly, thumb stroking along your ribs.

There's a cabinet along one wall that's clearly locked, and when you gestured toward it curiously, Simon's mouth quirked up in amusement, that you changed the focus.

"Want to see?" he asked, pulling a key from his desk drawer.

The cabinet opened to reveal a small but impressive collection of weapons—handguns, a few rifles, what looked like tactical knives. Everything was meticulously organized and clearly well-maintained. It should have been intimidating, but instead you found it oddly fascinating.

"Part of the job," he explained, watching your reaction carefully. "Everything's legal, properly registered."

"It's impressive, your mini-armoury," you said honestly, studying the careful organization. "Very... you."

He huffed out a laugh. "Most people find it unsettling."

"I'm not most people," you replied, turning back to him with a smile.

"No," he agreed, "you're definitely not."

His arms came around you immediately, one hand settling at your waist while the other traced the line of your shoulder through his shirt. The position felt natural, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with simple affection.

"How's your shoulder?" you asked, noticing the way he moved it more freely than yesterday.

"Better," he said, then nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. "Much better with you here."

His stubble scratched gently against your skin as he pressed soft kisses along your throat, making you giggle and squirm under his touch. The sound seemed to delight him, because he did it again, this time nipping lightly at the sensitive spot just below your ear.

"Simon," you laughed, trying to escape the tickling sensation, but his arms kept you firmly in place.

"Love that sound," he murmured against your skin, continuing his gentle assault. "Can listen to you laugh all day."

His hands were everywhere—tracing patterns on your arms, smoothing over your hair, fingertips dancing along your spine through the thin cotton of his shirt. It wasn't demanding, just... touching. Like he needed the contact, needed to reassure himself that you were really there.

You were about to melt completely into his attention when something caught your eye on the far corner of his desk. A piece of paper, partially hidden under a stack of files, but with familiar handwriting visible at the edge.

Your heart stopped.

You knew that handwriting because it was yours. The careful loops of your script, the way you dotted your i's with tiny circles instead of dots—a habit left over from your teenage years that you'd never been able to break.

"Simon," you said slowly, reaching over to pull the paper free from under the stack. "Where did you get this?"

He stilled against your neck, and you felt rather than saw his slight smile. "What do you think?"

You unfolded the paper with trembling fingers, and there it was—your letter. The one you'd written with your students all those months ago, before you'd ever met Simon, before Junie had become part of your daily routine. Your careful words about gratitude and hope, the little doodle you'd added.

Your jaw dropped as the implications hit you like a freight train.

"The mailbox," you whispered, remembering his earlier comment about how he'd gotten the letter. "This is... this is mine. The one I wrote with my class."

"Fate," Simon said simply, his arms tightening around you. "Has to be."

You stared at the letter, reading your own words back to yourself. Words you'd written to a stranger, never imagining that stranger would become... this. Would become Simon, would become the man currently holding you like you were something precious.

"I can't believe this," you breathed, turning in his lap to face him properly. "Of all the letters, all the soldiers... you got mine."

His smile was soft, wonderstruck. "Best thing that ever happened to me," he said, reaching up to cup your face. "That letter... it got me through some dark days. Still does."

The emotion in his voice made your throat tight. You leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet, tasting the lingering hint of coffee and something that was purely Simon.

"This is so embarrassing," you mumbled against his lips. "I barely remember what I wrote. Probably something completely stupid."

"Beautiful," he corrected, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. "Thoughtful. Kind. Everything I needed to hear."

The weight of it all—the coincidence, the fate, the perfect impossibility of it—made you feel slightly dizzy. You settled back against his chest, the letter still clutched in your hands.

"I drew a frog," you said weakly, pointing to your terrible doodle.

"My favorite part," Simon said seriously, and you could tell he meant it.

His fingers traced your spine, palms smoothing over your arms, touch speaking of need and wonder and something that felt dangerously close to worship.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, voice muffled against your hair. "About last night. Being drunk like that."

"Simon—"

"No, let me say this." He pulled back to look at you. "I remember everything. Every word, every touch. And I'm not sorry about that—I'm sorry you had to take care of me when I should have been taking care of you."

"You were hurting," you said simply. "I understand why you drank."

"Still not an excuse." His thumbs stroked over your cheekbones. "Won't happen again. Promise."

"I know," you said, believing him completely.

He was quiet for a moment, hands still moving over you in that gentle, grounding way. Then, so softly you almost missed it: "Move in with me."

Your breath caught. "Simon..."

"I know it's fast," he said quickly, eyes searching your face. "I know it's fast, I know it's crazy, but Christ, angel—I can't do this anymore. Can't pretend I don't want you here every morning. Can't pretend I don't need to know you're safe."

"I need time," you interrupted gently, seeing the hope and fear warring in his expression. "Not because I don't want to, but because it's a big decision. For both of us."

Relief flooded his features. "Not a no?"

"Not a no," you confirmed, smiling at his obvious happiness. "But not a yes yet either. Can you be patient with me?"

"I'd wait forever for you," he said simply, sealing the promise with a soft kiss that tasted of morning coffee and new possibilities.

"I know you're frightened," he continued, voice rough with emotion. "I know this is everything you usually run from. But don't run from me, love. Please. Let me take care of you."

His thumb traced your cheekbone, catching a tear you didn't realize had fallen. The gentleness of the gesture undid you completely.

"Junie would love having you here," he added, and there was calculation in his voice now, using his daughter as ammunition because he knew how much you loved her. "She asks about you constantly. Draws pictures of the three of us together."

"That's not fair," you breathed, but there was no heat in it.

"I don't fight fair when it comes to you." His hands slid up to cup your face, thumbs stroking across your cheeks. "I can't. You mean too much."

You studied his face, seeing the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide. This man who commanded soldiers and faced death without flinching was terrified of your answer. The power of it was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.

"Okay," you whispered.

His entire body went still. "Okay?"

"Ask me again in a month," you clarified, and his face fell slightly. "Not because I don't want to. Because I do. More than I should. But I need to be sure I'm doing this for the right reasons."

"And what would be the wrong reasons?"

"Because I'm scared of being alone and at the same time, I’m scared to attach to someone so hard. Because Junie needs stability. Because you're too good at making me feel safe." You cupped his face in your hands, thumb tracing the scar across his cheek. "I want to say yes because I choose you. Not because I'm running from something else."

He was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. Then he nodded slowly, and the smile that spread across his face was soft and understanding and so full of love it took your breath away.

"One month," he agreed, then pulled you down for another kiss, this one sweet and promising. "But you're really considering it."

"Is that an order, Lieutenant?"

His eyes darkened again, and you realized your mistake immediately. The playful use of his rank did something to him, made his grip on you tighten.

"Careful, angel," he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Keep talking like that and I might forget I'm supposed to be a gentleman."

Heat pooled low in your belly at the threat, and you found yourself rocking against him again, chasing the friction. His breath hissed between his teeth, and suddenly you were lifted, strong hands gripping your thighs as he stood and set you on the edge of his desk.

"Fucking hell," he groaned, stepping between your legs and bracing his hands on either side of you. “You make me forget I’m supposed to be careful.”

The position put you at the perfect height for kissing, and you took advantage, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down to you. This kiss was different—hungrier, more desperate. His hands slid up your bare thighs, pushing the shirt higher, and you gasped into his mouth when his thumbs brushed against the lace of your underwear.

"One month," he reminded you against your lips, but his hands were mapping your skin like he was trying to memorize every inch. "But I’m going to spend every second of it convincing you to stay."

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, you rummaged through your bag and pulled out a small potted plant with glossy green leaves and a tiny red bow tied around its terra cotta pot.

"I brought this for you," you said, suddenly feeling shy. "I noticed your house is a bit... sparse in the plant department. Thought it might brighten things up a bit."

Simon stared at the plant with a mixture of surprise and something that looked suspiciously like tenderness. "You bought me a houseplant?"

"It's a ZZ plant," you explained, setting it on his desk. "Nearly impossible to kill. Perfect for beginners or, you know, busy dads who forget to water things."

He reached out to touch one of the glossy leaves with careful fingers. "Thank you," he said quietly, and you could tell from his voice that he understood this was more than just a plant—it was a small piece of domesticity, a tentative step toward making his house feel more like a home.

"You need to name it," you said suddenly, nodding toward the plant you'd placed in the center of the kitchen table.

"Name it?" He looked genuinely confused by the concept.

"All plants need names," you said seriously. "It's a rule."

He considered this with the gravity of someone making a military strategic decision. "Riley Junior," he said finally.

You burst into laughter. "You're naming it after yourself?"

"Family name," he corrected with dignity, then immediately ruined the effect by adding, "Little Riley. Mini-me. Green me."

"Perfect," you agreed solemnly. "Riley Junior it is."

His smile was so unguarded and boyish that it made your heart flutter. This was a side of Simon few people got to see—playful, relaxed, willing to be silly. It was as precious as it was rare.

"Breakfast?" he suggests, pressing a kiss to your temple.

An hour later, you're sharing coffee and pastries Mrs. Linton brought, the morning sun streaming through his kitchen windows and painting everything in warm gold. Simon had insisted on ordering enough food for a small army, claiming he wasn't sure what you'd like, but you suspect it's more about his apparent need to take care of you.

"I need to ask you a favor," he said as you took a bite of a croissant.

"Anything."

"Junie comes back today," he said, and you didn’t miss the way his entire demeanor brightened at the mention of his daughter.

"How long has she been at camp? Two weeks?" you asked, stealing a piece of his pastry.

"Two weeks," he nodded, then caught your hand and brought your fingers to his lips, kissing away imaginary crumbs. "Longest two weeks of my life. Well, until you showed up."

The casual affection made your heart flutter. "She must have had an amazing time."

"Hope so," Simon says, though his expression suggested he'd been worried sick the entire time. "First time she's been away from home for more than a weekend."

There was something vulnerable in his admission, and you found yourself reaching across the table to cover his hand with yours. "She's going to have so many stories to tell you."

His fingers intertwined with yours automatically. "Come with me to pick her up?"

The request caught you off guard—not because you didn’t want to, but because of how much you did. The idea of being there for this reunion, of being included in this part of his life, made something warm and frightening unfurl in your chest.

"Are you sure?" you asked. "Won't she have questions about why I'm there?"

Simon's thumb traced over your knuckles. "Let me worry about that," he said. "I just... I want you there."

The simple honesty in his voice made the decision easy. "Okay," you agreed, squeezing his hand. "I'd love to come."

With hours to kill before the camp ceremony, you found yourselves on Simon's couch, his good arm around your shoulders as you flipped through the limited options on his streaming services.

"What even is this?" you laughed, stopping on something called 'Extreme Cake Makers.'

"No idea," Simon said, already reaching for the remote to change it, but you stopped him.

"Wait, I want to see. Cake disasters are always entertaining."

"If you insist," he sighed dramatically, but settled back into the couch.

Within ten minutes, Simon was leaning forward, completely engrossed as a team of bakers constructed a life-sized motorcycle entirely from cake and fondant.

"That's bloody impossible," he muttered, eyes wide. "How is that even standing up?"

"Internal structure," you guessed, amused by his intensity. "Probably dowels or something."

"But the engine parts—look at that detail!" His voice held genuine wonder. "That's art, that is."

By the third episode, Simon was fully invested, critiquing techniques and designs with the authority of someone who'd been baking professionally for decades, despite admitting he'd never made anything more complex than pancakes for Junie.

"You should try it," you teased as the credits rolled. "Big tough military man making delicate sugar flowers."

"Wouldn't be the strangest hobby I've picked up," he said with surprising seriousness. "Need something to do with my hands when the nightmares get bad."

The casual admission of vulnerability hit you hard. "Simon..."

"Don't look at me like that," he said gently. "It's getting better. Especially lately." His fingers tangled with yours. "Especially with you."

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. "I'm glad."

"One more episode?" he asked hopefully.

"We have to leave in an hour to get Junie," you reminded him.

"Plenty of time," he insisted, already pressing play, and you couldn't help but laugh at his newfound enthusiasm for competitive baking.

Later, as you were getting ready to leave for the camp, you noticed a small item on the entryway table. Picking it up, you realized it was a bracelet identical to the one on Simon's desk—colorful beads threaded onto elastic, clearly made by small, careful hands.

"Found Junie's other bracelet?" Simon asked, appearing behind you.

You nodded, touched by the childish craft project. "It's beautiful."

"She made one for me and one for you," he said softly. "Said we needed matching ones so we'd always find each other."

Your throat tightened with emotion as you slipped the bracelet onto your wrist. "I love it. I already have one."

Simon's eyes tracked the movement, something fierce and tender crossing his face. He stepped closer, framing your face with his good hand. "Suits you," he said roughly, then kissed you—slow and deep and full of promise.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with emotion. "Thank you," he said simply.

"For what?"

"For being here?" you suggested softly.

"For being you," he corrected, then kissed you again, briefer this time but no less meaningful. "We should go. Don't want to be late."

Outside, the summer day stretched ahead bright with possibility. In a few hours, you'd collect Junie and hear all about her last day of camp.

But for now, there was just this: the weight of Junie's bracelet on your wrist, the lingering warmth of Simon's kiss, and the knowledge that somehow, against all odds, you'd found exactly where you belonged.

The summer camp had been a whirlwind of activity when you arrived—counselors with clipboards directed traffic, cars lined up to collect their charges, and children were everywhere, laughing and shouting and clearly high on the particular brand of chaos that came with the end of an adventure.

You spotted Junie before Simon did, her hair in two braids, on her wrist appeared to be friendship bracelets, her face bright with excitement as she scanned the crowd. The moment she saw Simon, her entire face lit up like sunrise.

"Daddy!" she shrieked, dropping her backpack and launching herself at him with the kind of abandon that only children possessed.

Simon caught her easily despite his healing shoulder, spinning her around once before pulling her tight against his chest. You saw him wince slightly at the impact, but his smile was radiant as he buried his face in her hair.

"Missed you, little bird," he murmured, voice thick with emotion.

"Missed you too," Junie said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "So much, Daddy. So, so much."

You hung back slightly, giving them their moment, but you couldn’t resist pulling out your phone to capture the reunion. The love between them was so evident, so pure, that it made your chest ache in the best possible way.

When Junie finally pulled back to look at her father's face, she immediately noticed you standing nearby. Her eyes widened with delighted surprise.

"Miss Sparkle!" she exclaimed, wiggling down from Simon's arms to give you an equally enthusiastic hug. "What are you doing here?"

You glanced at Simon, who gave you an almost imperceptible nod. "I wanted to hear all about your camp adventures," you said, hugging her back. "Your dad thought you might like to tell me your stories."

"Oh my gosh, yes!" Junie bounced on her toes. "I have so many stories! And there was this boy Sam who was really, really good at campfire songs and he taught me how to braid friendship bracelets and he said I was the smartest girl in our cabin group!"

Simon's expression immediately shifted to something that looked suspiciously like paternal alarm. "Sam, huh?" he said, his voice carefully neutral in the way that suggested he was filing away information for future investigation.

"He's so funny, Daddy," Junie continued obliviously. "He knows like a million jokes and he helped me when I couldn't reach the high ropes course and he said my drawings were even better than the counselors' and—"

"How old is this Sam?" Simon interrupted, and you had to bite back a smile at the barely concealed concern in his voice.

"Nine," Junie said. "Almost ten. He's really mature for his age."

You caught Simon's eye in the rearview mirror as you all piled into his truck, and his expression of mild panic made you want to laugh out loud. Clearly, no one had prepared him for his almost eight-year-old daughter's first camp crush.

The drive home was filled with more Sam stories—how Sam won the talent show with his yo-yo tricks, how Sam shared his extra s'mores ingredients, how Sam said Junie had the prettiest eyes in their whole cabin.

"This Sam," Simon said finally, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, "did he happen to mention where he lives? What his parents do? Any family history we should know about?"

"Daddy," Junie said with the exaggerated patience of someone explaining something obvious to a particularly slow adult, "he's just my friend. You don't need to do a background check."

"I'm not doing a background check," Simon protested, though his tone suggested that’s exactly what he was planning.

"You should invite him over sometime," Junie continued cheerfully. "I bet you'd really like him."

In the rearview mirror, you watched Simon's face cycle through several expressions of poorly concealed horror at the thought of this nine-year-old Romeo setting foot in his house.

When you reached your apartment building, you started to gather your things, but Junie immediately protested.

"You're not coming with us?" Junie asked, looking genuinely disappointed.

"I have some work to catch up on," you explained gently. "And Selina probably thinks I've abandoned her completely."

"But we haven't shown you my camp pictures yet!" Junie argued. "And I want to tell you about the talent show!"

Simon's hand found yours across the seat. "Maybe we can all do something this weekend?" he suggested carefully. "Go somewhere together?"

The hope in his voice, echoed in Junie's expectant face, made something warm flutter in your chest. "That sounds really nice," you agreed.

"Yes!" Junie cheered, clapping her hands. "Can we go to the zoo? Or the science museum? Oh! Or that new mini golf place!"

Simon's smile was soft and grateful. "We'll figure something out," he promised, squeezing your hand gently.

You slipped out of the SUV with promises to text later about weekend plans, and you watched them drive away with Junie already chattering excitedly about the possibilities. Even through the closed windows, you could see her animated gestures and Simon's patient nods, and something in your chest felt full and warm and dangerously close to contentment.

Back at Simon's house, father and daughter fell into their familiar routine with the ease of people who'd missed each other desperately. Simon made Junie her favorite post-camp meal—grilled cheese sandwiches cut into perfect triangles with tomato soup for dipping—while she unpacked her backpack and sorted through two weeks' worth of treasures and camp contraband.

The kitchen filled with the comfortable sounds of home: the sizzle of butter in the pan, the gentle clink of bowls being set out, Junie's constant chatter mixed with Simon's occasional questions and responses. It was domestic and peaceful and everything Simon hadn’t realized he’d missed until it was gone.

"And then Sam taught me this really cool way to braid friendship bracelets where you make them look like they have patterns," Junie explained around bites of sandwich, holding up her wrist to display the colorful collection. "See this one? He made it specially for me because he said it is my color. He said it matches my eyes."

Simon paused in the act of ladling soup, his jaw tightening slightly. "He said it matches your eyes?"

"Uh-huh," Junie said, completely oblivious to her father's reaction. "He's really good at noticing things like that. He said his sister taught him that paying attention to details makes people feel special."

"His sister taught him that," Simon repeated slowly, wondering what kind of family raised nine-year-old boys to give compliments about eye color.

"She sounds really smart," Junie continued. "Sam said she's going to be a sophomore in high school, and she's really popular, and she knows everything about fashion and makeup and stuff. I hope I get to meet her someday."

Simon made a mental note to research the local high schools and their demographics, just in case.

After lunch, Junie wanted to explore the house, checking to make sure everything was exactly as she had left it. It was a ritual she'd had since she was tiny—this need to reconnect with her space, to make sure home was still home. Simon followed her from room to room, listening to her commentary about what had changed and what had stayed the same.

"My books are still in the right order," she announced from her bedroom doorway, satisfied. "And my stuffed animals are all still on my bed. Did you dust my bookshelf while I was gone?"

"Maybe," Simon admitted, because he and Mrs. Linton had in fact spent an embarrassing amount of time maintaining her room exactly as she'd left it, including dusting her collection of children's novels and making sure her stuffed animals stayed arranged in their preferred hierarchy.

"You missed me," Junie said with the satisfied tone of someone who's just confirmed a theory.

"Desperately," Simon agreed without shame.

They made their way to the kitchen, where Junie immediately noticed the plant sitting on the windowsill above the sink. It was thriving in its new home, the little ceramic pot catching the afternoon light, and the sight of it made Simon smile involuntarily as he remembered your soft hands placing it there, your gentle instructions about care and watering.

"Daddy," Junie said slowly, approaching the plant with the curiosity of a young scientist, "what's this?"

Simon looked up from loading the dishwasher to see his daughter examining the ZZ plant with intense interest. "Oh," he said, suddenly aware that he was about to navigate his first post-camp conversation about your presence in their home. "That's a plant."

"I can see it's a plant," Junie said with the kind of gentle sass that reminded Simon exactly where she got her personality. "But we've never had plants before. You always say you have a black thumb and can’t keep anything alive except me."

"Well," Simon said carefully, "I thought maybe it was time to try something new."

Junie continued her examination, gently touching one of the thick, waxy leaves. "It's really pretty. And it looks healthy. Where did you get it?"

Simon took a deep breath, knowing that honesty was probably the best policy but also aware that seven-year-olds were remarkably good at reading between lines. "I bought it," he said, which was technically true if you didn’t count the part where you were the one who actually purchased it.

"You bought it?" Junie sounded surprised but pleased. "That's so unlike you. What's its name?"

The question caught Simon off guard, and he realized he was about to have to explain his post-drunk plant-naming decision to his very sober, very observant daughter. "Well," he said slowly, "I named it Riley Junior."

Junie stared at him for a long moment, her expression cycling through confusion, disbelief, and finally amused exasperation. "You named it after yourself?"

"Family name," Simon said with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn't much.

"Daddy," Junie said in the tone of someone explaining something very simple to someone very slow, "that's probably the weirdest thing you've ever done. And you once tried to make pancakes with protein powder and they came out like rubber."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Simon muttered, remembering his post-alcohol-influenced logic and your delighted laughter at his botanical christening ceremony.

Junie continued to study the plant with scientific interest, occasionally poking at the soil or adjusting its position in the light. "It's actually kind of cute," she admitted finally. "Can I help take care of it?"

"Of course," Simon agreed, relieved that she wasn’t questioning his naming choices further. "Plants need regular care. Watering, sunlight, attention."

"Like people," Junie observed wisely. "Maybe we should get another one to keep Riley Junior company. We can name it Junie Junior."

Simon couldn’t help but smile at that, imagining your reaction to his daughter's suggestion. "Maybe we should ask an expert about that," he said. "Someone who knows about plants."

"Do you know someone who knows about plants?" Junie asked with interest.

"Maybe," Simon said, thinking about your gentle hands and patient explanations, the way you'd fussed over the little plant like it was precious.

They spent the next hour going through Junie’s camp treasures—examining friendship bracelets, reading through a journal she’d kept, looking at blurry photos taken with a disposable camera. Simon listened to every story, asked questions about every new friend, and tried not to visibly wince every time Sam’s name came up, which was approximately every thirty seconds.

It was when Junie went to get a drink of water that she spotted it—a flash of pink plastic near the coffee machine that definitely didn’t belong in their usually monochrome kitchen.

“Daddy,” she called from across the room, and something in her tone made Simon look up from the camp photos spread across the kitchen table. “What’s this?”

She was holding up a pen—your pen, the one with the sparkly pink barrel and the little unicorn charm dangling from the clip. The one you’d used to write him that sweet note about taking care of himself, the one you’d absently left behind when you’d rushed out to handle a summer camp emergency.

Simon’s stomach dropped.

“That’s…” he started, his mind racing through possible explanations that didn’t involve admitting that you’d been in his house for two days, sleeping in his bed, taking care of him in ways that made his body heat with memory.

“This is Miss Sparkle’s pen,” Junie said with absolute certainty, turning the pen over in her small hands. “I remember it from school. She always uses this pen for grading papers because she says the unicorn makes her happy.”

There was no point in lying—Junie had an elephant’s memory for details, especially when it came to people she cared about. Simon cleared his throat awkwardly. “She… left it here.”

“She left it here,” Junie repeated slowly, her seven-year-old mind working through the implications. “When was Miss Sparkle here?”

Simon sat down heavily at the kitchen table, realizing he was about to have a conversation he wasn’t entirely prepared for. “While you were at camp,” he admitted. “I had a small injury from work, and she came by to check on me.”

Junie’s eyes widened with immediate concern, the pen forgotten as she rushed to his side. “You were hurt? Are you okay? What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m fine now,” Simon assured her quickly, pulling her into a hug. “It was just a minor thing. Nothing serious. I didn’t want to worry you while you were having fun at camp.”

“But Miss Sparkle took care of you?” Junie asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

“She helped a little,” Simon said carefully, which was perhaps the understatement of the century considering you’d essentially moved in to make sure he was eating properly and taking his medication and not doing anything stupid to reinjure himself.

Junie pulled back to look at his face, her expression serious. “That was really nice of her. Miss Sparkle is the kindest person I know. She always takes care of everyone.”

“She is,” Simon agreed quietly, thinking about gentle hands checking his temperature when he was sleeping, soft voices reminding him to take his pills, warm bodies pressed against his in the early morning hours when the pain was worst.

“Daddy,” Junie said, settling into the chair next to him with the pen still clutched in her hand, “do you like Miss Sparkle?”

The direct question caught Simon completely off guard. His daughter had never been one to dance around topics—she approached life with the same straightforward honesty that she approached everything else—but something about this particular question felt loaded with more weight than usual.

“She’s a very good friend,” he said carefully, which was both true and completely inadequate.

“A good friend who brings you plants and takes care of you when you’re hurt and leaves her special pen here,” Junie observed with the matter-of-fact tone of someone stating obvious facts.

“Something like that,” Simon agreed.

Junie studied his face with the intensity of someone conducting a scientific experiment. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Simon felt heat creep up his neck. “Junie…”

“She is pretty,” Junie continued matter-of-factly. “And she smells really good, like flowers and vanilla. And she’s really smart and funny and she always remembers what I tell her about things I like.”

“She does,” Simon agreed, because all of those things were absolutely true.

“And you smile different when you talk about her,” Junie added with the observational skills of someone who’d been studying her father’s expressions for seven years.

“I smile different?”

“Uh-huh. Like…” Junie scrunched up her face, trying to find the right words. “Like when you’re really happy but also kind of nervous?”

Simon stared at his daughter, struck by how precisely she’d managed to capture exactly how he felt about you. “That’s… very observant.”

“Are you going to marry her?” Junie asked with the casual directness that only children possessed.

Simon nearly choked on his own breath. “Junie!”

“What? It’s a normal question,” she said with childish logic. “Sam’s mom said that when grown-ups like each other the way you and Miss Sparkle like each other, sometimes they get married. And then sometimes they have babies and become a real family.”

“Sam’s mom seems to have a lot of opinions,” Simon muttered, filing away yet another reason to be suspicious of this Sam character’s family.

“So are you?” Junie pressed, apparently unconcerned by her father’s obvious discomfort with the topic.

“Marriage is… complicated,” Simon said finally. “And Miss Sparkle and I are just figuring things out.”

Junie nodded as if this made perfect sense. “But you want to figure it out with her?”

Simon looked at his daughter—really looked at her—and saw the hope in her young face, the way she was holding onto your pen like it was something precious. He thought about the past two weeks, about waking up next to you every morning, about the way you’d fit seamlessly into their routines, about how empty the house had felt the few times you’d gone back to your apartment to check on your cat.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

Junie’s face broke into a grin of pure delight. “Good,” she said simply. “Because I think she want to figure it out with you too.”

“What makes you say that?” Simon asked, curious about his daughter’s reasoning.

“Because she looks at you the same way you look at her,” Junie explained with the wisdom of someone who’d been observing adult behavior her entire life. “Like you are both happy and nervous and excited all at the same time.”

Simon felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“I love her,” Junie said with the easy honesty. “She makes you happy, and she makes me happy, and she remember that I like purple markers better than black ones and that I don’t like crusts on my sandwiches. And she always listen when I tell her things, really listen.”

“She listens,” Simon agreed, thinking about the countless conversations he’d had with you about Junie, the way you remembered every detail about his daughter’s likes and dislikes, her hopes and fears, her latest obsessions.

“And she took care of you when you were hurt,” Junie added, as if this settled the matter entirely. “That means she loves you too.”

The simple statement hit Simon like a physical blow, not because it was wrong but because it might have been right. Because over those two weeks, in the quiet moments between caring for his injury and sharing his space, something had shifted between you. Something deeper than attraction, something more solid than the careful friendship you’d been building.

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Junie corrected with certainty. “I can tell these things. I’m very smart about people.”

Simon couldn’t argue with that—his daughter had always been remarkably perceptive about human nature, able to read emotions and motivations with startling accuracy.

“So when is she coming over again?” Junie asked, apparently considering the matter settled.

“We are going to do something together this weekend,” Simon told her. “All three of us.”

“Like a family?” Junie asked hopefully.

Simon’s throat went tight. “Like friends who care about each other.”

Junie gave him a look that suggested she knew exactly what he was really saying. “Okay, Daddy. Like friends who care about each other.”

Later that evening, after Junie had reorganized her room and shown Simon every single craft project she’d made at camp—twice—and after they’d gone through all her photos and talked about every new friend and activity, they settled into their bedtime routine.

Simon read her a story about a brave princess who saved her kingdom with kindness and cleverness, his voice soft and steady in the lamplight of her bedroom. It was a ritual they’d maintained since she was tiny, this quiet end to the day where the outside world faded away and it was just the two of them in their small bubble of safety and love.

“Daddy?” Junie said sleepily, just as Simon was closing the book.

“Yes, little bird?”

“I’m really excited about this weekend. With Miss Sparkle.”

Simon smoothed her hair back from her forehead, marveling at how much she’d grown in just two weeks, how much more articulate and thoughtful she seemed. “Me too.”

“Do you think she’ll want to see all my camp pictures? Even the blurry ones?”

“I’m absolutely certain she will,” Simon said, because he knew you well enough to know that you’d examine every single photo with genuine interest, asking questions about each new friend and activity.

“And maybe she can teach us how to take care of Riley Junior properly,” Junie suggested with a yawn. “Since she’s the one who really bought it.”

Simon paused in his hair-smoothing. “What made you think she bought it?”

“Because you hate shopping and you don’t know anything about plants,” Junie said with certainty. “And because you get that same happy-nervous look when you talk about the plant as when you talk about Miss Sparkle.”

His daughter was far too observant for her own good.

“Maybe she can,” Simon agreed, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Junie fell asleep with a smile on her face, one hand still clutching the friendship bracelet Sam had made for her—a detail Simon pretended not to notice for the sake of his own blood pressure and general sanity.

His own bedroom felt strange after two weeks of sharing it with you—too big, too quiet, too empty. He settled into bed with a book he didn’t really want to read, missing the soft sound of your breathing beside him, the way you’d curl into his side in your sleep, the gentle warmth of your presence making everything feel right.

The knock on Simon's front door came at precisely 1800 hours the next day, because his team never met a social gathering they couldn’t turn into a military operation. Simon opened the door to find Soap, Gaz, and Price standing on his doorstep, looking like they were reporting for duty rather than coming for dinner, each carrying what appeared to be carefully selected gifts.

"How’s the shoulder, Lt?" Price asked without preamble, though his eyes were already scanning Simon’s posture for signs of lingering injury.

"Better," Simon replied, stepping aside to let them in. "Almost back to full range of motion."

"Good thing too," Soap said with a grin, "because we were starting to think you were milking it for sympathy."

"Soap," Gaz warned, but he was smiling too.

The sound of approaching footsteps made all three men straighten slightly, and then Junie appeared in the hallway, her hair in two neat braids. Her sundress caught the light, softening her face with a quiet glow.

“Junie,” Simon murmured, his voice softening the way it always did around her. “You remember my team, yeah? Price, Soap, and Gaz.”

Junie peeked out from behind his leg, her paint-stained fingers curling against his jeans before she gave a small, shy wave. “Hi, Uncle Johnny,” she said first, earning an exaggerated grin from Soap.

“Ach, there’s my favorite wee artist!” Soap said, crouching down to her level. “You still painting dragons for your da?”

She giggled, shaking her head. “Not dragons anymore. I paint butterflies, people now. Miss—” She stopped herself just in time, biting her lip.

Simon’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Price caught it, of course he did — he always did — but didn’t comment. Instead, he gave Junie a warm smile and a gentle nod.

“You’ve grown, love,” Price said. “Last time I saw you, you could barely reach your dad’s shoulder.”

“Still can’t,” Gaz teased lightly, earning a snort from Simon.

Junie studied each man with the serious consideration of someone conducting a very important evaluation. Price got a small nod of approval—probably because he had the kind of mustache that suggested reliability. Soap got a curious tilt of her head, likely because of his mohawk. Gaz got a shy smile, probably because he was closest to her in age and had the kind of face that put people at ease.

"We brought you some things," Price said, crouching down to Junie’s level with surprising gentleness for a man who spent his days commanding military operations. "Heard you just got back from camp."

What followed was possibly the most endearing gift exchange Simon ever witnessed. Price presented Junie with a beautiful leather-bound journal with her name embossed on the cover, explaining that every adventurer needed a place to record her stories. Gaz gave her a set of professional-grade colored pencils along with a sketchbook. Soap’s gift was characteristically enthusiastic—a small tartan scarf that he claimed was “genuine Scottish wool” and would keep her warm during future adventures.

Junie’s reaction was pure delight. She hugged each gift to her chest like it was made of gold, thanking each man with the kind of genuine appreciation that made grown soldiers melt like butter.

"These are the most beautiful presents ever," she declared, and Simon watched three of the most dangerous men he knew practically beam with pride.

Dinner was a revelation in domestic chaos. Simon ordered from the local Italian place—nothing fancy, just good food that could feed his team and his daughter without requiring him to spend hours in the kitchen with his still-healing shoulder. The dining room table, which usually seated two comfortably, was crowded with five place settings and the easy camaraderie of people who shared far worse conditions than a slightly cramped dinner table.

Junie claimed her favorite spot on Simon’s lap, her small body curled against his chest as she picked at her pasta with the absent-minded focus of someone listening to adult conversation while only half paying attention. She was in what Simon privately called her “dissociation mode”—physically present but mentally cataloging everything she heard for later analysis.

The conversation flowed easily between mission debriefs—carefully edited for young ears—updates on mutual acquaintances, and gentle ribbing about Simon’s domestic situation. Price asked about his physical therapy schedule, Gaz inquired about his pain levels, and Soap made increasingly elaborate jokes about Simon’s cooking that had Junie giggling against his chest.

It was comfortable and familiar and exactly the kind of evening Simon didn’t realize he missed until it happened.

That was when Soap, in his characteristic inability to leave well enough alone, decided to poke at what he clearly considered the elephant in the room.

"So," Soap said around a bite of garlic bread, his tone carefully casual in the way that meant he was about to cause trouble, "is the lass coming by tonight? Should we expect another lovely conversation at the door?"

The words hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled.

Price’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, and his eyes snapped to Simon’s face with laser focus. Gaz nearly choked on his drink. And Junie, who was contentedly twirling pasta around her fork, suddenly went very still against Simon’s chest.

"The lass?" Price repeated slowly, setting down his fork with deliberate precision.

Simon felt heat crawl up his neck. He hoped to avoid this particular conversation, at least until he figured out exactly what to call what was happening between you and him. "It’s not—"

"Miss Sparkle," Junie interrupted, her voice carrying the matter-of-fact tone of someone providing necessary clarification. She turned in Simon’s lap to look at him with an expression of barely contained exasperation. "Daddy, why didn’t you tell them about Miss Sparkle?"

The question came with the kind of sass only a seven-year-old could manage—equal parts accusation and disappointment, as if Simon committed a grave social error by not immediately sharing every detail of his personal life with his teammates.

Price’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Miss Sparkle?"

"My teacher," Junie explained patiently, as if she were talking to people being deliberately slow. "And Daddy’s special friend."

"Special friend," Soap repeated with undisguised glee, and Simon could practically see him filing away ammunition for future teasing.

"She took care of Daddy when he was hurt," Junie continued, deciding that full disclosure was the best policy. "She stayed here and made sure he took his medicine and ate proper food and didn’t do anything stupid."

"Junie," Simon warned quietly, but she was on a roll now.

"And she brought him a plant, and she has the prettiest dresses, and she smells like flowers, and she’s the nicest person in the whole world," Junie declared with the absolute certainty of someone who conducted thorough research on the subject.

Gaz tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile behind his napkin. Soap looked like Christmas came early. And Price… Price studied Simon with the expression of a commanding officer who just realized his lieutenant was withholding significant intelligence.

"A plant," Price said slowly.

"Riley Junior," Junie supplied helpfully. "Daddy named it after himself, which is the weirdest thing he’s ever done."

"Oh, this just keeps getting better," Soap muttered, grinning widely.

Simon cleared his throat, acutely aware that he was being interrogated by both his captain and his daughter simultaneously. "She’s... we’re..."

"They like each other," Junie said with the exasperated tone of someone who couldn’t believe the adults in her life were being so obtuse. "Like, really like each other. Daddy gets all smiley when he talks about her, and she gets all blushy when she talks about him."

"You’ve talked to her about him?" Gaz asked with obvious interest.

"Of course," Junie said, as if that should be obvious. "We’re friends. Friends talk about everything."

Price leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from surprise to something that looked suspiciously like approval. "And this Miss Sparkle was here when they dropped off the medical supplies?"

"She answered the door," Soap confirmed with a grin. "Lovely girl. Very polite. Was wearing one of Ghost’s shirts, which should’ve been our first clue."

Simon felt Junie’s sharp little elbow dig into his ribs. "You didn’t tell them she was your girlfriend?" she demanded, her voice carrying the kind of betrayal usually reserved for crimes against humanity.

"She’s not my—" Simon started, then stopped, because he wasn’t entirely sure how to finish that sentence. What were you, exactly? His friend? His... something more? The woman who stayed in his house and slept in his bed and made him feel things he thought he was incapable of feeling?

"She’s not your what?" Junie pressed, her eyes—so much like his own—narrowing with suspicion.

"It’s complicated," Simon said finally, which was both true and completely inadequate.

Junie gave him a look that suggested she thought he was being deliberately difficult. "It’s not, Daddy. You like her, she likes you, you take care of each other. That’s what people who love each other do."

The word ‘love’ hit the table like a bomb, and for a moment everyone went very quiet. Even Soap seemed to realize that seven-year-old wisdom just cut straight to the heart of something Simon danced around for weeks.

Price cleared his throat diplomatically. "Well," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "she sounds lovely."

"She is," Junie said firmly. "And she makes Daddy happy, which is the most important thing."

Simon felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest as he looked at his daughter’s serious face. She was right, of course. You made him happy—happier than he’d been in years, maybe ever. And the fact that his seven-year-old could see it so clearly while he was tying himself in knots trying to define it said something about the state of his emotional intelligence.

"She does," he admitted quietly, and Junie’s face broke into a grin of pure satisfaction.

"See?" she said to the table at large. "I told you it wasn’t complicated."

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of gentle teasing from his teammates and increasingly detailed descriptions of your various virtues from Junie. By the time Price, Soap, and Gaz were getting ready to leave, Simon felt like he’d been through a very thorough interrogation conducted by people who had far too much invested in his personal life.

"Bring her around sometime," Price said quietly as they were gathering their things. "Would like to meet her properly."

"She’d like that," Simon replied, surprised to realize he meant it.

"And Simon?" Price added, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant he was speaking as a friend rather than a captain. "Good for you."

After the team left, Junie was practically vibrating with excitement and opinions. She followed Simon around the house as he cleaned up from dinner, chattering nonstop about his teammates and asking approximately a million questions about his relationship with you.

"Why didn’t you tell them about Miss Sparkle before?" she demanded as Simon loaded the dishwasher. "They’re your best friends!"

"It’s private," Simon said, which was true but didn’t seem to satisfy her.

"But they liked her," Junie pointed out. "Captain Price said she sounded lovely, and uncle Johnny said she was polite."

"They did seem to approve," Simon admitted.

"So why are you being weird about it?" Junie pressed, settling onto one of the kitchen stools to better conduct her interrogation.

Simon paused in his dish-loading to look at his daughter. "I’m not being weird about it."

Junie gave him a look that suggested she thought he’d lost his mind. "Daddy, you named a plant after yourself and you won’t call Miss Sparkle your girlfriend even though she obviously is. That’s definitely weird."

"She’s not officially my girlfriend," Simon said carefully.

"What does that even mean?" Junie asked with the exasperated tone of someone who found adult logic completely baffling.

Simon realized he didn’t have a good answer for that. What did it mean, exactly? You were staying at his house, sleeping in his bed, taking care of him, meeting his friends. You made plans together. You fit seamlessly into his life with Junie.

If it walked like a relationship and talked like a relationship…

"Maybe I should ask her," he said finally.

"You should definitely ask her," Junie agreed firmly. "Like, tomorrow. Or tonight. You can call her right now."

"It’s almost your bedtime," Simon pointed out.

"So? Love doesn’t have a bedtime," Junie declared with the wisdom of someone who clearly watched too many romantic comedies.

Simon couldn’t argue with that logic.

An hour later, after Junie was finally convinced to go to bed, following extensive negotiations about weekend plans and whether Miss Sparkle would be joining them for breakfast, Simon sat on his couch with his phone in his hands.

He stared at your contact information for a long moment, thinking about his daughter’s words, about his teammates’ reactions, about the way you fit so perfectly into his life over the past few weeks. About how empty the house felt when you weren’t in it, how much better everything was when you were.

Maybe it was time to stop overthinking and start doing.

He typed out a message:

Are you free this weekend? Want to take you somewhere special. Just the three of us.

Your response came back almost immediately:

That sounds perfect. Where are we going?

Simon found himself smiling as he typed back:

It’s a surprise.

The three dots indicating you were typing appeared and disappeared several times, and Simon found himself holding his breath.

Let’s see how the weekend goes 😊

Simon set his phone aside and leaned back against the couch cushions, already planning the perfect weekend getaway. Somewhere quiet, away from the city, where the three of you could just be together without any distractions or complications.

Somewhere he could finally ask you the question that burned in his chest for weeks: would you be his girlfriend, officially and completely?

His phone buzzed with one more message:

Sweet dreams, Si 💙

Simon grinned and typed back:

Sweet dreams

Outside, the summer night was warm and quiet, full of possibility and promise. And for the first time in a very long time, Simon Riley fell asleep planning a future that included everything he ever wanted.

Chapter Text

The heat hit you the moment you stepped outside your apartment building, like walking into a wall of molten air that made your sundress stick to your skin before you even took three steps. The weather app on your phone warned of record-breaking temperatures, but nothing quite prepared you for the reality of a summer day that felt like standing too close to an oven.

You already questioned the wisdom of spending the day outdoors when Simon’s car pulled up to the curb, and through the passenger window you saw Junie bouncing excitedly in the backseat. She wore a light blue sundress with tiny white flowers scattered across the fabric, her hair pulled back in two neat braids to keep it off her neck in the heat.

The coincidence hit you as you climbed into the passenger seat—you wore almost the exact same shade of blue, your own sundress featuring the same delicate white floral pattern. It was pure chance, but the effect was unmistakably sweet, like you unconsciously coordinated to match the little girl who was gradually winning your heart.

Before you even reached for your seatbelt, Simon’s hand was there, his fingers brushed against yours as he pulled it across your body and clicked it into place. The gesture was so automatic, so protective, that he didn’t even seem to realize he did it. But the brief contact sent warmth racing up your arm that had nothing to do with the oppressive heat.

"Air conditioning working okay for you?" he asked, already adjusting the vents to direct more cool air your way without waiting for an answer. His eyes swept over you with the kind of attention that missed nothing—the slight flush on your cheeks from the heat, the way you unconsciously pressed yourself closer to the air conditioning vent.

"Oh my gosh!" Junie exclaimed the moment she noticed your matching outfits, leaning forward between the seats to get a better look. "Miss Sparkle, we're matching! Look, Daddy, we're like twins!"

Simon glanced over at you with an expression of amused wonder, taking in the accidental coordination. But unlike a casual glance, his gaze was thorough, appreciative in a way that made you feel like he was cataloguing every detail—not with the wandering eye of a man looking for something better, but with the focused attention of someone trying to memorize something precious.

"Didn't plan that," he said, but his smile suggested he found the coincidence as charming as his daughter did. There was something in the way he looked at you—like he tried to solve a puzzle, figure out how you became so essential to his world so quickly.

"Great minds think alike," you replied, turning to grin at Junie. "Though you definitely wear it better."

"We both look beautiful," Junie declared with the confidence of someone who never doubted her own worth. "Right, Daddy?"

"Absolutely," Simon agreed, his eyes lingering on you just a beat too long before he focused back on the road. But even then, you caught him glancing over periodically, like he couldn’t quite help himself. "Two beautiful girls."

Ten minutes into the drive, when you absently fanned yourself with your hand despite the air conditioning, Simon reached over without a word. His fingers found your wrist, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, and you felt your heart immediately kick into overdrive under his touch.

"You're overheating," he said matter-of-factly, though his thumb continued its gentle pressure against your racing pulse. There was something almost possessive in the way he monitored your physical state, like your well-being was his personal responsibility. "We'll get you something cold to drink the minute we get there."

The casual dominance in his tone—not asking if you'd like something cold, but stating what would happen—made your stomach flutter. He released your wrist after a moment, but the imprint of his touch lingered like a brand.

The resort complex was about an hour outside the city, nestled in rolling hills that provided some relief from the urban heat island effect. It was the kind of place designed for family fun—multiple pools, various attractions, carefully maintained gardens, and enough shaded areas to make the scorching weather bearable.

At the entrance gate, Simon didn’t even reach for his wallet—it was already in his hand before the attendant finished explaining the various package options. When you started to protest or offer to contribute, he gave you a look that was both gentle and utterly final.

"Don't," he said simply, handing over his card without even asking about the total. The quiet authority in his voice made arguing seem impossible. "Today's on me."

Inside the resort, he immediately sought out the nearest refreshment stand, returning with a large bottle of ice-cold water that he pressed into your hands. "Drink," he instructed, watching as you obediently took several sips. His attention was so focused, so protective, that you felt cherished in a way that was entirely new.

The pools were packed with families seeking relief from the heat, and while you packed a swimsuit, you found yourself hesitating at the pool's edge. Swimming was never your strong suit—a fact you’d rather not advertise in front of someone as naturally athletic as Simon.

"Not going in?" Simon asked, noticing your reluctance as he adjusted his swim trunks. Even in casual pool attire, he was imposing—broad shoulders, defined muscles, and that natural confidence that came from someone comfortable in his own skin. But more than that, he watched you with the kind of attention that suggested he already figured out your hesitation.

His injury was still healing, but the improvement was clear; he moved easily now, like the pain that once lingered had faded into nothing more than a distant ache from a few days ago.

"I'm not much of a swimmer," you admitted, settling on a lounge chair instead. "I'll just watch."

Without missing a beat, Simon dragged another chair closer to yours—close enough that he could keep an eye on you even while he was in the water with Junie. The protective gesture was so automatic you weren’t sure he was even conscious of it.

"Can you teach me the butterfly stroke again, Daddy?" Junie asked, already bouncing on her toes at the pool's edge. "I almost had it last time."

What followed was possibly the sweetest thing you ever witnessed. Simon in the water with his daughter, patient and encouraging as he demonstrated proper technique, catching her when she got tired, celebrating every small improvement like she just won Olympic gold. His voice carried across the water—gentle instructions mixed with praise and the occasional splash-fight that had Junie shrieking with laughter.

But even while he was completely engaged with Junie, you noticed how often his eyes found you. Quick glances to make sure you were comfortable, that you had enough shade, that you were drinking your water. It was the kind of split attention that spoke to someone whose protective instincts ran bone-deep.

Every few minutes, he swam over to the edge near your chair, water droplets catching the sunlight on his shoulders. "You okay, sunshine? Need anything?" The pet name rolled off his tongue so naturally you weren’t sure when he started using it, but the way it made your heart flutter never got old.

"I'm perfect," you assured him, meaning it completely. You found yourself taking picture after picture, capturing moments that felt too precious to exist only in memory. Simon lifting Junie up to attempt a dive. Junie clinging to his shoulders as he swam the length of the pool. Both of them floating on their backs, faces turned up to the sun, looking more relaxed and happy than you ever saw them.

"Your family is beautiful," said a woman at the neighboring lounge chair, nodding toward the pool where Simon was now teaching Junie to tread water.

The assumption made your cheeks warm, but you didn’t correct her. "Thank you," you said simply, because in that moment, watching them together, it almost felt true.

When they finally emerged from the pool, Simon immediately reached for the towel he positioned within easy reach and wrapped it around Junie before attending to himself. But then he moved toward you, and without a word, he checked your pulse again—that same gentle pressure against your wrist that made your breath catch.

"Still too fast," he murmured, frowning slightly. "Let's get you into somewhere colder."

After the pool, you migrated to the small amusement area where vintage carnival rides had been restored and maintained with loving care. The carousel was Junie’s favorite—a beautiful antique with hand-painted horses that bobbed up and down to the tune of classic carnival music.

Simon insisted on buying tickets for everything Junie showed even the slightest interest in, waving off your attempts to contribute with the same quiet finality he had shown at the entrance gate. But more than that, he positioned himself strategically—always between you and the crowds, always where he could see both you and Junie simultaneously.

You and Simon stood side by side, watching her circle past on a white horse with a flowing mane, her face radiant with pure joy. Each time she came around, she waved enthusiastically, as if she hadn’t seen you in hours rather than seconds.

"She's having the time of her life," you observed, taking more photos as she passed.

"Best day she's had all summer," Simon agreed, and there was something in his voice that suggested he might be having the best day he had all summer too. His hand rested at the small of your back, steady and sure, a silent reassurance disguised as something casual. But the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of your sundress was a constant reminder of his presence, his protection.

"She's fearless," you added as Junie chose the highest horse for her second ride.

"Gets that from me," Simon said with a wry smile. "Never met a challenge she wouldn't take on."

The mention of her fearlessness created a warm moment between you. You knew so little about Junie’s early years, had been afraid to ask too many questions about the mother who had left when she was just a baby.

"She's incredible," you said carefully, watching her wave enthusiastically from her painted horse.

"She is," he agreed, then turned to look at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "You're good with her. Natural. She trusts you completely."

Before you could respond to that loaded statement, Junie dismounted and raced toward you, chattering about ice cream and funnel cake and whether there was time for the Ferris wheel.

The resort’s café was mercifully air-conditioned, a haven from the oppressive heat that had only intensified as the day wore on. You claimed a corner table while Simon went to order, leaving you alone with Junie, who immediately launched into what had become her favorite topic of conversation.

"Sam showed his turtle," she announced, stirring her chocolate milk with more enthusiasm than necessary. "It was so cool. He let me hold it."

"That's sweet," you replied, genuinely charmed by her obvious crush. "What kind of turtle?"

"A red-eared slider," she said importantly. "Sam knows everything about animals. He wants to be a veterinarian when he grows up, just like his grandma."

Simon returned with a tray of food just in time to catch the tail end of this declaration. His expression darkened, that familiar edge slipping through—protective, territorial, and just a little unhinged. It was a look you had come to expect, and, secretly, adore.

"This Sam again?" he said, setting down plates with perhaps more force than necessary. "Seems like he's quite the expert on everything."

Junie, oblivious to her father's tone, nodded enthusiastically. "He's really smart. And he has the prettiest eyes—they're green like emeralds."

You bit back a laugh at Simon's increasingly thunderous expression. "Green eyes are very nice," you agreed solemnly, catching Simon's glare over Junie's head.

"I think brown eyes are better," Junie continued thoughtfully, glancing between you and her father. "Like Daddy's. And yours are beautiful too. Warmer."

The innocent remark made your cheeks burn, and you caught the change in Simon’s eyes—the tension easing, replaced by a calm that looked far too satisfied.

"Eat your sandwich," he said gruffly, but his hand found yours under the table, thumb tracing over your knuckles in a gesture that was becoming wonderfully familiar.

After lunch, you found a perfect spot on the resort’s elevated terrace—a comfortable seating area with oversized cushions and bean bags scattered around low tables. The view overlooked the gardens and pools below, and a slight breeze made the heat more bearable.

Simon immediately arranged the seating area to his liking—positioning cushions so you would have the best view and most comfortable spot, claiming the chair that gave him clear sightlines to both you and Junie. It was the kind of thoughtful preparation that happened so smoothly you might have missed it if you hadn’t been paying attention.

You and Junie settled onto the soft cushions with a collection of wildflowers you had gathered from the designated picking area, working together to weave them into flower crowns. Simon positioned himself a short distance away, ostensibly to smoke but really to keep an eye on his girls while giving you space for what had clearly become a bonding activity.

The terrace was busy with other families—couples with children, grandparents visiting for the day, the typical weekend crowd seeking relief from the city heat. It was peaceful in the way that family destinations could be, full of the comfortable chaos of people relaxing together.

You were helping Junie add baby's breath to her flower crown when the sharp click of heels on stone drew your attention. Two young women in barely-there outfits and sky-high heels walked past, clearly more interested in being seen than in any of the family-friendly activities the resort offered.

The sound made you glance up automatically, and in that brief moment, you noticed something that made your stomach clench with secondhand embarrassment. Several of the fathers seated around the terrace were staring—openly, obviously, completely ignoring their wives and children to gawk at the passing women.

One man at a nearby table actually turned completely around in his seat to watch them walk away, while his wife sat across from him looking hurt and frustrated. Another dad had his phone out, not even being subtle about it, while his young daughter tried unsuccessfully to get his attention.

It was uncomfortable and gross and made you feel suddenly self-conscious about your own modest sundress and the fact that you were sitting there making flower crowns like someone's maiden aunt.

But then you looked toward Simon, and your heart did something complicated in your chest.

He wasn’t looking at the women. Hadn’t even glanced in their direction. Instead, he was focused entirely on you and Junie, his phone out as he took candid photos of the two of you bent over your flower crafts. But it was more than just not looking—it was the quality of his attention when he did look at you.

There was something in his gaze that made everything else fade away. He wasn’t just seeing you; he was studying you, like he was trying to memorize every expression that crossed your face, every gesture of your hands as you helped Junie with her crown. It was the look of a man who had found something infinitely more fascinating than anything else in his universe.

The realization hit you like a physical force: That’s my man. I want to spend the rest of my life with this man.

The thought was so sudden, so certain and overwhelming, that it took your breath away. Because this—this moment of being truly seen, of being the center of someone’s attention not because you demanded it but because you earned it—this was what love actually looked like. Not the wandering eye that was always searching for something better, but the focused devotion of someone who had found exactly what he was looking for.

"Miss Sparkle?" Junie’s voice broke through your revelation. "Are you okay? You look funny."

"I'm good," you said, and meant it completely. You caught Simon’s eye across the distance and smiled, the kind of smile that felt like a promise, like a secret shared between you.

He smiled back, that slow, devastating smile that made your knees weak even when you were sitting down, and took another picture. But there was something different in his expression now, something that suggested he felt the weight of that moment too.

When the flower crowns were complete, Simon rejoined you, stubbing out his cigarette and settling onto the cushions beside you. Junie immediately placed her creation on his head, giggling at how the delicate flowers looked against his rugged features.

"Very manly," you teased, adjusting a wayward daisy.

"I'm secure in my masculinity," he replied solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. His hand found yours as you adjusted his flower crown, fingers intertwining in a way that felt like coming home.

"Can we get ice cream now?" Junie asked, bouncing on her cushion. "Please? It's so hot and I've been really good all day."

"You have been really good," Simon agreed, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "What do you think?" he asked you, but he was already standing, already planning the logistics. "Ice cream sounds good?"

"Ice cream sounds perfect," you agreed.

The ice cream stand offered the kind of oversized portions that made children’s eyes light up and parents’ wallets cringe. Simon ordered for all three of you—somehow knowing exactly what you would want before you even had a chance to study the menu. Junie chose something called a “rainbow explosion” that appeared to contain every artificial color known to mankind, while you got simple vanilla and Simon went with chocolate.

You found another shaded spot to enjoy your treats, and Simon insisted on feeding you bites of his ice cream between your own spoonfuls. It was casually intimate, the kind of gesture that felt natural and sweet and made Junie giggle every time he did it.

There was a heat beneath the care—the way his gaze locked on your lips with every bite, the way his thumb dragged across the corner of your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he was marking what was his without ever saying it. Like taking care of you was both his privilege and his responsibility.

"You have some—" Simon started, reaching over to wipe a small bit of vanilla from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

The simple touch sent warmth shooting through you that had nothing to do with the weather. His thumb lingered just a moment longer than necessary, and when you met his eyes, there was something there that made the rest of the world fade away.

Then he checked your pulse again, that same gentle pressure against your wrist, and frowned slightly at whatever he found there. "Still running fast," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "We should get you back into the air conditioning soon."

"Daddy," Junie said suddenly, "are you going to marry Miss Sparkle?"

The direct question made you both freeze, Simon’s fingers still pressed against your racing pulse, and for a moment the only sound was the distant laughter from the pools and the soft music from the carousel.

"Junie—" Simon started, but she was already moving on to her next observation.

"Because Sam's sister said that when grown-ups look at each other the way you look at Miss Sparkle, it usually means they're going to get married," she continued casually, as if she was discussing the weather. "And you're always touching her and making sure she's okay and you get that funny look on your face when other people look at her."

"Sam's sister sounds very observant," you managed, your voice only slightly strangled.

"She is," Junie agreed seriously. "She's also really good at making friendship bracelets. Sam learns a lot from her."

And just like that, she was back to talking about Sam, completely unaware that she had just lobbed a conversational grenade into what had been a perfectly peaceful afternoon.

Simon caught your eye over Junie’s head, and there was something in his expression that made your heart race even faster under his thumb. Not panic, exactly, but a kind of intensity that suggested her innocent question had hit closer to home than either of you was ready to discuss.

The drive home was quiet in the best possible way. Junie fell asleep in the backseat almost immediately, exhausted from the day’s activities and the heat, her flower crown slightly askew and her face peaceful in sleep.

Simon drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy patterns against the fabric of your sundress. Every few minutes, he glanced over to check on you—making sure you were comfortable, that the air conditioning was still working, that you weren’t showing any signs of heat exhaustion.

You and Simon didn’t talk much, but it was a comfortable silence filled with the satisfaction of a day well spent. The air conditioning battled against the late afternoon heat, and soft music played from the radio just loud enough to mask the sound of the engine without waking Junie.

When Simon pulled up in front of your building, neither of you moved immediately. The day felt too perfect to end, too precious to let slip away into memory just yet.

He was already out of the truck and around to your side before you could reach for the door handle, opening it for you with the same automatic courtesy he had shown all day. Even after hours together, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

"Thank you," you said softly, turning to face him in the fading light. "For today. For including me. For taking care of everything."

"Thank you for coming," he replied, reaching over to take your hand. His thumb found your pulse point again, that now-familiar gesture that sent your heart racing. "For being part of it."

There was so much more to say—about Junie’s innocent question, about the way he had looked at you while other men were looking elsewhere, about what any of this meant for whatever was growing between you. But with his sleeping daughter in the backseat and the weight of the perfect day settling around you like a comfortable blanket, words felt unnecessary.

Instead, you leaned and kissed him, soft and slow and full of promise. He tasted like chocolate ice cream and summer heat and something that was purely Simon, and when you pulled back, his eyes were dark with an emotion that made your chest tight.

"Come over soon?" he asked quietly, thumb still tracing over your pulse.

"Soon," you promised, then leaned in to press one more kiss to the corner of his mouth—that spot that always made him smile in that particular way that was just for you.

 Simon waited until you were safely inside your building before driving away. Through your apartment window, you watched his taillights disappear around the corner, and the absence felt immediate and sharp.

"Missed you too, Selina," you murmured as your cat wound around your legs, purring and clearly offended by your day-long absence. You scooped her up and settled onto your couch, already missing the warmth of Simon’s hand in yours and the protective weight of his attention.

Your phone buzzed with a text:

Sweet dreams, sunshine. Today was perfect.

You smiled, typing back:

It really was. Thank you for the best day 💙

And thank you for letting me take care of you, came his immediate response. Sleep well.

Outside, the heat finally began to break as evening settled over the city. But inside your small apartment, with Selina purring on your lap and the memory of Simon’s protective touches still warm on your skin, everything felt exactly right.