Chapter Text
The pub was loud, too loud for Simon’s taste, but it was better than sitting in the flat staring at the walls. The rest of his unit had spilled out into the streets hours ago, already well on their way to blackouts and regrets. He’d stayed behind, nursing a pint in the far corner, half in shadow, where no one would notice him.
He was halfway through it when a voice—bright, Scottish, annoyingly confident—cut through the din.
“Hey, handsome. Drinkin’ all by yourself?”
Simon looked up, already prepared to ignore whoever thought that was a good idea. The man standing over him wasn’t what he expected. Not a soldier, not even close—civilian clothes, messy dark hair, grin that looked like trouble and meant it.
Simon rolled his eyes and turned back to his glass. “Not interested.”
But instead of slinking away, the stranger slid into the empty seat across from him like it had been saved. “Didn’t ask if you were,” he said easily, settling in with his own pint. “Place is packed. You’re the only one with a spare chair. Consider it a public service.”
Simon huffed through his nose. That should have been the end of it. But the man kept talking—little observations about the pub, the crowd, a snide remark about someone’s dreadful singing near the jukebox. Against his better judgement, Simon’s lip twitched. And when the Scot caught it—caught him—he lit up like he’d won the lottery.
“There it is,” he said, pointing his glass at Simon like it was evidence. “Knew you had a laugh in you somewhere.”
Simon shook his head, a faint chuckle betraying him anyway. “You’re relentless, mate.”
“Aye, and proud of it. Name’s John. You?”
Simon hesitated, then muttered, “Simon.”
“Simon,” John repeated, as though testing the weight of it. Then he grinned wider. “Well, Simon, looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight. Don’t think I’ll be satisfied ‘til I’ve got you laughin’ proper.”
And damn it all, Simon found he didn’t mind the sound of that.
John leaned his elbows on the sticky table, eyes bright in the dim light. “So, Simon, what’s the occasion? Can’t be drinkin’ all serious on a Friday night without a reason.”
Simon shrugged, tilting his glass. “Not much of an occasion.”
“Mm.” John cocked his head, watching him. “You’ve got that look. The kind folk wear when somethin’ big’s happened but they don’t want to make a fuss about it.”
Simon gave him a side-eye. “You always this nosey?”
“Only with handsome strangers,” John shot back, quick as a whip.
Simon rolled his eyes again, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him, twitching like he was fighting a smirk.
John pounced on it. “Ah, there it is! Knew you weren’t made of stone. Thought I was gonna have to tell you my whole tragic life story to get a reaction.”
“Wouldn’t recommend,” Simon muttered.
“Oh, you’d love it. It’s got everything—weepin’ mothers, a dog that ran away, my tragic addiction to chips ‘n curry sauce. Rivetin’, I promise.”
That earned him a quiet chuckle, the sound muffled in Simon’s chest. John grinned, triumphant.
“You’re a hard man to crack, Simon.”
“Maybe you should stop trying.”
“Not a chance. You’ve got a good laugh, and I want more of it.”
Simon shook his head, but he didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t even mind when John nicked a chip off his plate a few minutes later, or when he started rambling about some neighbourhood feud back home like they’d known each other for years.
Somewhere between the second pint and the third, Simon realised he wasn’t thinking about the uniform folded in his duffel, or the noise of the pub, or the shadows of everything that came before. He was just…listening. To John. To his stories, his accent, his endless, unashamed enthusiasm.
And when the night ended, John clapped him on the shoulder, warm and sure. “See you round, aye? Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”
Simon should’ve said no. Should’ve brushed him off.
Instead, he found himself nodding. “Yeah. See you round.”
The second time, Simon walked into the pub and froze when he saw John already there, pint in hand, grin spreading like sunshine through smoke.
“Well, well,” John said, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
Simon eyed him. “You campin’ out here waiting for me?”
John gasped, scandalised. “Me? No! Just a humble man enjoyin’ a pint. Total coincidence, promise.”
Simon didn’t believe a word of it, but he sat down anyway.
The third time, John didn’t even bother hiding it. He waved Simon over from across the room like they were old mates. “Oi, big lad! Saved you a seat.”
Simon sighed, but his lips betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.
By the fifth time, Simon was already scanning the room as soon as he walked in. And when he didn’t see John, something in his chest tightened. Then John came bursting through the door, hair wild from the wind, cheeks pink, and Simon had to force himself not to look too pleased.
“Thought you weren’t comin’,” Simon muttered when John plopped into the chair.
“What, and miss your delightful company?” John teased. Then, softer, “Never.”
A week later, John shoved his phone across the table. “Right. This is daft. We keep ‘accidentally’ meetin’ like this, might as well make it easier. Gimme your number.”
Simon hesitated, staring at the device like it was a weapon. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”
John only smirked, leaning forward, stubborn to the bone. “Not askin’ for state secrets, Simon. Just a number. So I don’t have to risk missin’ you.”
Something unspooled in Simon’s chest. Against his better judgment, he typed it in.
John lit up, thumb tapping the screen. A second later, Simon’s own phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Perfect,” John said. “Now you’ve got mine, too. No excuses.”
Simon shook his head, but for the first time in a long time, he felt… lighter.
Simon was half-asleep on the sofa when his phone buzzed against the table. He cracked an eye open, debating ignoring it, but curiosity won. The screen glowed with a name he barely knew yet—John.
Three messages stacked on top of one another, fired off in rapid succession:
so what’s a soldier like you doin on a saturday night then 👀
don’t tell me ur just sittin home brooding
cause if u are i’ll drag u back to the pub myself
Simon huffed a laugh despite himself. Of course he was brooding. Of course John knew it.
He stared at the phone for a long moment, thumbs heavy, the idea of typing out a reply suddenly exhausting. Then he pressed call. Easier. Cleaner.
The line clicked almost immediately, John’s voice bright and warm as though he’d been waiting with the phone in hand. “Bloody hell, you do know how to use a phone! Thought I’d scared you off.”
Simon leaned his head back against the sofa, eyes closing. “You ever shut up?”
“Not if I can help it,” John shot back, laughter spilling through the line. “Knew I’d get you eventually.”
And Simon…let him.
It was another late night when his phone buzzed just as Simon was about to call it a night. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but then he saw the name—John—and found himself swiping to answer before he’d thought it through.
“...Hello.”
“Si!” Simon doesn’t remember allowing John to call him that but as it stood he didn’t really mind.
“Knew you’d be awake.” John’s voice poured down the line, bright even at this hour, which was too fucking late to be having a phone call but here they were. “Couldn’t sleep m’self. Thought I’d bug you for a bit.”
Simon leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing over his face. “You’re insufferable.”
“Aye, but you like it,” John teased, then carried on without waiting for a reply. “So listen—there’s this wee corner shop down the road from me, right? And the lad workin’ there swears blind he can make the best fish supper in Glasgow. Which is bollocks, obviously, but I was too polite to argue. Tried it tonight. Nearly broke my teeth on the batter.”
Simon made a low sound—something between a grunt and a chuckle.
John picked up on it instantly. “Don’t laugh! Was a near-death experience, I’ll have you know.”
Silence hummed between them for a beat, comfortable. Then John cleared his throat. “...You still there?”
“Yeah,” Simon said softly. “I’m here.”
The words weren’t much, but John grinned into the receiver like he’d been given the world. “Good. Just makin’ sure. Hate talkin’ to myself.”
Simon shook his head, lips twitching, and let John ramble on—about the weather, about a neighbour’s terrible dog, about nothing at all. And for the first time in a long time, Simon didn’t mind the noise.
One afternoon, John insisted on tagging along to the grocery store. Simon didn’t argue, though he gave him a look when John immediately claimed the buggy like it was a chariot.
“Don’t give me that face, Si. You handle the soldierin’, I’ll handle the trolley.”
And he did—pushed it down the aisles while chattering about everything and nothing. Complaints about rising prices, stories about his mates, dramatic retellings of his own disastrous cooking. Simon found himself… listening. Even laughing now and then, though he’d never admit it. By the time they reached checkout, John had snuck three packets of biscuits into the cart.
“Don’t say a word,” he warned. “They’re essential rations.”
Simon only shook his head, but there was warmth behind it.
Another day, coffee. They tucked into the back corner of a small shop, John leaning forward on his elbows, Simon staring into his cup.
“You ever gonna tell me?” John asked gently.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you’re in the army. Don’t gimme the line about servin’ queen and country. I want the real answer.”
Simon’s jaw worked, silence stretching long enough that John nearly dropped it. But then—quiet, almost too quiet—Simon said, “My dad was a bastard.”
John blinked, thrown by the sudden weight in Simon’s tone. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, letting the silence open space.
Simon’s fingers curled around his coffee cup. “Drank too much. Had a mean streak. And I—” he faltered, jaw tight. “I couldn’t keep being his punchin’ bag. So I left. Joined up. Seemed like the only way out.”
For a moment, the café noise carried on around them—dishes clattering, milk frothers hissing. John’s gaze didn’t waver.
Finally, he nodded once, sure and steady. “Makes sense.”
Simon glanced at him, almost surprised at the lack of pity.
John sipped his coffee, then set the cup down with a soft clink. “Listen, big lad. If the nights ever get too heavy, I’ll be over before you’ve even put the kettle on. No questions, no fuss. Just… me.”
That pulled a quiet chuckle out of Simon, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Good.” John’s grin returned, warm and unshakable. “And I like my tea strong, so don’t forget.”
Simon shook his head, but the promise lingered, unspoken between them.
It becomes a pattern. Simon lets John push the buggy, lets him prattle through entire shopping trips. He listens on the phone until he falls asleep with the line still open. He starts talking back—small things at first, then heavier ones, and John just holds them without flinching.
Piece by piece, Simon realises he’s not just tolerating John. He’s relying on him.
It was movie night, or that’s what John said when he turned up at Simon’s flat with two bags—one clinking with bottles, the other filled with crisps and takeout containers.
“You can’t watch films on an empty stomach,” he said matter-of-factly, shoving past Simon into the living room. “It’s practically illegal.”
Simon arched a brow. “You invited yourself?”
“Aye. And you’re welcome.”
They ended up on the sofa, lights low, some action flick playing in the background. Halfway through, John was already narrating every ridiculous plot twist, pulling exaggerated groans out of Simon. At one point, when the hero punched a helicopter, Simon actually laughed—loud, unguarded. John just looked smug.
Simon wasn’t much of a cook, but John insisted on trying. One night, they cobbled together something resembling pasta. John spent more time talking than paying attention, nearly set the sauce on fire, and Simon had to take over.
When they finally sat down, John twirled the spaghetti around his fork and said, “See? Domestic bliss.”
Simon snorted. “You’re hopeless.”
But when John leaned back, satisfied, Simon realised he hadn’t hated it. The mess, the warmth, the shared table—it felt… normal.
On a rare free afternoon, Simon found himself sitting on a park bench with John, sandwiches in hand. John talked about his childhood in Glasgow, about daft schoolyard fights and the music he loved, words flowing easy.
“You’re quiet,” John said after a while.
“Always am.”
John nudged him with an elbow. “Don’t mind it. Just means when you do talk, it’s worth listenin’ to.”
Simon stared at him, caught off guard, then nodded once.
John was rambling again, voice soft over the line. “…and I swear, the man was tryin’ to sell me milk past the expiry date. Nearly fought him right there in the shop.”
Simon lay back on his bed, eyes closed, just listening.
“Oi,” John said after a pause. “You asleep?”
“No.”
“Good. Hate talkin’ to myself.”
“You don’t,” Simon murmured.
John chuckled, low and pleased. “Maybe not with you.”
It was supposed to be just another movie night. Takeout boxes on the table, a stack of DVDs John had insisted were “essential cultural education,” Simon slouched deeper into the sofa than he ever let himself in public.
By the time the credits rolled, John was yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. “It’s late. Don’t make me walk home in the dark, Si. I’ll get kidnapped.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “No one wants to kidnap you, Johnny.”
“Rude. But fair. Still—” John leaned his head back against the cushions, grinning lazily—“let me crash here?”
Simon hesitated, but the thought of John disappearing into the night tugged at something in his chest. “…Fine.”
The sofa wasn’t much, and Simon knew it. Before he could think better of it, he muttered, “Bed’s bigger. If you don’t mind.”
John’s grin widened, cheeky and bright. “Oh, scandalous. Lead the way.”
They didn’t talk about the way their shoulders brushed beneath the blankets, or how John’s knee knocked against Simon’s. Eventually John’s breathing evened out, warm and steady beside him. Simon lay awake far longer, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of every point of contact.
When he finally drifted off, it was to the sound of another heartbeat close to his own.
Morning light spilled across the room. Simon blinked awake to find John tucked against him, head on his chest, one arm slung over his waist. For a moment, Simon froze. Then, without meaning to, he let himself breathe into it. The weight, the warmth, the quiet. Not alone.
John stirred, mumbled something incomprehensible, and rolled away. Neither of them mentioned it as they shuffled through breakfast—toast, coffee, easy chatter. But the silence between them was different. Softer. Charged.
Later, driving to base, Simon gripped the wheel tighter than he meant to. He tried to focus on the road, on the day ahead, but the thought kept circling back, relentless:
How fucking fantastic it had been to wake up and not be alone.
The next time they met up, neither said a word about it. John turned up at Simon’s door with takeaway again, grinning as though nothing unusual had happened.
“Hope you’ve not eaten,” he said, waving a paper bag in the air.
Simon stepped aside to let him in. “You’re relentless.”
“Aye. You’d waste away without me.”
Dinner. A film. Laughter that came easier than it used to. And when the night grew late, John stretched out on the sofa, feigning a yawn.
“Well, it’s awfully dark outside…”
Simon gave him a look. “You live ten minutes away.”
“Ten dangerous minutes,” John corrected, eyes glinting with mischief. “Best I stay here.”
Simon grumbled, but when he found John climbing into his bed again, he didn’t argue.
It happened again the week after. And again. Sometimes after a film, sometimes after a bottle of whisky split between them, sometimes after nothing more than a long conversation that neither wanted to end.
Each morning, Simon woke with John tangled against him. Each morning, John slipped out with a grin and a quip. And neither of them—neither of them—said a bloody word about it.
But something had shifted.
Simon noticed it in the way his flat felt too quiet after John left. In how the smell of coffee lingered longer than it should. In the way his chest ached, stupid and fierce, remembering the weight of an arm draped across him.
And John…John noticed it in the way Simon had stopped protesting. How he’d begun setting out an extra mug without thinking. How he leaned closer when they spoke, as though he’d grown used to John filling the empty space.
They were circling something unspoken, both too proud—or too scared—to touch it. But it kept happening, again and again, until “accident” wasn’t a believable excuse anymore.
They had a new rhythm now. John would arrive with food or a film or just because he wanted to be a bother, Simon pretending to be put-upon, and then—hours later—the familiar routine of him sighing and muttering, “Go on then, stay.”
The first few mornings, John scrambled out of bed fast, like he’d been caught red-handed. But lately… lately, he lingered.
The sunlight leaking through the blinds was soft, hesitant. Simon blinked awake slowly, instinctively aware of the weight pressed against him before memory caught up. John. Again.
The man had wriggled halfway on top of him sometime in the night, head tucked beneath Simon’s chin, arm thrown across his chest in a loose, claiming sprawl. Simon’s first thought should’ve been to shift him off, to put distance where it belonged. But instead he lay still, listening to John’s even breaths, watching the lazy flutter of lashes against his cheek.
John smelled faintly of smoke and soap, warm and human in a way Simon hadn’t let himself have for too long.
When John finally stirred, stretching like a cat, Simon cleared his throat. “Dangerous journey home, was it?”
John’s mouth curved into a grin without even opening his eyes. “Treacherous. Didn’t dare risk it.”
Simon huffed, the sound more fond than he’d like. “Mm. Can’t have you meeting a grisly fate ten minutes from mine.”
John cracked an eye, looking at him through a sleepy squint. “Exactly. You’re doing a public service, keeping me alive like this.”
And then—he didn’t move. Didn’t get up, didn’t roll away, didn’t mutter something about being late for work. He just stayed there, stretched against Simon’s side, warm and stubborn.
The minutes ticked by. Usually, by now, John would be at the door with a cheeky parting shot, and Simon would be telling himself he preferred it that way. But today, John dragged his feet.
“Y’know,” John said finally, voice low, “you make a mean pillow.”
Simon should’ve shoved him. Should’ve scoffed, should’ve made some cutting remark. Instead, he let the silence hold, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than he meant. “Could get used to it.”
That shut John up for once.
Breakfast was slow, lingering. John yawning over toast, his hair a mess, grumbling about the weak tea like he hadn’t brewed it himself. Simon sat across the table, watching him chatter about some nonsense at the shop yesterday, nodding in all the right places, secretly basking in the ordinary weight of it.
And then, too soon, John was shrugging into his jacket.
“Well, soldier,” he said with a grin, “try not to miss me too much, aye?”
Simon grunted, standing with him, walking him to the door like always. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
John laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and was gone—out into the brisk morning, whistling under his breath.
The door clicked shut.
Silence fell heavy. Too heavy.
Simon stood there a moment, hand still on the knob, staring at the empty space John had just filled. The flat seemed colder already, the rooms too quiet, the smell of coffee lingering like a ghost.
And it hit him. Sharp. Ugly. Unavoidable.
He didn’t want John to leave. Not anymore.
He let out a low curse, dragging a hand down his face. Bloody hell. What was he supposed to do with that?
He tried to settle back on the sofa, the one John always claimed, and found it hollow. Tried to focus on the telly, but every noise sounded wrong without John’s commentary running alongside it. The silence pressed in, suffocating, until Simon realised with a grim sort of clarity that his flat wasn’t just his anymore.
It had been claimed—bit by bit, laugh by laugh, excuse by excuse—by the man who couldn’t seem to stop “accidentally” staying over.
And Simon didn’t know if he wanted it back.
Simon’s day had been hell. Training gone wrong, superiors barking, that simmering edge of violence that made the barracks feel like a cage. By the time he got home, every nerve in his body was screaming.
Normally, John would’ve been there. With takeaway, or some daft story, or just that stupid grin that somehow made Simon unclench his jaw. But tonight—nothing.
No knock at the door. No familiar voice spilling through the hall. No text.
Just silence.
Simon sat on the edge of his sofa, staring at his phone like it had betrayed him. He told himself it didn’t matter. John wasn’t his keeper. He had a life, things to do. He wasn’t obliged to show up every bloody night like clockwork.
But the silence thickened. Pressed. His chest tightened until breathing felt impossible, memories crowding in—the slam of a door, his father’s shadow, the suffocating certainty that he was alone.
His hands shook. His lungs locked. He couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop.
He grabbed his phone out of instinct, thumb clumsy, dialing before his brain caught up. One ring. Two.
And then horror slammed into him. What the fuck am I doing?
He hung up fast. Too fast. The screen still glowed with John’s name when Simon hurled the phone across the room, chest heaving, vision blurred at the edges.
The flat was too quiet. Too empty. Too loud with the sound of his ragged breath. He curled in on himself, trying to ground, trying to remember how to breathe properly, but his body wouldn’t listen.
Meanwhile, across town, John frowned down at his phone. One missed call from Simon. No message. No follow-up.
He tried ringing back. Straight to voicemail.
He sent a text: You okay?
Waited. Nothing.
Another: Simon?
And another: Talk to me, yeah?
Silence.
Worry gnawed at his chest. Simon wasn’t the type to reach out. For anything. If he’d called, even by mistake, something had to be wrong.
Minutes dragged. Then an hour. John tried to focus on his sketches, but his pen stuttered, lines coming out wrong. He couldn’t settle. His gut screamed at him, sharp and relentless.
Finally, he swore under his breath, grabbed his keys, and left.
The drive was a blur. John barely remembered the streets, only the way his pulse thudded, the knot in his chest pulling tighter with each red light.
When he reached Simon’s flat, he didn’t bother with ceremony. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. “Simon? You in?”
Nothing.
John’s heart climbed into his throat. He tried the knob—it gave. Simon had left it unlocked.
The sight inside made John’s stomach drop.
Simon was on the floor by the sofa, hunched over, nails dug into his knees. His breaths were ragged, shallow, broken things. His face was pale, slick with sweat, eyes unfocused like he was a thousand miles away.
“Christ, Si—” John dropped to his knees beside him without thinking, hands out but hesitant, not wanting to startle him. “Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s John. You hear me?”
No response. Just another strangled gasp, chest heaving.
John’s heart ached. Carefully, slowly, he set a hand against Simon’s arm. Solid. Warm. “Breathe with me, yeah? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this.” He exaggerated the rhythm, slow and steady, willing Simon to match him.
It took agonising minutes, but eventually Simon’s breath began to hitch less violently, his eyes flickering, finally meeting John’s.
“There you are,” John murmured, soft with relief. “Knew you were still in there.”
Simon tried to speak, but it came out cracked, broken. “Shouldn’t… shouldn’t be here.”
“Bollocks,” John shot back gently, squeezing his arm. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Simon’s throat worked, a sound escaping that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t far from it either. He bowed his head, shoulders trembling.
John didn’t think—he just gathered him close, one hand at the back of his head, the other gripping his shoulder tight. Simon resisted for a breath, rigid as stone, but then something in him snapped, and he collapsed into John’s hold, shaking apart against him.
John held on. Rock steady. “Got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Time blurred. Could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours. John just stayed, anchoring him, murmuring nonsense in a low voice until Simon’s breathing eased.
When Simon finally pulled back, his eyes were rimmed red, his face raw with something he rarely let anyone see. He looked at John like he’d just been caught bleeding.
“Don’t,” Simon rasped, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” John asked softly.
“Like I’m… broken.”
John’s heart twisted. He lifted a hand, brushing a damp strand of hair from Simon’s forehead. “I’m not. I’m looking at you like I’m glad you called.”
Simon flinched. “I hung up.”
“Didn’t matter. You called me.” John’s voice was steady, certain. “You thought of me. That’s enough.”
Simon’s lips parted, but no words came. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady now.
John leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “Listen. Next time the night gets too heavy? Don’t hang up. Don’t shut me out. Just… let me be here. That’s all I want.”
And for once, Simon didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. He just sat there, silent, his gaze fixed on John with something raw, something almost vulnerable.
John squeezed his hand once, firm. “Put the kettle on, soldier. We’ll make it through the night.”
And Simon, still trembling, nodded.
The panic had ebbed, leaving Simon raw, chest still tight, hair plastered to his damp forehead. John didn’t move, just sat beside him, letting the silence stretch with careful steadiness. A kettle whistled in the background, a mundane sound that somehow anchored them both.
Simon had a mug pressed to his lips now, eyes fixed on the steam curling up. John shifted, standing to put his own mug in the sink, moving with that easy, confident care that made Simon’s chest clench in ways he couldn’t name.
Simon curled in on himself instinctively, like a kid again, and John froze, heart thudding.
“Oi,” John said softly, crouching back down, hand brushing Simon’s arm. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for the night, not ever when it comes to this.”
Simon didn’t respond, just let himself sink into the floor a little more, tremors fading but awareness still sharp.
John slid back onto the sofa, settling beside him, careful and deliberate. “Come on,” he murmured, voice low, “back to bed. I’ll keep you safe. You don’t need to think about a thing.”
Simon let himself be guided, stiff and hesitant at first, before easing against John’s side. John wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, tucking him gently against his chest. Simon’s cheek pressed to John’s shoulder, breath finally evening out.
“Sleep easy,” John whispered, thumb tracing small circles across Simon’s arm. “I’ve got you. Right here. Always.”
Simon let out a long, shaky breath, muscles finally unclenching. For the first time that night, he felt it—the quiet, the safety, the simple, unspoken promise. His eyelids drooped, warmth spreading from John’s hold, and for the first time since he’d walked in, he relaxed.
He slept.
And John stayed, steadfast, a living anchor, murmuring nonsense under his breath until Simon was fully lost in dreams.
Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, soft and lazy, brushing across the bed where Simon and John lay tangled together. Simon’s chest still felt warm from John’s presence, every muscle loosened after the night of panic, every breath easier than it had been in weeks. He shifted, careful not to wake John, picking up the phone to check messages.
It rang before he could unlock it—sharp, businesslike.
“Riley? Simon Riley?” The officer’s voice came crisp over the line. “This is Captain Hawthorne. You are scheduled for a tap-out ceremony next week. It will mark the official beginning of your military career. Are you expecting anyone?”
Simon’s throat constricted. Expecting anyone…? He swallowed hard, voice tight, barely audible. “N-no…no sir.”
The officer paused. “Very well. Details will follow. Congratulations. End of line.”
The line clicked dead, leaving Simon holding the phone like it was suddenly unbearably heavy. The warmth of John beside him made the silence ache, highlighting the absence he hadn’t noticed before: the absence of family, of anyone who would stand for him.
He had survived the night, yes. He had John’s presence woven into him now, but the world outside his flat didn’t bend to comfort him. And for the tap-out… he’d be on his own.
The call left him hollow. The officer’s clipped words still rang in his ears, echoing around the flat like shrapnel.
Are you expecting anyone to attend?
…No.
He’d said it quiet, but it had still felt like a confession. Like baring a wound.
Now he sat at the edge of the bed, phone heavy in his hand, staring at the far wall. He could already see it—the line of soldiers, the families rushing forward when the order was given. Mothers and fathers with tears in their eyes, siblings shouting, partners throwing themselves into arms that had been empty too long.
And him. Standing still. Watching. Alone.
The thought was enough to crush the breath from his chest all over again. He rubbed at his face, trying to swallow the ache, but it stuck, sharp in his throat.
Behind him, the mattress dipped. John stirred, groaning softly as he stretched. Simon turned just enough to see him, hair mussed, shirt twisted, blinking blearily like he hadn’t a care in the world. For one fleeting second, Simon thought of saying something—about the ceremony, about the empty space where someone should be. But the words lodged like stones.
Instead, John rolled upright, yawning. “Bloody hell, what time is it?” He fumbled for his phone, eyes widening. “Shite. Got a meeting at the gallery, can’t be late.”
Simon nodded, forcing a smile onto his lips. “You’ll be brilliant. Go knock ’em dead.”
John grinned, lopsided, tugging his jacket on. “That’s the plan.”
He leaned in, clapped Simon on the shoulder with a warm squeeze, and then he was at the door, already halfway out. “Save me some of that instant coffee of yours, eh?”
And then—gone.
The door clicked shut.
Silence rushed in, heavier than before, pressing against Simon’s ribs. He stood in the middle of his flat, still wearing the ghost of a smile, staring at the empty space John had left behind.
It was too familiar. Too close to what awaited him at the ceremony.
Everyone else would be claimed. Embraced. Pulled into belonging.
And he would stand there, as he stood now, in the echo of someone else’s departure. Alone. For the rest of his life, perhaps.
He let out a bitter breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Bloody pathetic,” he muttered to himself, the words hollow in the silence.
But the ache in his chest said otherwise.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing the aisle in pale yellow. Simon pushed the trolley with slow, steady hands, letting the rattle of the wheels keep time with John’s voice.
John strolled beside him, a packet of biscuits in one hand, another tucked under his arm. “Now—hear me out—these are for tea,” he said, brandishing the shortbread like it was a winning card. “And these—” he jiggled the chocolate digestives—“these are for coffee. Different categories, Simon. You can’t mix and match.”
Simon huffed, the corner of his mouth threatening to betray him. “You’re full of shite.”
John grinned, triumphant at the tiny crack in Simon’s armour. He tossed both into the trolley anyway, ignoring Simon’s quiet mutter about wasting money.
For a moment—for one blessed moment—it felt like nothing at all. Just two blokes buying groceries. Ordinary. Steady. Safe.
But then the thought slashed through, sharp as glass: You’ll be alone at the ceremony. He could picture it in brutal detail—rows of men finding their people, arms thrown around necks, laughter and tears all around. And him, empty-handed. Watching. A shadow in the corner of his own celebration.
The trolley’s handle went cold under his palms. He flexed his fingers, jaw tight, staring ahead as John plucked a loaf of bread from the shelf.
“You’re awfully quiet,” John said, eyeing him sideways.
Simon gave a noncommittal shrug. “Tired.” The word came out low, clipped.
John let it hang for a beat, then smiled anyway, slipping another unnecessary item into the cart—this time crisps. “Well, good thing I’ve enough energy for both of us, eh?”
Simon almost smiled again. Almost. But it didn’t reach. He just nodded, kept walking, let John’s chatter fill the air. Inside, though, the silence roared.
The flat was too quiet.
Simon sat at the kitchen table with the bags still half unpacked around him. A packet of crisps leaned against the kettle, the biscuits John had argued for perched lopsided on the counter. He should have put them away. He should have done something—anything—but instead he sat there, hunched, staring at the grooves in the wood like they might tell him something.
His phone lay on the table, screen black. Every now and then he nudged it with two fingers, just enough to light it up. No new messages. Not that he expected one. John had gone back to his own life, his own little world, and Simon… Simon had this. Silence.
He tried to picture the ceremony again, as though running through it would dull the edges. The officer’s voice: Expecting anyone? Simon’s throat thickening as he forced out a no. Rows of men swept into embraces, laughter, tears, the noise of joy echoing all around him. And Simon—frozen, stiff, hands useless at his sides. Invisible in the middle of it all.
The air felt thin. He pressed a hand against his chest, as if he could cage the sharp rise and fall of his ribs. You’ll stand there alone, Riley. You’ll stand there like a fool. No one’s coming for you. Not now. Not ever.
He scrubbed both hands down his face, elbows braced against the table, and for a fleeting, shameful second he thought about calling John. Just to hear his voice, to feel like maybe he wasn’t going mad. His fingers even brushed the phone, unlocked it, scrolled to the name—
Then he locked it again and shoved it away, chest burning. What would he even say? Help me, I’m scared to be forgotten? Stay with me so I don’t fall apart? Pathetic.
The kettle clicked as it cooled. He hadn’t even remembered turning it on. The flat groaned in the quiet, pipes shifting, floor creaking, all of it louder than his own breath.
Simon leaned forward, buried his head in his hands, and let the silence press down until it felt like it might break him in half.
The café was warm, all golden light and low chatter, the air thick with the smell of ground beans and sugar. Simon sat in the corner booth with his hands wrapped around a mug, watching steam coil and vanish into nothing.
Across from him, John was in full swing, talking with his whole body. “So I tell her, right—I tell her, if you’re going to commission me for a bloody landscape then you’ve got to let me actually see the place, aye? Can’t paint the Highlands from memory, not fair.” His hands carved mountains in the air, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with the telling.
Simon nodded when it fit, murmured here and there. He even smirked once, quick and unguarded, when John mimed an exaggerated scowl. For a while he let the sound of John’s voice carry him, a steady current he could drift on.
But beneath it, the same thought pulsed like a bruise: You don’t get to keep this. Not him. Not anyone.
By the time John noticed he hadn’t touched his pastry, Simon had already pulled the mask back down. “Not hungry,” he said, voice flat. John frowned, eyes lingering, but let it pass.
Later, back at his flat, they’d thrown on some film neither of them really cared about. John was sprawled across the sofa, one leg hooked over the armrest, half the blanket tangled around him. He laughed too loud at the dumbest parts, grin wide and unashamed, and Simon let himself chuckle along.
And when John went quiet, eyes caught by the screen, Simon let himself look. Really look. His chest ached with the smallness of the moment—the easy rise and fall of breath, the warmth pressed into the cushion between them. It felt like safety. Like belonging.
But not for you, the thought cut through, sharp and cruel. You’ll be the one standing alone in the end.
His laugh faltered, catching in his throat, and he pressed his lips shut. John didn’t notice—still grinning at the telly, still wrapped in the moment. Simon dragged his gaze back to the screen, jaw tight, and swallowed down the ache.
The next morning, John’s jumper was draped over the back of Simon’s chair. Dark wool, stretched at the sleeves, smelling faintly of coffee and turpentine. Simon stood there too long, fingers curled into the fabric like it might crumble if he let go. For one sharp, stolen heartbeat he pressed it to his chest, as if warmth could soak through.
Then he folded it, neat and clinical, and set it aside. Out of sight. Out of reach.
Because what right did he have, really?
He’d be the one standing still while everyone else ran into waiting arms. And the more time he let himself spend in John’s orbit, the deeper that hollow inside him grew—aching, echoing, impossible to fill.
So he played along. He smiled when John teased, nodded when John rambled, laughed when it was expected. And every moment of joy carved the hollow wider, until Simon could feel himself concaving from the inside out.
The barracks hummed with energy. Boots scuffed against the floor, lockers slammed shut, laughter bounced from wall to wall. Simon sat on the edge of his bunk, tugging at his cuffs, listening.
“—reservation at that steak place, booked solid for weeks,” one man bragged, slicking his hair back in the reflection of his locker.
Another chimed in, “Taking the little ones to the park, whole bloody day planned. They’ve been bouncing off the walls for this.”
The chorus swelled—wives, children, girlfriends, fiancées, all waiting just outside the walls. All the lives his brothers-in-arms were slipping back into, warm and ready.
Simon adjusted his sleeve, let the voices roll over him, heavy as tidewater.
Then someone’s voice cut through, sharp and easy: “And what about you, Riley?”
He froze. The air felt thin in his lungs. He pictured it too clearly: the silence of his flat, leftovers reheated in the microwave, the hum of the fridge for company. Crawling into bed alone. Again. Always.
His throat tightened, but he forced the words out anyway. A shrug, casual as he could make it. “Travellin’ with mates.”
The man grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounds grand. Make the most of it, eh?”
Simon nodded, lips twitching toward something like a smile. He didn’t trust himself to speak again.
Inside, though, the lie echoed hollow in his chest.
The room emptied in a rush of chatter and shuffling boots, men spilling out toward the sunlit field beyond. Their voices faded down the corridor until all that was left was the faint echo of footsteps and the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Simon stayed behind.
He rose slowly, methodical, smoothing his uniform with hands that felt too heavy, too clumsy. His reflection met him in the streaked locker-room mirror—broad shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed.
For a long moment he just stared. The silence pressed close around him, heavy, suffocating.
“Pull it together,” he whispered, the words dry against his tongue. They fell flat in the empty room, too thin to hold the weight.
He dragged in a breath anyway, straightened his spine, and fixed his collar with deliberate precision. Soldier first, man second. That was how it had to be.
Behind him, the faint strains of cheering drifted in through the windows—families already gathered, waiting. He forced his gaze from the mirror, turned toward the door.
Step by step, he followed the sound, each footfall echoing with the hollow reminder: No one’s coming for you.
The field smelled like cut grass and sun and nerves. Voices folded over one another—laughter, cries, the slap of embraces—everything loud enough to make his head swim and quiet enough that every small thing felt like an accusation. Simon kept his chin level, palms flat against his trousers, the weight of the uniform a kind of armour he told himself still worked.
When the speaker’s words rolled out—polished, ceremonial, about young men becoming soldiers, about duty and pride—Simon let them wash over him like a tide that couldn’t reach the place inside that was hollowing out. It was ceremony, ritual, a folding of one life into another. But the bones inside his chest stayed hollow, like a room someone had forgotten to light.
Families surged forward the instant the General gave the go-ahead. Arms found arms, kisses were shared, kids launched themselves at boots and were caught like they’d fallen through the air and landed safe. Around him the world condensed into soft noises and bright colours: a tartan scarf, a woman’s laughter, a man’s barked joke, the clatter of medals. The soldiers in his line melted into those arms and became something softer, brighter, whole again.
He watched. He watched the slow choreography—hand reach, head tilt, the smile that was too big to be rehearsed. A couple met and staggered like the earth had tilted, the man’s face dissolving into tears that no one tried to hide. Another man bent down, hoisted a small child up, and the child’s arms wrapped around his father’s neck the way they always used to wrap around something that would not slip away. Simon felt each of those moments like a physical shove: a reminder that this ritual was not a private thing, it was a public reclaiming, a baptising into belonging.
Someone glanced his way, a look lingering a beat too long—a quick, involuntary pity. It stung more than pity should have any right to. He knew what they were thinking. He knew their brains were doing the polite arithmetic—no wife, no parents on the sidelines, no mate with a goofy grin. The pity had soft edges but it cut.
There were children who didn’t care about adults’ social navigation. One small boy barreled past him, shoes scuffing, hair a bird’s nest, shouting for his dad. The boy’s mother apologised, cheeks flushed, but the soldier she’d been striding toward scooped the kid up and spun him around until the child shrieked with glee. The smell of sugar and sun and belonging and happiness all happened and left, and Simon was left with the echo.
He’d been a small, invisible thing all his childhood—an absence so ordinary the world learned to look past it. Parent-teacher evenings where he sat across from a stony-faced teacher while a phone call to his home rang and rang until they gave up, shooing the small kid out of their classroom; school plays where the other kids’ parents clapped and cheered while he watched from the wings, knowing that would never be him.
Those old scenes ran under the new ones like a bruise. They told him this was how it would always be: a life where arrivals were for other people.
The line moved on and on. Hands were claimed one by one; faces wet or laughing or both. He kept his gaze steady, fixed somewhere over the heads of the crowd. He practiced the soldierly thing: shoulders back, eyes forward, jaw set. The world asked for outward composure and he gave it like a reflex.
Inside though, the feeling thickened into something nearly physical—a squeeze under the ribs that would not relax. His throat tightened so that when someone else’s cheers threatened to swell into something ragged and personal behind his eyes, he swallowed it. He could feel the hard little stone of shame there, the old child who’d learnt to make himself small to survive.
A family passed close enough that he caught the scent of Sunday dinners and aftershave. A woman glanced at him with that particular pity-streak softened by sympathy, a half-smile that didn’t touch her eyes. For a second his whole balance slid.
He imagined himself at the far end of the day: keys in the lock of a flat that smelled faintly of takeaway and stale air, a television left on in an attempt at company, reheated leftovers shining under the microwave light. He imagined climbing into a bed that would fold him into a silent, obliging darkness.
When the last of the crowds had swirled into private celebrations, when someone started singing off-key and another started clapping and the noise ballooned into a kind of cruel, communal joy, Simon felt something inside him go very, very still. He had expected the knife-edge of that loneliness before; he’d practised for it. But expectation does not blunt the blade; it only gives you time to watch it descend.
He stayed where he was—uniform neat, stance measured—because this was what he had always been taught: stand steady, take what comes with the dignity you can muster. He could be stoic. He could be rigid. He could be the man who swallowed everything and walked on. That was the part of him he’d honed like muscle.
A boot scuffed; laughter rose near the hedge. Someone called a name, a cheer answered, and the sun struck bright off medals. Simon let his mouth make the shape of a polite smile and pretend it meant nothing. But under the smile there was something else: not despair exactly, not yet, but a tired refusal to imagine otherwise. He wanted—perhaps more than he’d like to admit—to think that this was not the rest of his life.
He wanted a miracle but then again, he had never been the sort of man to expect miracles.
And then—because the world is not always as merciless as his memory insisted—he heard footsteps that weren’t the shuffle of families moving on or the polite scuff of a parent freeing a child. It was a single set of steps, not part of any tide, cutting a clean line through the noise. They were steady, hurried, and they were getting closer.
Simon’s breath caught but he kept his face schooled, hands still, but something in his chest rearranged itself, wary and electric.
He could not know yet whether the figure would be another stranger passing, another set of arms that weren’t meant for him. He could not know if this would be the moment the day folded into the same old pattern.
All he could do was stand there—soldier-straight—and let the steps draw nearer, each one a small, terrible question.
Then someone crashes into his back. For a second Simon doesn’t breathe. The weight against his back is real, warm, insistent, not the phantom pressure of memory. Hands cover his eyes, broad palms smelling faintly of tobacco and soap, and the voice—Christ, the voice—cuts through the roar of the crowd like a thread pulled clean through cloth.
“Guess who!” John laughs, cheek brushing the edge of Simon’s ear as he leans in, all boyish delight and absolute certainty that he belongs here.
Simon’s world lurches sideways. His body stiffens on instinct, because this can’t be—John wasn’t supposed to be on base, John was supposed to be anywhere but here. But the sound of him is too solid, too alive, vibrating straight through Simon’s bones.
He swallows against the lump in his throat. He should say something casual, dry, bite the moment in half before it swallows him whole. Instead his mouth goes dry, and the words scrape out hoarse, betraying him:
“Bloody hell…”
Simon’s chest aches, concaving and expanding at once, like someone finally let air into a room that had been sealed shut for years. His lips part, just barely, a sharp breath catching in the back of his throat. He can’t stop himself—he leans back, just enough to feel John’s solidness pressed against him, the only proof he needs that this isn’t some hallucination.
John chuckles again, softer now, right by his ear. “C’mon, Si. You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?”
And God help him, Simon’s eyes sting.
Simon shifts, turning around in John’s heap so they now stand face to face.
John’s hands bracket his jaw for a moment, rough thumbs brushing along the hinge like he needs to convince himself Simon’s real too. Then he drops them, grinning sheepishly, like a boy caught sneaking into a theatre without a ticket.
“How…why…when? How??” Simon’s mind splutters.
“Turns out,” John says, a little breathless, “if you ask enough blokes in uniforms where the tap out ceremony’s being held, someone’ll point you the right way. As for getting in…” He shrugs, that lopsided thing he does. “Gate guard liked my accent. Didn’t even check the name I gave him.”
Simon blinks. His throat works, trying to force down the knot that’s threatening to strangle him. It’s not enough—he has to turn, twist fully in John’s hold until they’re face-to-face. “Why-?” he repeats, lower, harsher, desperate.
John just looks at him, softer now. “Because I had to. Because I knew you’d never ask me to come. And I couldn’t let you stand here alone, not today.”
The unspoken why were you late? hangs between them, heavy as lead, pressing against Simon’s chest. John sees it, of course he does—he always does—but instead of flinching he leans in, presses his forehead lightly to Simon’s temple, grounding him.
“Sorry if I cut it close,” John murmurs, quiet enough so that it’s only for Simon. “But I’m here, Si. I’m here.”
Simon’s breath shudders, a sharp inhale that barely makes it past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t even mean to—doesn’t decide, doesn’t think—but suddenly his arms are crushing around John’s shoulders, his forehead pressing into the crook of the man’s neck. The first sob rips out of him raw, startled, like it’s been waiting years for permission.
John doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t loosen his grip. His arms come around Simon instantly, steady, tight, like he was made for this exact moment. He murmurs something—nonsense, soft and low, maybe just Simon’s name repeated like a prayer—and rocks him gently as the world blurs behind them.
Soldiers and their families pass by, some looking, most not, but John shields him from all of it. His chin rests atop Simon’s buzzed hair, his hand spread broad and warm across Simon’s back, and he just holds him. Holds him like no one else ever has.
And for once, Simon doesn’t have to hold himself together. He can cry, and be caught..
Simon stays folded into him for what feels like forever, sobs tapering into shaky breaths, wetness cooling against John’s neck. John never loosens his hold, never rushes him, just keeps tracing steady circles into Simon’s back with his thumb like he could anchor him there until the world stops spinning.
Finally, Simon pulls in one long, ragged breath and straightens, just enough to look at him. His eyes are bloodshot, lashes damp, his cheeks blotched from crying—but John swears he’s never seen him look so alive.
They don’t speak. They just stare. John’s grin is gone now, replaced with something raw and wide open, like he’s daring Simon to look away.
But Simon doesn’t. He can’t. His hands still linger at John’s shoulders, trembling faintly, and before he can think better of it—before fear can catch up—he leans forward. Presses his mouth to John’s like it’s the only way to breathe.
It’s messy, salt-stung, more desperation than finesse. But John kisses back instantly, firm and certain, as if he’d been waiting all along.
The first brush of lips is almost tentative, but then it shatters—Simon fists a hand in John’s jacket and drags him closer, mouth crashing against his like he’s been starving for years and just now learned what for. His teeth catch, his breath hitches against John’s lips, and the kiss turns bruising, frantic, too much and somehow not nearly enough.
John groans into it, low and wrecked, one hand flying up to cup Simon’s jaw, thumb smearing damp across his cheek while the other pulls him tighter by the waist. Neither of them care that they’re in uniform, in public, surrounded by soldiers and families—this is survival, not ceremony.
Every sob Simon didn’t let out, every lonely night, every time he convinced himself he didn’t need anyone—they all pour into this kiss. And John, wild thing that he is, meets it all with equal force, like he’d been carrying just as much weight, waiting for Simon to finally let go.
By the time they pull apart, foreheads pressed together, they’re both panting, lips swollen, eyes blazing with the shock of it.
Simon stares at John before blurting out
“Be my boyfriend.”
Simon’s words hang there like someone’s finally thrown open a window in a stuffy room.
It leaves him raw — a tiny, reckless confession that feels too big for his chest. For half a second nothing answers but the hollow in his ribs and the distant clatter of celebration.
Then John laughs. It bubbles out, surprised and soft, like he can’t quite believe Simon actually said the thing Simon just said aloud. He leans in close enough that Simon can see the wet sheen at the edges of his eyes, the stupid, perfect grin that has become Simon’s bad habit.
“Yes,” John breathes, the word full and easy. “Of course I’ll be your boyfriend.”
They laugh at the same time — a breathless, ridiculous sound — and the laugh becomes a smile that dissolves into another kiss, hungry and fierce and claiming. It’s not quiet now; it’s a bright, jagged thing that leaves them both gasping. John’s hand slides over Simon’s shoulders, fingers threading together behind the man’s back, and Simon answers with both hands at John’s waist, anchoring himself to the man like he’s found shore.
Around them the world keeps being loud — a child shouts, someone gives a half-hearted whoop, boots drum on the grass — but it’s all background now, muffled by the closeness that’s settling over them like a blanket.
When they pull apart, foreheads touching, John’s grin is lazy and a little feral. “You know you could’ve just asked me to come, you daft git,” he teases, thumb wiping the corner of Simon’s mouth where a tear still glints.
Simon tries to be brusque. “You were late.”
“I know,” John says, honest for once. “Sorry. Meeting ran over. But I’m here now, yeah? I’m here for you”
Simon inhales, the world tilting so slightly it makes him dizzy. He lets out a shaky sound that’s half-laugh, half-relief. “Don’t ever be late again,” he says, not a demand as much as a plea sewn into a joke.
John presses his forehead to Simon’s, thumb warm against his jaw. “Promise,” he says. Then, quieter, because there’s only room for truth between them, “I’ll try my best.”
Simon doesn’t need John to be perfect. He just needs this — the person beside him, solid and present. He loops his fingers through John’s, thumb finding the quick little scar on John’s palm like it’s a secret map. They stand like that for a beat — two breaths, two steadying heartbeats.
Then they walk off the field together. John’s hand stays laced through Simon’s fingers, warm and deliberate, and for the first time that day the hollow in Simon’s chest feels like it’s filling — not with light yet, not fully, but with weight and presence and the messy, human fact of another person who chose him.
It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s battering-ram tender. It’s theirs.
They go back to the flat and cook dinner together, then they sit down on the couch together and eat their dinner while watching TV.
John sits on Simon's lap the entire time, head resting on the man’s shoulder once their meal is done. When it gets late enough Simon stands, carrying John with him to the bedroom.
They shower together, just a rinse to get the day's grime off them, trading kisses between washcloth swipes, then when they settle into bed John snuggles up next to Simon.
No more weird pillow barriers or rigid posture, just two bodies finally tangling together, the way they should.
When Simon brings up moving in, John suggests a bigger apartment, so he can have a room for his art. Simon agrees so long as they get a semi open floor concert and then next thing they know they’re signing a lease, and then putting down a deposit, and then eventually moving.
Their new flat smells like fresh paint and cardboard. The semi–open floor plan Simon insisted on is already cluttered with boxes: John’s canvases stacked against one wall, kitchen bits spilling out of half–taped cartons, and a pile of mismatched cushions John swears are “essential for ambience.”
Simon drops the last box with a grunt and straightens, rolling his shoulders. “You own too much shite.”
John, crouched in front of a box labelled ART in big, loopy marker, glances up with a grin. “Correction: I own too much talent. The shite is just a byproduct.” He holds up a battered tin of brushes like a trophy. “See? Priceless.”
Simon shakes his head, fighting the tug at his mouth. “A man doesn’t need fifty brushes.”
“You say that,” John teases, hopping up and coming over, “but give me time and I’ll paint you proper. Capture that broody scowl for the ages.”
“Broody’s all you’d get after dealin’ with your bloody mess.” But Simon lets himself be reeled in, John tugging at his shirt until Simon’s arms settle naturally around his waist.
For a moment, they just stand in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by bare walls and possibilities. The kind of silence Simon used to dread — back when it meant loneliness — now softened by John’s presence, by the sound of his breathing, steady and close.
It’s later, over takeaway cartons perched on unopened boxes, that John says casually, “Oh — by the way. I rang my mum. Told her about you.”
Simon nearly chokes on his noodles. “You what?”
John’s grin is all teeth and no apology. “Aye. Said I’d be bringing you round soon. She’s dying to meet you.”
“Johnny…” Simon rubs a hand over his face, nerves prickling under his skin. “What if—”
“What if she doesn’t like you?” John cuts in, leaning closer, eyes bright with mischief and something gentler beneath. “Not possible. She’ll love you. My sisters too. They’ll eat you alive, but you’ll love them for it.”
Simon huffs, but John’s hand is warm on his knee, grounding. He wants to argue, to say he doesn’t do families — but then again, he never did boyfriends either. Yet here he is.
The motorway stretched on forever, grey ribbon cutting through the hills, rain spitting against the windscreen in lazy bursts. John had the radio on low—some old rock station humming under his breath—and one hand on the wheel. The other reached across the console, fingers curling easy around Simon’s wrist where it rested on his thigh.
Simon kept staring out the window, jaw tight, pretending the blur of green and grey was fascinating. In truth, his stomach was a knot.
“You’re quiet,” John said eventually, glancing sideways with that cheeky half–grin. “Even for you.”
Simon huffed. “Dunno what you’re on about.”
“Don’t play daft. You’re nervous.” John gave his wrist a squeeze. “It’s just my family, Si. They don’t bite.”
“Don’t have to bite to tear a man apart.” The words came out harsher than he meant, sharp edge masking the truth underneath. He didn’t know how to be in a family. Didn’t know what to say, what to expect. The last time he’d been at a table that called itself family, it had been fists and silence, not stew and laughter.
John softened, grin gentling. “They’ll love you. You’re broody and polite and built like a bloody tank. Mum’ll feed you until you can’t move, and my sisters’ll make you play cards until you regret every life choice. You’ll be grand.”
Simon muttered something noncommittal, but John’s thumb tracing slow circles against his wrist helped. Just a little.
The MacTavish house sat at the end of a narrow lane, stone walls worn smooth with weather, flower pots crowding the steps. The moment the car pulled up, the front door burst open. A woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her dark hair hurried down, apron still tied at her waist.
“John!” she called, arms already outstretched.
“Mum,” John groaned fondly as he was enveloped in a hug. Looking back over his shoulder, he shot Simon a grin that was part mischief, part reassurance. “Brace yourself.”
Simon didn’t even get the chance to. John’s mum turned, eyes sweeping over him, and before he could so much as nod, she’d folded him into the same fierce hug.
“You must be Simon,” she said, pulling back just enough to cup his face in both hands. “My boy’s written about you. Welcome, son.”
The word son lodged somewhere deep in Simon’s chest. He swallowed hard, managing only a rough, “Thank you, ma’am.”
Inside was chaos. Two sisters—loud, laughing, relentless—immediately pulled him into conversation, demanding to know everything from his favourite food to his opinion on their brother’s haircut. The table groaned under the weight of stew, bread, and more sides than Simon could name. Every time his bowl emptied, John’s mum refilled it with a smile that brooked no refusal.
At first, Simon sat stiff, answering in short bursts, unsure where to put his hands, how to relax. But then John slipped his knee against his under the table, gave him that look—the one that said you’re safe here. And slowly, the knot began to loosen.
By the time dessert appeared, Simon was leaning back in his chair, lips quirking at one of the sisters’ stories, the ache in his chest dulled by warmth he didn’t know he’d been craving.
He caught John looking at him then—soft, smug, a touch awed. And Simon thought, Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ll be grand
The laughter inside was still going strong when John nudged Simon’s knee beneath the table, then jerked his chin toward the back door. No one noticed as he tugged Simon through the kitchen and out into the cool night air.
The garden smelled of damp earth and flowers, the grass still slick from earlier rain. They sat down side by side, knees brushing, the kitchen light glowing behind them while the house buzzed with warmth and noise. Out here, it was quiet.
John flopped back onto his elbows, head tipped toward the stars. “Bit much, eh?”
Simon huffed, dragging a hand over his face. “They’re… a lot.”
“Aye, they are.” John’s grin curved sly. “Good lot, though.”
Simon nodded, gaze fixed on his boots. “Yeah.” His voice dropped softer. “Better than I deserve.”
John turned then, propped himself up enough to stare, really stare, until Simon looked back. “Don’t say that shite. You deserve every bit of it.”
For a moment, Simon couldn’t find words. His chest felt too tight, his throat raw from holding everything in. Finally, he managed: “Thanks. For bringing me here. For… sharing it.”
John’s grin softened into something quieter. “Thanks for lettin’ me.” He reached out, rough fingers curling around Simon’s hand where it rested on the grass. “You’ve no idea how much you’ve changed my life, Si. I was coasting. Half–arsed paintings, too many pints, not much else. Then you walked into that pub looking like the loneliest bastard alive, and I thought, Well. There he is. That’s the one.”
Simon’s breath hitched. He squeezed John’s hand, not trusting himself to speak.
John shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder, voice dropping to a murmur. “So don’t thank me. Just stay. That’s all I need.”
And Simon, who once thought he’d never belong anywhere, leaned into John’s side, let his head tip just enough to rest against John’s, and whispered, “Alright.”
For once, alright meant more than survival. It meant home.
They lingered in the garden until the chill started seeping through Simon’s shirt, John rambling about constellations he probably made up, Simon humming along just to hear the lilt of his voice. Eventually, John clapped his hands against his knees and stood, tugging Simon up with him.
Inside, the house was quieter—his mum had gone off to bed, the sisters tucked into their rooms. Just the tick of the old clock in the hall, and the hush that settles over a house full of people after midnight.
John led him upstairs, past family photos lining the walls, into the little guest room at the end of the hall. The bed was neatly made, sheets smelling faintly of lavender. Simon hesitated at the door, unsure if he should take the armchair, unsure of anything.
But John just toed off his shoes, tugged his shirt over his head, and flopped onto the mattress with all the ease of someone who’d slept here a thousand times. He patted the space beside him. “C’mon then. Don’t overthink it.”
Simon huffed, but the tension in his chest eased. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, slid in beside John. The mattress dipped, the air warm with the faint scent of stew and soap.
Almost without thinking, John rolled onto his side and pressed in close, arm draping over Simon’s middle, cheek nudging against his shoulder. “Night, Si,” he murmured, words already slurring with sleep.
Simon lay there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, every nerve taut. But slowly, slowly, he felt himself loosen. His body fit to John’s like it had been waiting for this, like the space had always been reserved for him.
He let his eyes close. Let the noise of the day fade, the weight of belonging settle over him like a quilt. For the first time in his life, Simon Riley fell asleep in a family home—not as an outsider looking in, but as someone held