Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The puddle in the caved pavement ripples as a raindrop shatters its silent surface. Small, but growing larger and wider until the water is still again. Another raindrop falls from the sky and the process is repeated.

A beginning. An end. A beginning. An end. A—

Fresh start.

New roots.

The brick that starts the riot.

All things have a beginning. This moment is no different, because it feels like the start of something, and for so many fucking reasons.

And it’s not just the water. It isn’t only the water. There is a neon sign, and its reflection is in that tiny pool. A bright pink that is at odds with the old London architecture surrounding it. Maybe the color is melting, or maybe it’s your imagination, and your brain has finally kicked off and this is its farewell salute.

Why, when you are here for someone else’s beginning, does it really feel like yours? It’s not sour or sweet or foul or sticky but heavy as if your boots are filled with liquid cement.

This is supposed to be Evie’s night. This is her bar crawl. This is her marriage. This is her bachelorette party. But now you’re at the last place of the evening, and everything is suddenly barring down like an avalanche.

Riot Room blares the pink neon sign. It’s loud, and the very edges of your consciousness ache from how bright it is. You’re not even standing that close.

Below the sign is an archway with an open gate. A tall man in all-black stands off to the side of it checking IDs and handing out wristbands. From the open gate comes a pounding, shredding beat that you’re not sure is heavy metal, electronic, or a combination of the two.

Riot Room is completely different from the other places you’ve visited tonight. The four places before this were all quaint pubs with odd names and a nostalgic sense of comfort. Riot Room is a club. There is nothing quaint or nostalgic about it.

Two scantily clad women in black leather wearing large coats trot by, their heads bent close as they talk to each other. Their lips are painted a dark purple that resembles bruising as if they’ve been kissed roughly.

To your right, Sam’s gaze drops to span the length of one of the women. She looks on in appreciation, her pink-painted lips pursing with interest. Her dark skin is speckled with gold dust and her tight curls are bundled up on the top of her head in two big buns.

Sam’s gaze draws away from the woman’s bare legs. Her gaze falls on you, and you grin widely, knowing she’s been caught. The corner of her mouth quirks with a hint of smile.

She leans in until your shoulders touch. “It’s not like you weren’t looking.”

You lean in a bit more until your noses are close to brushing. “But I wasn’t the one who got caught.”

Sam laughs and pulls away, the sound of it bright and airy. She waves her hand as if trying to ward off evil.

Once she’s caught her breath, Sam leans around you, addressing the two women standing to your left. “Ready, ladies?”

Jade tilts her head, her blue ponytail shifting to fall over her right shoulder. She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. “Did you pick this place, Sam? Seems like a ‘you’ kind of place.”

Sam nods toward Evie with one of her buns. “The bride-to-be agreed to this.”

You and Jade turn in unison. Evie shrugs. “I did.”

Jade snorts and holds out an outstretched hand toward the club. “You hate these kinds of places.”

“Oh my god,” mutters Sam throwing her arms up in the air, her gold bangles clacking against each other.

Evie laughs softly, and the sound is sweet enough to rot your teeth. That’s the thing about Evelyn Green. She is the nicest, most kind-hearted, selfless person you’ll ever meet. Rarely does this woman do anything for herself, and putting this evening together for her was a struggle. Not because she’s difficult, but because she wanted tonight to be about everyone, not just herself.

Evie’s button-nose scrunches slightly. “I told Sam I wanted to come. When am I ever going to go to a place like this after I marry Archie?”

Jade’s lips form into a thin line and she shakes her head. “Archie is the most un-pretentious rich boy I’ve ever met in my life. He’d love you even if you were a plastic bag. And he hates all those events the two of you go to anyway.”

“Yes,” agrees Evie. “But he’s required to go, and once we’re married, I will have to attend as well.” Her face falls slightly, and it’s understandable.

Evie’s fiancée comes from wealth—the old money kind. Archie’s great grandfather is of British nobility, and while Archie isn’t titled, that doesn’t really seem to matter. He is well-educated, and many of his closest friends and colleagues all run in the same circles.

Evie is not from that life. She grew up a poor coal miner’s daughter in southern Missouri. She managed to scrounge up enough money to move to Columbia to attend Mizzou and met Archie during an exchange program. She was in a park, and Archie was playing soccer with friends. Knocked her in the side of the head with the ball. Archie sat with her in the ambulance and the two went on a date the next day.

They’re in love, and it’s a gorgeous, beautiful thing. But not all of Archie’s family is supportive of their marriage. Many look down on her for her background. Evie acts like it doesn’t bother her, but you know different. Those events they attend together cut deep, tear into her until there is nothing left but her forced smile.

Jade sighs loudly and then turns toward Sam, pointing at her. “If I find out you forced her—”

Sam groans and then grabs Jade’s outstretched forearm, tucking Jade against her side as the two of them walk arm-in-arm towards the club. “Oh shove it, Jade,” mutters Sam.

Evie giggles and holds out her hand to you, wiggling her fingers. Grinning, you entwine your fingers with Evie’s and follow the bickering duo.

They argue all the way to the door. IDs are checked. Wristbands are handed out. A cover is paid. And then you’re walking through the gate, under the archway, and into an open courtyard.

That heaviness returns, and your boots feel like lead. Something about this place is different from the rest, and you cannot put a finger on what you’re sensing. It’s a change in the direction of the wind. It’s a falling autumn leaf. There is a shift happening, and you’re not aware of where it might come from.

The night sky is directly above your head, and you can see every star in the sky. To your immediate right—just inside the gate—is a coat check. Next to it is a stage where a man in a Jason Voorhees mask stands behind a DJ booth. He is shirtless, well-muscled, and covered in fake blood. Though both feet are on the ground, the rest of his body shakes and writhes with the intensity of the music. The bass is the loudest aspect, rattling around in your body until you start to feel dizzy.

On stage with DJ Voorhees are several other masked men. They too wear hockey masks, but they are all painted a different color. They don’t wear shirts either and they jump around on the stage, pushing and shoving each other, occasionally dropping down into the crowd to do the same before running to the stage.

The crowd is thick but mostly near the front of the stage. Beyond them on the far side of the courtyard is the bar. It’s long, spanning nearly the entire wall, with several bartenders and barbacks working along it. Next to the bar near the stage is a set of stairs that leads up into a building. People enter and exit through the door. There are windows but they’re entirely blacked out and you have no idea what might be back there.

You scan the length of the bar and find another set of stairs on the other end. This one descends and next to it is another gate—this one much smaller than the entrance—guarded by security. The back wall of the courtyard—the one facing the stage—is lined with people, but there is walking space between them and the crowd near the stage.

Evie’s smile widens, and you suddenly don’t care anymore. This is for her, even if you feel uneasy. Her happiness is the most important thing right now.

“I’m grabbing us drinks,” yells Sam over the music. She gestures with her thumb over her shoulder before she heads that way.

Evie steps a bit closer to you. She’s nervous but eager as she squeezes your hand.

One of the masked men jumps off the stage and into the crowd. They all yell and then he pops up, throwing himself in people’s faces. You instinctually step forward to block Evie as he darts around a club-goer and appears directly in front of you.

“Fuck off,” you yell when he pushes himself into your face. All you see is the purple-painted hockey mask and he won’t fucking move. He just stands there like an ill omen that won’t allow you to look away.

You’re about to speak, your lips and tongue forming the shape of what you want to say. Then, he disappears, as if knowing your intention.

Jade snags your upper arm and leans in, her gaze fixed on the point the guy slipped away to. “I’ll stay with Evie. Go check on Sam. Make sure she isn’t just buying us tequila shots.”

Evie reluctantly gives up your hand as you navigate the congested dancefloor. You have to twist your upper body to avoid collisions. Just through the crowd, you can just make out Sam’s buns. A man steps into your path. He isn’t looking—likely too drunk to even notice that you’re right behind him—and you step out of the way to avoid is wayward swagger.

But there are too many goddamn people, and you can’t avoid them all. Instead of him, you bump into someone else.

“Shit. Sorry. I—” You glance up. “Oh fuck.”

A wraith stands before you, all cold shadow and violent foreboding. Dark eyes surrounded by pale eyelashes observe you from behind a black balaclava. Around the mouth are skeleton teeth but they’re a tad faded which only adds to the ominous presence of this strange man. He is tall, and you have to bend your neck to see directly into his face, and that doesn’t even take into account how broad his shoulders are.

Space is non-existent. The only thing you understand about your surroundings is him. This man is a being out of hell, a creature of fire and blood, and yet you’re drawn to him. You are a pale moth, a gentle creature, and he is the pyre in which you will burn.

He takes hold of your upper arm, and his grip is strong. His strength is both a threat and a comfort. He could snap you in two, but it’s placement and how firmly he holds on to you tells you otherwise. This man is dangerous, and yet through the hardness is a softness in the brow that you recognize as concern. His dark eyes narrow, and as he pulls you closer to him, he leans in before his gaze moves to a stop over your right shoulder.

“You okay?”

It isn’t the wraith gripping your upper arm who’s addressing you. You glance over your left shoulder and meet a softer expression. Black hair cut short, tanned skin, and kind eyes. This man is completely different from the one that still holds onto your arm.

“Fine,” you murmur but realize he can’t hear you over the music. “I’m fine.” This time you project, and he nods.

“Gaz!” He turns away, and a different man holds out a plastic cup full of beer to him.

Gaz takes it and then this newcomer turns in your direction. You want to leave, to walk away, but that’s difficult when your upper arm is still in a vice grip. You shake it, trying to throw the stranger’s grasp, and make no ground. His hand stays put.

“Who’s this?” asks the newcomer, and you recognize the accent as a Scottish one.

“Some wanker ran into her. Knocked her right into Ghost.”

“Fucking hell. You good, Lt?”

Ghost doesn’t say anything, or if he does, you don’t hear him over the music. Shaking your arm again, you attempt to free yourself for a second time. Ghost still doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs you a little closer until you feel his body heat.

You hate being told what to do, and you especially hate men who cannot take a fucking hint. You try again, ready to smack the balaclava right off Ghost’s face if he doesn’t release you. But he does, and his grip is gone so suddenly that you nearly topple backward.

Acting bolder than you feel, you give Ghost your best scowl before turning toward Gaz, your mouth forming into a smile. “Thank you,” you say, excusing yourself quickly and heading toward the bar.

“What kind of a name is Ghost?” you mutter to yourself just as Sam turns around from the bar. She cradles six drinks in her arms like a newborn baby.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You reach for them, grabbing one before it tips over to spill across the floor.

“Jade sent you, didn’t she?” laughs Sam, handing you another plastic cup. “Can’t trust me after that tequila incident.”

“No comment,” you answer, making sure the drinks you’re holding are secure and won’t slip out of your grasp.

When you return to Jade and Evie, the two women have their arms wrapped around each other, swaying in a little circle, giggling hysterically. The moment you and Sam appear, Evie is pulling away from Jade, reaching for the gin and tonic you hold out to her. When the drinks are distributed, Sam and Jade have one in each hand while you and Evie only hold one.

Before this, the four of you visited four different pubs, and had plenty of drinks at each establishment. While it’s nearing the end of the night, there isn’t any reason for you to go overboard. Slowing down might be best, especially if Sam and Jade are going to double-fist drinks the rest of the night. Tomorrow—technically today at this hour—is supposed to be a spa day with some of the women from Archie’s family. Hungover is the last think you want to be while dealing with them.

As your lips suction around the head of the straw, you feel a pull, a tug toward the back wall of the courtyard. You resist the urge, refuse to look because you know who you’ll find. Instead, you suck on the straw, focus on the bite of the gin, sway your hips until the pounding beat is all you know in your veins.

But the pull won’t release. It won’t slacken. And the more and more you resist, the more it aches to not look, because no matter how startling his appearance is, it intrigues you, makes you think about how long it’s been and how you wish to be touched.

Would he keep the balaclava on? Would he take it off? And why does that intrigue you?

You start to turn, to surrender to the tug, and then snap back to reality, nearly knocking into Jade as you force yourself away from looking. The drink in your plastic cup sloshes harshly against the side but doesn’t spill over.

Evie leans in, her lips close to your ear, and she nods in the direction of the tug. “That guy won’t stop staring at you.”

“Who?” you ask innocently, knowing exactly who Evie is referring to.

“Mystery masked man.” Evie grins, her straw caught between her upper and lower teeth.

This time you look. There he is. Ghost, as his friends called him. He leans against the wall, the same small group of people surrounding him from earlier. They’re all talking, but Ghost is staring in your direction, and his gaze is locked in on you.

You quickly glance away and shrug even as a dull heat warms your limbs. “Looks like trouble.”

“Looks like a good time if you ask me.”

“Evie,” you gasp, bumping her shoulder.

“What?” she laughs, sucking up the last bit of her drink.

Jade goes up on her toes, her head swiveling back and forth. “Who are we looking at?”

Sam catches on and twists, glancing in the same direction. She’s successful first. “Oh my god.” Sam leans in until her cheek is pressed against your own. “That man is staring at you.”

“I know!” You pull back a bit, but Sam doesn’t let you go far.

She bumps your shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

“And say what?”

“Hello. Have anyone waiting on you? No? Great. Let’s get out of here. You can even keep the mask on.”

You roll your eyes. “No. I’m not doing that.” You reach out and snag Evie’s arm. “And it’s her night. Why would I leave y’all for a hook-up?”

Sam finishes one of her drinks. She removes the straw and pops it into the other cup, doubling it up by putting the full plastic cup into the empty one. “Listen, if you won’t. I will. The guy next to him with the dark hair is an absolute snack. Even the older guy with the weird mustache is making my daddy issues purr.”

Jade’s eyes widen slightly. She nods enthusiastically. “Oh he is quite nice.”

“Right? Girl. I could take him and not in a fight.”

“Fine!” you exclaim. “I’ll go talk to him.” You turn toward Evie. “If you’re okay with it?”

Evie grins around her straw. You know what it means. Evie wants you to go because she wants to see everyone happy, but you wouldn’t call yourself excited. That heavy feeling is back, the one that feels like a new beginning.

The issue is that fresh starts are a cleansing. They are often a renewal. You think of cold water, of a slate wiped clean, but there are other markers for such things. Fire destroys but it also creates the opportunity for new life. Controlled burnings are a thing, and this man—this Ghost—can only be fire.

“I need a refill anyway,” you mutter, turning toward the bar, some of your confidence slipping.

You take a deep breath, the alcohol in your blood singing, giving you a feeling of lightness that makes your feet move of their own accord even as they want to drag. It is confounding. You don’t know what you want.

Slowly, you navigate through the crowd, moving ever closer to your wraith. He watches you the entire time. As you draw nearer, and your gazes lock, he straightens. Ghost pushes off from the wall like he’s expecting you to come to him. You notice the rise and fall of his chest, and the way his right hand clenches and unclenches in anticipation.

The gesture is so surprising, you lose all your nerve, walking right past him and to the bar. You don’t have to see him to know that he’s watching. His gaze is a drill, and you sense the bite of it at your back. Your palms are sweaty, and you discard your empty drink in the nearest trash bin.

You order another gin and tonic, handing over a crumpled pound note to the bartender. As you turn around, you notice that Ghost is gone. He isn’t leaning against the wall or even lingering with his friends. They’re still there, chatting away, but Ghost is missing.

Your heartrate kicks up and it’s suddenly so loud you don’t hear the thunderous pulsing beat of the music. It’s like you’re standing in a dark train tunnel, and everything is narrowing down to a single point. The crowd near the bar has grown in the last few minutes. People walk up and down the stairs next to the bar, and now that you’re actually focused on the building, you can see some of the interior lights.

Evie, Sam, and Jade are out of sight, but you know they’re probably rolling their eyes, ready to question you about why you didn’t approach him. Better to accept your defeat and move on. Yes, there is a tug, a tether attached to this stranger that you cannot seem to shed, but you don’t know this person. There is no harm in not pushing this further, in moving on, and pretending you never met him in the first place.

“Whatever,” you mutter to yourself, as the roar of the music comes rushing back.

As you squeeze between two people, one of the mask-wearing men from the stage appears from nowhere. It’s the same guy from earlier. The one with the purple hockey mask who threw himself at you and Evie. You step back and bump into someone. That momentum only pushes you closer to him.

Purple-mask cages you in, lunges repeatedly like he’s going to grab you or hit you. It’s intimidating. Awful. You want to tell him to leave you alone, but the music is so loud you’d have to scream.

You step to the left to try and move around him, but he only puts himself back in your path. This time, you form the shape of a bite, ready to sting with your words, but all conscious thought leaves you the moment his hand makes contact.

He does touch. And it is not gentle.

He tugs on your jacket, then your top, then your jacket again. You bat is hand away, try to move out of range, but he is so much faster. His arm goes around you, and then he drags you in like you asked to dance.

“Let go!” You yank your arm free, but the guy still holds firm, guiding you deeper into the crowd.

Everything is hot. Tight. Overwhelming. Stealing all breath.

You pull again. “Let go!”

This time he does. This time, he disappears.

Ghost looms like a dark shadow, his hand around the guy’s neck. His palm is large to the point that Ghost’s hand easily encases the man’s throat.

“Touching a woman without her consent isn’t polite. In fact, I’ve killed men over less. How about you apologize to her, yeah?”

It’s the first time you’ve heard Ghost speak. Even over the music, you easily hear the rough, gruff timbre of his voice. It’s harsh like liquor and yet entirely smooth when it washes over your body and floods your senses.

Ghost drops the guy and he immediately bolts, darting through the crowd and pushing people out of his way. Ghost does not run after him.

Instead, he turns toward you and lowers himself enough to get close. All you see are his eyes which at first seemed dark, but now look like how light shines through a whiskey bottle.

“Did he hurt you?” The concern in his voice is genuine, and somehow that pleases you. There is a small trace of anger, but it’s fleeting, and not worthy of attention. Ghost isn’t worried about your purple-masked assailant. He’s worried about you.

You shake your head. “No.” Lick your lips. Breathe deep. “No. I’m fine.”

His pale eyelashes look like little halos. Is the hair on his head the same? Is it darker?

“You sure?” he asks, this time starting to straighten a bit.

“Yes. I just—I need some air.”

Ghost nods. “Come with me.” His hand gently rests against your elbow, and you accept it. This touch is not a threat, and you surrender to him, allowing him to lead you away from the crowd. They part easily as if on instinct. Maybe Ghost is truly that intimidating.

Ghost leads you to the far edge of the bar near the secondary set of stairs. He does not escort you down the stairs but to the other archway you noticed earlier. The security guard nods at the two of you and then you step down onto damp pavement in a little alleyway.

Your rescuer immediately pulls out a pack of smokes from the inside of his leather jacket. He selects one and then holds the pack out to you. You reach for one. It’s a reflex. You tend to smoke when you drink because it prevents you from drinking more than you need, but sometimes all you do is chain smoke and then you can’t talk the next day. It’s a terrible habit but one you haven’t been able to kick.

“Thank you,” you murmur once your cigarette is lit. He simply nods and pushes up his balaclava to suck on his own.

You try not to stare but you catch the faint hint of a long scar along the edge of his jaw. Beneath that, his entire neck is a solid black tattoo. You’ve seen them before, where people blackout parts of their body in ink. His stretches across the muscles in his neck, and when he inhales, you take note of every ripple of muscle. The strength there is astounding.

Glancing away quickly, pretending you weren’t admiring him, you clear your throat. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Ghost cannot be his name. There’s no way.

He exhales, the smoke drifting up into the air. “That important to you?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you for a moment. “Ghost.”

Fuck. Why’d you think he’d say anything different from a man wearing a balaclava out in public. It’s not his real name. That’s obvious, but you’re not sure if you want to push the matter. Yet it does make you wonder why he didn’t give you his real name.

You decide not to push it, giving him your name instead. As he exhales, the smoke fans upward to crown his head like a pair of horns before twisting off into the night sky.

“Why’d you scowl at me?” he asks, ashing his cigarette.

You run your tongue over your front teeth before speaking the lie. “I didn’t scowl.”

“But you were angry,” says Ghost, pointing his cigarette in your direction before he takes a drag.

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you counter, growing annoyed with this line of questioning.

“Someone knocked you down. You didn’t speak or look at me. And I’m the one you ran into. I was concerned.”

“For a complete stranger?”

“I’m a compassionate person.”

You sigh and roll your eyes. “And yet you threatened to kill the man who touched me.”

Ghost points toward the gate, emphasizing each word with a light thrust of his hand. “The threat was deserved.”

I’ve killed men over less.

His words rattle around in your head. What normal person says something like that? The fact that he said it without fear makes you question what line of work he’s in.

Ghost drops his arm and takes another drag on his cigarette.

You should be afraid. You should walk back inside to your friends. That’s the safe thing to do. It’s the smart thing. But you’re feeling a bit bold—and a little annoyed. You want to know where this goes or if it’ll lead nowhere at all.

Straightening your shoulders, you drop your cigarette and put it out with the toe of your boot. “My friends think I should fuck you.”

It’s out of your mouth before you have the chance to think twice. Ghost’s hand pauses halfway to his mouth.

His head tilts slightly, and then turns in your direction. “What?”

You hate repeating yourself, but you’ve already said the words. You cannot take them back.

“My friends noticed you staring at me. Told me to talk to you. If I didn’t, one of them would have.”

Ghost fully shifts in your direction. He takes one step toward you. Another. There is a dark swagger there, and he’s trying desperately not to smile.

“You want to have it off?”

Yes.

“Thanks for the offer but I really should leave.” You start to step backward as if to return to the club.

Ghost must realize this because he moves like a bullet, blocking your path, planting one hand against the brick wall behind you. Your gaze falls on his hand and you notice all the tattoos. They cover his fingers and the back of his hand, disappearing under the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

“You’re taking the piss.” Ghost is smiling now but it’s not nefarious or cruel. He’s politely amused, and that is somehow worse. He leans in until you can smell the rich scent of his cologne. “You want to fuck or not?”

You swallow, desperately wanting to say yes. “I have to stay here. Can’t leave my friends.”

Ghost shakes his head and lowers his voice. “We don’t need to leave.”

The thick lust in his tone worms its way into your bones. From there, it oozes from the marrow, sinking into your blood and nerves, consuming every piece of you until your autonomy is nearly snatched from your control.

“You’re being awfully bold,” you murmur.

“You suggested it. I’m simply finishing it.”

“Don’t play games.”

“I’m not.” Ghost straightens a bit. “But I don’t want to unless you’re willing.”

He is sensing you hesitation, and it’s not that you don’t want to. It’s that you’re making excuses because that’s what you do. You step around things, shimmy by issues, and try to avoid as much as you can.

You cross your arms and pop a hip. “I am willing. But I don’t believe you when you say we don’t have to leave.”

He smirks. “So I can’t bend you over that box?” Ghost nods his head at a point behind you but you don’t even look.

“Very funny,” you deadpan.

Ghost straightens his back and his hand falls away from the wall. “This place has an underground area. Mostly employee only but there are a few back rooms where the…musical guests stay.”

“You know an awful lot about this place. Take women down there often?”

Ghost shakes his head. “Never. I like to scope a place out first.”

I’ve killed men over less.

What does he do for a living that he wears a fucking balaclava out in public and wants to “scope a place out” first? Every possibility flows in and then directly out of your head. Any of them could be possible.

“You’re not making a good case for yourself.”

He shrugs. “Up to you. Come with me or don’t.”

Ghost’s word and tone are casual, but you see the tension in every muscle and in the way he carries himself. There is a hesitation in him. A fear that you might say no. But the gin in your veins is strong, and it’s singing, convincing you to go with him.

When do you ever take risks?

“Okay,” you murmur. Then, more loudly. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

“Okay,” you murmur. Then, more loudly. “Lead the way.”

Ghost’s demeanor changes from coiled hesitation to an intense stiffness. He blinks as if he didn’t hear you correctly or you said something ridiculous. Ghost’s reaction is like a petrified tree, and your agreement to fuck him is the wet, mineral-rich sediment that consumes all the oxygen.

Have you botched this? Have you misunderstood this entire dynamic?

Internally, you start to pull away, all that liquid courage receding like the ocean before a tsunami. Ghost must sense your growing reluctance—or perhaps you physically move as much as you inwardly do—because he shifts on his feet to block your view of the alleyway entrance into Riot Room.

His head dips to the right slightly. “Absolutely sure, love?”

Does your wraith not believe you? Or is this his way of defining your consent? Maybe, it’s both.

Squaring your shoulders, you swallow down all trepidation. You’re always avoiding. You’re always doing the safe thing and never taking risks. A quick fuck might be what you need to push past this oddness that’s laced your entire evening at Riot Room. The fresh start is you straddling this man and bouncing on his cock until you come.

“I told you to lead the way,” you reply cooly with a soft, sultry smile.

Ghost leans back, smirks, and then flicks his dead cigarette into a nearby bin. He starts walking backward and then points to your crushed cigarette on the ground. “Don’t fucking litter.”

The teasing tone sends heat straight to your pussy. As if knowing your body’s reaction, Ghost grins like he’s won a prize. He lifts his hand and curls his fingers around the edge of the balaclava, lowering it back into place. Minutes ago, he threatened a man for touching you, and now he’s cracking jokes.

Bending at the knees, you quickly pick up and discard the cigarette, wiping the rainwater from your fingers against your sheer black tights.

Ghost’s backward steps are slow and you easily catch up to him. When you stride up beside him, Ghost reaches out, and slides his large, tattooed hand to the back of your neck. Those long, thick fingers of his fan out over the lower-half of your throat. It is not a harsh touch, but a possessive one. His grip is firm, but gentle, more like Ghost wants you to understand entirely that you’ve agreed to do this with him.

Steering you toward the alleyway entrance, the two of you step up into the club just in front of the stairs that lead to the downstairs area of Riot Room. Ghost mentioned it’s an employee area, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that anyone will be down there. Riot Room is packed, and the staff are all preoccupied with the crowd.

There is no hesitation from Ghost. He quickly guides the two of you down those steps. At the bottom is a door. Ghost pauses there, glancing back to the stairs. You follow his gaze and see no one.

“Come on,” says Ghost over the music as he pushes open the door, revealing a hallway. It’s narrow and only extends roughly ten feet before curving sharply to the right.

Without letting go of you neck, Ghost checks several doors along this stretch of hallway. All of them say “employee only” and each one is locked. You’re not sure if Ghost is checking to make sure there won’t be any surprises or if he’s trying to find a place for the two of you to go.

You round the corner, and the first door on the left says “Green Room” in faded black lettering. Ghost approaches, and the handle gives easily. He ushers you through the door and then the overhead light turns on.

Both of you flinch. It’s fucking bright and goddamn awful.

Ghost grunts and strides across the room to a lone lamp that rests on a table. He turns it on and you immediately flick off the overhead light.

“Much better,” grumbles Ghost as he pinches the bridge of his nose and blinks rapidly.

With the soft light, it’s easier for your eyes to adjust. While it’s a green room, it’s a shitty one. Against the back wall are three mirrors lined up in a row. One is cracked and all of them are slightly dirty and chipped in the corners. A dark green sofa is just to the left of the door. It’s seen better days. The fabric is frayed and the cushions are worn. A lone coffee table riddled with holes, scrapes, and carved names sits in front of it. There are several empty ashtrays on the top of the table. The only other thing of note is the tiny end table with the lamp that Ghost stands next to.

You glance at Ghost and he shrugs, knowing exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s private,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck as if he’s a bit embarrassed. You burst out laughing and then promptly cover your mouth with both hands. “Didn’t say it’d be nice,” he mumbles, but you hear the gentle humor in it.

“No,” you giggle, dropping your hands. “You didn’t.”

Slowly, you take the five steps that get you to the couch. You run your fingers of the ratty fabric of the armrest. The frayed threads remind you of Jade’s sofa in her apartment. Her cat, Waffles, likes to use it as a scratching post when she isn’t paying attention.

You glance up at Ghost. He’s clutching a folding chair and you’re not sure where the fuck he got it. He walks over to the door and unfolds the chair, setting it down in front of him.

“No lock,” he explains.

You glance at the door handle. Ghost is right. There isn’t one.

“I don’t want any interruptions,” he explains. “And this is your chance to leave before I make sure no can get in.”

This is your chance to leave?

“What if I want to stop in the middle of it?” you ask hesitantly, not entirely liking Ghost’s word choice.

“Then we’ll stop,” he answers simply.

“And I can go?”

“Of course.” Ghost says it like there isn’t any other option, and that comforts you. “But once I’m inside you, you won’t want to leave. I promise you that.” The lust that drips from Ghost’s words slide over you, wrapping themselves up in your skin.

There are plenty of times in your life that men have bragged about their skill only to let you down. But Ghost? You believe him. The seductive darkness that radiates from him is a testament to that.

“I’m staying. I want to stay.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Good.” Ghost shoves the top of the chair under the door handle. The curved edge of the handle catches on it. If anyone were to push down on the handle, it would scrape against the plastic chair, barring entry.

Ghost lingers there a moment before slowly sliding off his leather jacket. Underneath the leather jacket is a simple black t-shirt that clings to him, defining every muscle. Ghost is fit, and not in a going to the gym everyday sort of way. There is power behind those muscles that speaks to a more rigorous training.

I’ve killed men over less.

Who is Ghost? Do you even want to find out the truth?

Ghost tosses the jacket onto the folding chair. His left arm is covered in tattoos that disappear underneath the shirt sleeve. His right arm is completely bare except for his hand. There are tattoos on his fingers and the back of his palm.

The neckline of the black t-shirt curves in a bit of a low dip. Between this and the edge of the black balaclava, his blackout neck tattoo teases you. You want to touch him, to explore and trace every tattoo on his body. It doesn’t matter if you do it with your tongue, teeth, or fingers.

Slowly, Ghost stalks toward you, his natural swagger like an aphrodisiac. You’re immediately hot and needy, and you have to curl your hands into fists to resists reaching for him in desperation.

This sensation is new. You’ve never felt like this for anyone, let alone a complete stranger. Ghost cups your cheek, and his thumb catches on your bottom lip. His thumb drags your bottom lip down, revealing your teeth. Ghost’s gaze is pointed and you hunger to know what he’s thinking as he looks upon your face.

He comes to some sort of conclusion, because his thumb disappears and your lip lightly bounces back into place. That pointed, inspection-like look in his eye shifts to something heated as he observes your mouth.

You like Ghost’s attention. You like how intensely he watches you, as if he never wants to forget a single inch.

Ghost drops his arm and then he brushes past you, heading for the couch. Easing down on it, Ghost spreads his legs, and rubs his palms up and down his thighs. Ghost has two silver ringers on his left hand you didn’t notice before. One on his thumb and one on his index finger.

“Come here,” purrs Ghost as he pats the top of his right thigh.

His command is a pull you cannot ignore. You go to him, moving of your own fruition. The autonomy you’ve been clinging to has been ripped away. Ghost has complete control, and you’re perfectly fine with that.

You come to a stop between his spread legs. With exaggerated slowness, you lift one leg and settle your knee to the side of one thigh. You do the same with the other, sinking into his lap, straddling him as you settle into place. This position pulls on your skirt, and it slides up your legs, dangerously close to exposing your pussy.

Ghost’s hands immediately go to your thighs and hips. They caress and rub, moving up and down, squeezing. Once he’s had his fill of those, he clings to the slight dip in your hips, drawing you closer to him. Your own hands go up to his chest. The heat of him is palpable through his black, cotton t-shirt.

Neither of you breaks eye contact. Your gazes are locked as the two of you touch each other. It’s languid, unhurried, and entirely too intimate for such a causal interaction. That intensity still languishes in his eyes, and you have no idea what Ghost might need to ease some of it.

But what you do know is that you want to kiss him. Slowly, your fingers travel upward, catching on the edge of the balaclava. Ghost does not draw away or snatch at your wrist as you expect him to. Instead, your fingers slide under the fabric, guiding the balaclava up his face, and Ghost allows it.

Ghost is trusting you with this, as he should. You know his limit, even if Ghost is a complete stranger. There is a reason he’s covering his face, and you will respect that boundary until he tells you otherwise.

You pause just above the tip of his nose. Ghost’s blackout neck tattoo is completely clear to you. Being this close to him, you notice the finer details, like scars that run underneath the link. There is also the scar that follows along the curve of his jaw, and you consider why Ghost has left that one untouched.

With you in his lap, now you can touch Ghost’s lips like he did yours. But when your thumb brushes his bottom lip, Ghost opens his mouth, and the tip of his tongue swipes against your skin. The touch surprises you, and your thumb draws away just as Ghost’s tongue retreats into his mouth.

This is your chance. This is your opening.

You lean in until your noses brush and your mouths are moments from touching, but you do not close the distance. You linger in wanton anticipation, and this is not enough for Ghost. He growls, and then his hand is on the back of your neck, bringing your mouths together.

The kiss is deep and fierce. Passionate. This is not a kiss with a stranger but a lover. It makes you shiver, sends your body singing with need. It heats your blood and stirs a slickness in your core.

Ghost tastes of smoke, whiskey, and black tea.

There is not one kiss but many. Ghosts claims you for himself over and over again with just his lips and his possessive hold on your throat. Of all the people you’ve kissed in your life, this is beyond anything you’ve experienced with any of them.

Hook-ups are supposed to be quick things where you get off and move on. This is a simmering pot of water that just won’t fucking boil. It wants to draw this out. It makes you want to wait. This feels like something so much more.

Ghost’s other hand squeezes your thigh and your hands instinctually slide around his neck. Then you’re drawing him closer until the two of you are nothing but lips, teeth, and tongue, kissing as if there will be no one else after this.

Your body molds to him like it’s always meant to be this way. Ghost is it, and your body knows it down to your marrow. He will crack you open, consume your insides, and lick you clean until you’re nothing but an empty shell ready to be filled of whatever he’s willing to give.

Ghost removes his hands from your neck and hip to shove at your jacket. He manages to work it down to your elbows before you pull back to help it the rest of the way, tossing it aside before wrapping your arms around his neck again. The kisses don’t stop. They are desperate. Breath stealing.

His hands drag and pull at your top.

The fabric doesn’t tear but it does surrender to his command, revealing your lace bra beneath. He cups one breast through the fabric, squeezing, and then he’s pulling it aside to touch your skin.

When his warm palm makes contact with your skin, your pussy clenches, and you inhale sharply. Ghost breaks away from your swollen, stinging lips, and the loss is agonizing. You want him to return to you.

Ghost does come back. His lips fall upon your neck, sucking at your skin just as he rolls your nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging the nipple taut.

You whimper, and he sucks on your neck harder. Your fingers dig into his shirt and you’re tugging at him, wanting to touch his skin in the same way he’s touching you.

Ghost hums softly against your throat. He moves to the other breast, working that nipple to a stiff peak. Once done, Ghost dips his head and swipes his tongue over each nipple. You shudder, fingers fisting his shirt until the fabric stretches, threatening to tear.

The tip of his tongue swirls around your left nipple before moving to your right. Your back arches, hips rocking against him in desperation. It only makes Ghost bolder, sucking and nipping at each nipple until you tug a little too hard on his shirt and Ghost leans back, his deliciously perfect mouth stretched into a self-satisfied grin.

You’re too distracted by the look on his face. Ghost’s hand dips under your skirt and his fingers graze against your thong, discovering just how wet you are for him.

“Fucking hell,” he groans before claiming your mouth in a fiercely primal kiss that sends pleasure straight to your core.

He rubs your clit through the delicate lace, swirling repeatedly until the friction sends your pussy fluttering and flooding with new wetness. Your breath hitches as his fingers slip under the fabric to touch your sex.

Ghost’s own inhalation is downright feral as he pushes your thong to the side and slowly eases one thick finger into your pussy. Your body immediately clenches around him, insisting that he stay there. His other hand his back on your neck, his mouth occupied with knowing your taste.

Ghost starts to pump his finger in and out of your pussy. His palm presses against your clit, rubbing up against it every time his hand flexes with the thrust of his finger. It’s a tease. A promise of what it will be like once Ghost’s cock is buried inside you. Already your body has to accommodate him.

Your nails dig into his arms, leaving little half-moons behind, but you do not draw blood. The sensation of his finger sliding in and out of you is fucking perfect but it’s not enough to get you where you need to do.

“Can’t wait to fucking taste you here,” groans Ghost against your mouth. He emphasizes his meaning with an insertion of a second finger.

This stretch pulls a gnarled, pathetic whimper from your lips. It makes you weak, turns you to dust, grinding you down until you’re close to begging for Ghost to fuck you.

“Then do it,” you reply, surging forward to suck on his tongue before nipping at his mouth.

You’re being bold again. Tempting your wraith from hell. And it’s a fucking delicious feeling to do so.

Those whiskey-brown eyes of his darken. With easy strength, Ghost claims your hips and bends you over on the rest of the couch, your elbows on the arm rest. He grabs hold of your lace thong and pulls. The delicate fabric rips away from your body in a loud shredding that tugs against your skin before it snaps.

You glance back and catch Ghost slipping your torn underwear into his jean pocket. A keepsake. You’re not even mad. In fact, it’s sexy knowing he wants to possess something of you after this.

“Be a good fucking girl for me and keep those legs open,” growls Ghost.

He won’t need to ask twice. You’ll be good for him because you want to be.

Ghost settles on his knees behind you, and you feel the couch sink under his weight. His hands go to your lower back and ease you forward a bit, tipping your hips upward so your bare pussy is pointed toward the ceiling.

Your head drops against your bicep, and your breathing increases to a point that it’s almost all you can hear. The pause between him settling behind you and the moment his tongue touches your pussy is excruciating. But when his tongue finally touches you, it’s wonderful, and fucking good.

Ghosts starts at your clit, swirling his tongue around that bundle of nerves before tracing a path upward. He leaves nothing untouched and only then does he slip his tongue inside your pussy.

You’re completely open to him, and his grip on your hips is unyielding. Ghost is not letting you go, and you don’t want him to. You want to give in to the rapidly building orgasm that’s starting to pull at your resolve.

You push back on Ghost’s face but his hands hold you still, keeping you in place. He is setting the pace. He is taking his time. You’re at his mercy. Ghost’s tongue rotates in quick circles inside your cunt before retreating to trace the folds on your labia, and then sliding down to flick against your clit.

Ghost focuses in on it as his left hand drifts over the curve of your ass. His thumb presses against the entrance to your pussy before slipping in. Your body gives easily, sucking that digit down until he’s in to the knuckle. The rest of his hand squeezes and kneads your flesh, and all of this together is enough to make your head spin.

Through heavy lids, your gaze falls on the trio of mirrors along the back wall. In the glass, you have an unobstructed view of what Ghost is doing to your pussy. You watch as his tongue swirls against you. You see the exact moment he sucks your clit into his mouth to gently roll it between his lips. You witness the pumping of his thumb and how his hands hold you.

Even as you observe all of that in the mirror, you also notice the massive bulge in his pants and the small piece of your underwear that peeks out from his jean pocket.

Ghost turns his head, and his gaze meets yours in the glass. The corner of his mouth turns upward in a knowing grin, and then his mouth comes down on your pussy with a renewed vigor that sends you tumbling over the precipice.

The whimpered cry that rolls up your throat and bursts forth from between your lips is muffled by your elbow. Your pussy squeeze around Ghost’s thumb even as he continues to suck on your clit through your orgasm. His actions only prolong it, and the sharp bite of the touch has the muscles in your thighs tighten with tension.

An aftershock shudders through you, and then Ghost’s thumb and mouth retreats.

It’s a momentary reprieve. His hand curls around the front of your neck and then you’re yanked upright only to be pressed against his chest.

Ghost grabs the lower half of your face and turns you enough that he can claim your mouth with his drenched lips. You taste yourself and you hardly care. You open for him and Ghost dips his tongue inside your wanton mouth.

His hand on your hip slides forward to cup your mound, and Ghost’s leverage only pushes your ass harder against the bulge in his jeans. You feel the outline of him, and just how large he is.

“Don’t cover your mouth,” rasps Ghost against your mouth. His hand on your pussy slides down a bit more until his index and middle finger slip into your cunt. Ghost is reward with the wet surrender of it, and you feel his grin against the corner of your mouth. “I want to hear every sound you make.”

You’re trapped against him, and it’s not fair. Ghost has touched and tasted you. Why can’t you have the same.

“I want to taste you,” you plead, voice breaking slightly. “Just like you tasted me.”

Ghost groans and slides his hand away from your pelvis. His hold on your neck eases. He slips away, and as he does, you turn, watching as Ghost reclines on his back against the armrest.

“Then come here and find out,” purrs Ghost, his eyes nearly black as the words fall from his lips.

He does not remove his belt or loosen the front of his jeans. Ghost’s hands remain on his thighs. You’re taking the lead on this, and you’re more than happy to do so.

You don’t work quickly. You take your time, making sure not to fumble the belt or fastenings on the front of his black jeans. When the belt is gone, the button undone, and the zipper down, you slip your hands beneath the denim and Ghost lifts his hips so you can slide his jeans down enough to find your prize.

Ghost’s hard cock springs free, and your eyes widen at the size of him. He’s not stupidly large, but there is plenty of length and girth there. Even though you’re slick between the thighs, he’ll have to ease in with some care.

Reaching out, you grasp the base, and Ghost hisses, his head falling back slightly with pleasure as you palm him. You pump him a few times before leaning in to kiss the tip. A pearly bead of precum blooms in the slit, and you eagerly lick it up with the tip of your tongue. Another blooms in its place, and you swirl your tongue around the flared head before licking the entire length from base to tip.

Teasing, and slow, you learn Ghost’s flavor. It is addictive, and you want him to understand how much you enjoy just enjoying him like this. You work between soft, open kisses and slow licks of your tongue.

Once Ghost is a fidgeting mess beneath you, that is when you take him in your mouth in earnest. You take the head of him into your mouth and hold him there, allowing the saliva to collect. Satisfied, you swallow him down, your lips touching your hand.

Hollowing your cheeks, you slide back up, and then repeat the process, bringing in your hand to pump him in time with your upward passes.

You are messy. Eager. Enthusiastic. It’s entirely clear you’re having an effect on him because Ghost’s hand falls against the top of your head and he groans loudly, nearly choking on the end of it.

Ghost does not force you down on him, but his fingers tangle in your hair, and then he’s gripping your locks in a vice-grip, as if your hair is his anchor in this moment. But he doesn’t tug. Ghost only guides it to one side of your head in a loving touching.

You suck hard, and Ghost’s hips thrust upward without warning.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck—stop. You’re gonna make me finish if you keep that up.”

Ghost’s cock falls from your mouth with a wet pop. The mixture of your saliva and his precum, coats your lips. A small string of it hangs from your bottom lip and connects to the head of his cock.

Ghost reaches out and runs his thumb over your lips to clean them. “Can I fuck you now? Properly?” His thumb is still on your lip.

You nod.

He shakes his head. “Say it. Tell me you want my cock.”

You swallow, and your throat aches. “Fuck me. Please, Ghost.”

Ghost digs around in his pocket and fishes out a condom wrapper. He tears it open and then rolls it down his length right before your eyes. He grabs your upper arms and tugs you into his lap.

“Hold onto me,” he says, releasing your arms.

Your hands immediately go his chest. His own hands go to your hips and then he’s lining you up, the head of his cock sinking in. He splits you open, stretching you deliciously, making you moan loudly.

“You can take it. I know you can,” he rasps as more of him slides inside.

Your pussy flutters around him.

“That’s it,” he coos. “You’re doing so well, love.”

Once your body starts to adjust to his size, Ghost thrusts up shallowly, retreating a bit before trying again. You’re sinking further down on him, and you never want to leave.

Ghost did say so. He said you’ll not want to part from him once his cock is buried inside you.

He is absolutely right.

Ghost takes control the moment he’s in to the hilt. Guiding your hips, Ghost bounces you on his cock in a steady, rhythmic pace. He sits up a bit and claims your mouth, grinding his hips upward in a circle, making you gasp against his open mouth. Ghost grins, and then his hands are sliding under your thighs, and he’s lifting you, moving with you as he stands.

Your knees are bent over his elbows, legs dangling in the air as Ghost brings the two of you into a standing position. Instinct has you reaching for him, arms connecting around his neck. Then, it’s all Ghost as he starts to fuck you.

From this position, you can watch as his cock slides in and out of your pussy. Your forehead rests against his and you cling on, being nothing but his toy.

“Fucking look at that,” growl Ghost, and you know exactly what he’s referring to. It’s not just the way he fits inside you but everything. He’s talking about the soft rolls in your stomach from your bent position and the way you hold on to him.

“Perfect,” he continues, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Made for me.”

Ghost’s hands are on your ass, supporting your weight, and now you truly understand just how strong this man is. Your back in to the mirror but you’d give anything for a glimpse of what the two of you must look like.

The very idea makes your pussy clench, and Ghost responds with animalistic growl that spurs him into action.

The two of you are moving again, this time Ghost lifting you off his cock and guiding you down onto the couch.

“Turn over. Hands and knees.” Ghost’s command is raspy and needy. It spurs you to action, causing you to comply without thought.

Ghost settles behind you, and then he’s inside again, this time pounding into you with a fierceness that has your toes curling. He has one hand on your hip while the other grabs the space between your neck and shoulder.

His pace is unrelenting, and the building tension within your body finally snaps. When you orgasm, it is an overwhelming sensation, as if your lungs are filling with water. You don’t even get a moment to drown.

Ghost is hauling you back into his lap, spreading you wide to the room.

“Look how fucking good you are,” growls Ghost into your ear. His gaze is fixed on the mirrors and you meet his eyes in the broken glass.

Your back is against Ghost’s firm chest, head resting against his shoulder, and your mouth brushing against his blackout tattoo. You are spread wide across his lap, legs parted, and feet firmly planted on either side of his thighs.

One arm is draped around his neck, and the other clings to the sofa cushion.

“Touch yourself, love. Show me how you play with yourself.”

Sighing, you give in, sliding your hand between your open legs to work yourself. In the mirror, below your fingers, your pussy is stretched, full of Ghost’s cock pumping in purposeful rhythm. When he pulls out, the condom glistens with your juices before disappearing back inside, hitting you somewhere deep.

Each thrust and every stroke of your hand sends a little tremor through your legs.

But it’s Ghost’s eyes that are the most captivating. He watches you in the mirror, and you are entirely lost to them. Those dark pools hold you in place. Your wraith is all you can see.

Ghost continues to rock his hips, upping the rhythm of his thrusts until your breath comes in short gasps of pleasure. Your eyes begin to close, eyelids fluttering with every tingle in your clit.

A bite at your earlobe surprises you. “Don’t. I want you to watch.”

You comply, though it’s incredibly difficult. You want to lean back and lose yourself in the moment entirely. Instead, you stay present and focused, watching Ghost take what he wants from your compliant body.

“Fucking perfect,” he purrs against your skin.

“So bloody fucking perfect,” he repeats as another stroke of your fingers against your clit has you clenching around him, pulling him further inside.

It’s enough to make you fall over the edge, and this is what does him in.

Ghost’s pace increases, his hands sliding under your thighs as his cock pistons upward into you. His face presses against your neck and he growls words of lust into your skin.

“Watch,” he pants. “I want you to pretend there is no barrier and I’m about to fill your perfect fucking cunt with my cum.” The slap of skin is loud and lewd in the room. “Imagine me leaking out of your pussy. Imagine that I’m about to fucking breed you like you deserve.”

His words are poison. They burrow into your bones, nestle like venomous snakes hiding in the leaves.

Ghost thrusts his hips upward as the same moment he slams you down on him, sinking himself to the base. Your nails dig into his forearms as Ghost bites down on the bare line of flesh between your neck and shoulder.

The two of you hold like that for a few moments, your chests heaving. Ghost kisses the spot where his teeth left marks. He nuzzles your neck as he lifts you off his cock. He is still a bit hard, and when he’s gone, there is a lingering soreness.

Gently, Ghost guides you over one thigh. Once settled, he removes the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the nearby trashcan.

The euphoria of the orgasm is starting to slip, and with it comes a slowly building realization.

How long have the two of you been down here? Are you friends looking for you? Are they worried? You didn’t check your phone for the time before running off with him. They could be searching for you. They could be frantic. Doesn’t matter that they encouraged you to fuck him. You didn’t tell them or give them any indication that you had followed through.

The serenity that comes post-orgasm evaporates and you’re left with a lingering sense of anxiety. You need to get out of this room. You need to go back.

You need to leave.

Ghost’s arms are still around your waist, and his hands move in slow circles, caressing your body in gentle comfort. It’s entirely too intimate, more like something a couple would do. It makes you want to run. To jump up from his lap and burst through the door.

This room is stale and you need air.

Without second guessing the decision, you break out of Ghost’s embrace, standing on wobbly legs. You face the mirror, and even though the balaclava is mostly back in place, his body language tells you all you need to know.

Ghost is shocked, his arms still extended like you’re about to fall right back into them.

You tug on your skirt, putting it back into place. You adjust your top and smooth out the winkles as best you can. Your hair is a mess, and you immediately grab for the hair tie on your wrist, putting it up into a messy bun.

“I need to go,” you say sharply, grabbing your jacket off the floor and tugging it on.

Ghost is silent for a second, and then he’s tucking himself back into his jeans, quickly grabbing at his belt as you snatch up your purse and start to tug the folding chair away from the door.

“Wait,” he says, starting to stand.

The folding chair gives and you shove it aside. Your hand is on the handle in moments, pushing it open, striding through.

“Wait!”

You don’t pause or look back. If you do, you might return to him, and that cannot happen.

Behind you, you hear Ghost swear softly. He’s likely grabbing his stuff to chase after you, but you’re already bounding up the stairs and back into the club before the outside door slams shut.

You rush across the dancefloor, desperately looking for any of your friends. You spot them near the exit. They stand in a half-moon, all of them looking at their phones. They look ready to leave.

You push through a dancing couple, not caring that they give you nasty looks. Evie glances up and the relief on her face is palpable.

“We’ve been trying to get ahold of you,” says Evie, lifting her phone. “We didn’t know where you were.”

“I can make a few guesses,” muses Sam, her mouth quirking into a smile. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes. I did.” It’s true. You won’t lie. It’s probably the best sex you’ve ever had. “We ready?”

“Tell us what happened,” says Sam.

“Did you get his number?” asks Jade. She bounces on her toes in eagerness.

“I’ll tell you all about it in the cab,” you say hurriedly, already heading for the door, quickly glancing over your shoulder. You don’t see your wraith. Ghost is nowhere in sight.

Sam shrugs, but the trio you follow you down the stairs and out onto street.

“Uber is here,” says Jade, nodding toward an idling car.

The driver rolls down the window and he and Jade strike up a conversation. Your blood is singing, and every inch of you is on edge. Will Ghost catch up to you? Will he cause a scene?

The opening of a car door pulls your attention away from the entrance to Riot Room. Same and Jade slide in, followed by Evie. You hop in behind her, slamming the door shut, sighing with relief now that you’re safely in the car.

As the Uber pulls away from the curb, you glance out the window.

Ghost is right there, descending the stairs as one of his friends chases after him. It’s the Scottish one whose name you didn’t catch. He grabs Ghost’s shoulder to stop him, but Ghost shakes him off, his gaze fixated on you.

Swallowing, you look away, stare straight ahead.

A sinking feeling creeps into your stomach. The sense of something new starting hasn’t gone away. It is incomplete. Unfinished.

But you’re already down the street, and Sam is pushing you for information. Your lips are dry, and your throat aches.

When your lips form the shapes of the words you tell your friends, all you can think about is your wraith, and the look in his eyes when you glanced at him through the car window.

You saw outright rejection. Not a rejection of you, but a rejection of the situation.

His gaze spoke of a promise.

A promise that whatever this is…it isn’t done.

Chapter Text

Three Years Later

Outside the café window, the sky is a dark gray, threatening rain. Across the street is the Cambridge train station. Commuters move to and away from the station, many of them jumping into cabs, waiting at the nearby bus terminal, or entering the pedestrian areas. Several even enter the café you’re currently waiting in.

Your fingers tap on the plastic lid of your coffee cup in a steady, nervous thrum. Your sandwich is off to the side, hardly touched. You’ve only managed a few bites. It’s not that the sandwich is bad but that you’re so exhausted that even food turns your stomach.

At the moment, sleep is an elusive creature, and you certainly cannot curl up in your chair and fall asleep in the café.

You haven’t slept in hours. Anxiousness simmers in every part of your body. On the flight into O’Hare International, you almost puked up your breakfast. Then, on the connecting flight into London, your stomach was a roiling mess. You spent the whole flight staring at the ceiling of the plane praying that you didn’t need to quickly run to the bathroom. The train from London to Cambridge was no better. Your stomach still isn’t cooperating.

You sigh and try again anyway. Tearing into the sandwich, you chew slowly, thinking that maybe if you only focus on the flavors, you’ll sense something.

The bite is dead in your mouth. Bland.

Perhaps you’re getting sick.

You glance out the café window, your gaze scanning the sidewalk and street. Evie is late, which is so unlike her, but entirely understandable. She just buried Archie less than a week ago, and the whole reason you’re back in London is because of the fucking shitty situation Evie is in now that Archie is dead.

It isn’t fair. Evie doesn’t deserve any of this. The two of them should be celebrating their three-year wedding anniversary next month.

You don’t have the ability to track Evie on your phone—the cellular fees alone would be astronomical. All you have is Evie’s “on my way” text and a hope that she’ll turn up soon. You miss her. You want to hold her in your arms and remind her that there are still people in her life that love her.

Evie still hasn’t made an appearance after another ten minutes, and you turn back to the offending sandwich, taking another bite as if this one might be the one that does it.

Nothing. You almost spit it back onto the plate.

You run your hand over your face. Now that you’re sitting, and at your destination, your body is screaming out for rest. Every muscle and limb aches, and you know your eyes are likely bloodshot from the lack of sleep.

“There you are.”

The soft, melodic voice draws your gaze away from the café window. There’s Evie, beautiful even though she looks a mess. There are deep bags under her eyes and her chestnut-colored hair is bunched up on the back of her head in a bun. Worse, Evie’s eyes are watery, like at any moment she’s about to burst into tears.

Evie stands right in front of you, and as your gaze roams down her body, taking note of how disheveled she looks, you land on the one thing that makes this situation so much worse.

With one hand, Evie cradles her pregnant belly. The other rests against the bulging curve. Eight months. Her due date is coming up quick. On her and Archie’s three-year anniversary of all things.

You stand quickly and throw your arms around your best friend, squeezing her tightly but minding the belly, oozing every ounce of love you have for her into the embrace.

“I’m sorry, Evie. I’m so sorry.” Your voice nearly breaks but you manage to reel it in before it shatters.

No number of apologies could ever replace what happened. Wrong place, wrong time is what Evie was told. The bullet wasn’t even for Archie. The person aiming the gun shot wide of their mark, striking Archie in the back of the head.

He died while on a business trip for his family’s consulting firm in the United States. Archie was on his way to meet up with a few friends when his skull was blown off. Evie was told that he died quickly. That he probably didn’t feel a thing.

You draw back a bit and smile softly. “Please sit.” You pull away but keep one hand on Evie’s back, gesturing at the chair across the table from yours.

Evie winces into the seat. “How was your flight?” she asks, rubbing the top of her belly. “And the train?”

“Fine. All fine,” you reply quickly. A lie. You’re bone tired. Aching in all sorts of places. “How are you? Are you doing okay?” You desperately need to know.

Evie has no family. None. She’s an only child. Her mother died when she was young, and her father died of Coal Worker’s Pneumoconiosis after his retirement. The only family she has in the world is Archie’s, and most of them despise her working-class roots. You distinctly remember Archie’s mother calling Evie a “leech” to her face minutes before the ceremony took place.

That hag of a woman sat in the front row of the church like she hadn’t just spit venom.

Reaching out, you rest your arm across the table, presenting your open palm. Evie stares down at it for a brief moment before sliding her hand into yours, squeezing. Her eyes are wet, close to spilling over, and you decide that this topic of conversation is not appropriate for such a public spot.

“We can talk about it later. If you want,” you murmur, not wanting to draw unneeded attention to her.

Eve sniffles and nods, releasing your hand to dig around in her purse for a tissue.

You slowly draw your hand back into your lap. “I can tell you about work,” you suggest. Evie daps at her eyes and then blows her nose. “Want a bite of my sandwich?”

The offer falls flat. Evie shakes her head. “You should eat it.”

And you need to eat something Evelyn Green.

“You need it more than me,” you insist. “Honestly, I’m not feeling it. Don’t want to let it go to waste.” You push the plate across the table to her.

You don’t need to ask to know Evie isn’t eating. Her cheeks are sunken, and her skin is on the paler side like she’s fallen ill. Evie holds the sandwich in both hands and takes a pensive bite. She chews slowly, and then digs in as if starved.

Without Archie here, has no one checked on her? Has Archie’s family completely cut her off? It makes your blood boil.

In the States, you can’t really do anything, but now that you’re here—now that you’re actually witnessing the state she’s in—you’re fucking furious.

The best thing for you to do is to not linger on it or bring it to Evie’s attention. This is something you can tackle later when you’ve had time to calm down.

You adjust in your chair and clasp your coffee cup with both hands. “The technical writing work pays but isn’t that exciting, unless you’d like to hear about the furniture instructional manuals I’ve been editing.”

Evie grins around a bite of food and that small, amused smile is enough to ease some of that internal anxiousness.

“I do have come fiction clients. Pay isn’t nearly as good, but very enjoyable.”

Evie chews and swallows. “I’m glad you’re staying busy.” Her smile softens a bit. “And that you’re here.”

“I’ve missed you, Evelyn Green.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

You take a small sip of your coffee. It’s gone cold.

“I’ll grab another for the road.” You lift the coffee cup. “Once you’re finished, we’ll leave.”

You take Evie’s car to her house near the outskirts of Cambridge proper. Even though Archie helped his father run the family business, he had his own ambitions when it came to his career. He took a part-time teaching job at the university. He and Evie moved out to Cambridge quickly, mostly to escape his family.

While Archie loved them, he did not love how they treated Evie. He spent a great deal of time away from them, but coming from privilege has its own issues. Archie was always called to attend this or that event, and Evie always came along.

From the street, all you see are tall hedges. When Evie pulls into the drive and stops at the gates, you glimpse a small sliver of brick. Evie presses a button on a small remote and the gate opens inward. The hedges are only a natural fence, and once you’re past them, you finally see the house Evie has called home for the past two years.

It’s all brick with wide windows and a flowerbed that follows the outline of the house. The tall hedges mark the property boundaries, and you cannot see into any of the neighbors’ yards. The property itself is deep, stretching vertically back from the road.

Evie pulls up to the garage but doesn’t pull inside. Instead, she parks the car and starts to get out. You follow suit, moving to the trunk to withdraw your suitcase.

“This is gorgeous, Evie.”

“Thank you,” she replies softly. “Archie picked it out.”

The mention of Evie’s dead husband immediately puts you on edge. You glance at your friend and frown. She’s staring off into the distance.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you go over to her and slide your arm around hers. “Show me around.”

Evie seems to melt a bit, whatever it is that held her slipping away for a moment. She tilts her head toward you and smiles. Over the next few minutes, Evie shows you the private backyard complete with garden and pool. From there, the two of you enter through the mudroom door, kicking off your shoes and heading into the living room.

The space is rustic with deep browns, greens, and golds. There is no minimalism or modernness to this home other than the appliances. You do a small turn, admiring the organized yet maximalist-leaning décor.

“Evie, I—” Your voice cuts when your gaze falls on her.

She is focused on the fireplace mantel. As your attention shifts from her to the mantel, you realize what Evie is staring at. The entire mantel is lined with framed phots of their wedding. There are pictures of just Evie and Archie, some of his family, and ones of the bridal party.

Sighing softly, you move toward her, taking her upper arm to snag her attention.

Reluctantly, Evie’s gaze pulls away from the photographs.

“Can you show me to my room? We can go from there.” You make sure to not sound condescending or worried for her. Evie needs a bit of normalcy.

“Of course,” she nods, showing you to the spare bedroom on the second floor.

You promptly set your stuff down and unpack after Evie slinks away. You’re worried about her and the baby. It’s why you came out here after all. Evie has no one, and with your work, you can easily pack up and travel, taking it with you.

When you return to the first floor, you head into the kitchen. Evie stands in front of the open fridge staring at nothing.

“Evie,” you call out. She doesn’t reply. “Evie.”

She glances over at you and promptly shuts the fridge. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I spaced out.”

“You wanna order takeout?” You slide your phone out of your pocket and wave it in the air. Evie nods and the two of you go to the couch, settling in.

“What are you in the mood for?” You open a food delivery app and begin browsing.

“Whatever you want,” replies Evie.

You tap away at your screen. “What if I’m craving sushi? That would be a problem.”

“True,” she smirks, rubbing the curve of her belly.

“What about a super greasy pizza with lots of cheese?”

“We’re in England,” laughs Evie. “Not America.”

“So? There has to be a good pizza place around here.”

Evie leans in a bit and watches your phone over your shoulder. The two of you bicker back and forth but finally decide on the pizza idea.

“How’s baby?” you ask, locking your phone and setting it to the side.

Evie lightly taps her belly. “Good. Healthy.” She winces. “Pushing on my bladder,” she mutters.

“As they do.”

“Archie and I made a list of names. Narrowed it down a bit but never got to finish before…well…now I’m not sure what I like.”

“Do you know what you’re having?”

Evie nods. “You know we wanted to keep it a surprise, but with Archie gone and everything that’s happened, I decided I want to know now. To prepare.”

“Of course. That’s understandable.”

There is so much that still needs to be done, and your arrival only scratches the surface.

Evie gently elbows you in the arm. “Do you want to know?”

You gently elbow her back. “Only if you want to tell me.”

Evie pauses briefly before speaking. “It’s a girl.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you murmur. “You’re going to be an amazing mom, Evelyn Green.”

Evie starts laughing, which quickly turns into crying. You sit up, ready to comfort her, but she’s already starting to laugh again.

“Fuck. I think I peed,” she hiccups as she tries to get off the couch. It’s more of a roll and you hop up to assist her. She totters off to change.

The pizza arrives during that time, and the two of you snuggle into the couch, creating a bed of pillows and blankets as you eat pizza and watch a reality show on Netflix. Evie starts to soften, becomes happier, and you love to see it. The pizza is loaded with extra cheese, lots of garlic, roasted tomato, spinach, and a white sauce.

“You know,” you say around a bite of crust. “The fact that ranch is not a staple with pizza here is an atrocity.”

Evie arches an eyebrow and wipes away a wayward strand of cheese from her chin. “You want to eat ranch with this?”

“Not this specifically,” you mutter.

Evie snorts and takes a large bite of her slice. “What I really miss most about the States is the food.”

“Like what?” you press.

“Tacos. And not that hardshell bullshit you get at the grocery store. I want the cilantro, sliced radish, and lime with a salsa so hot it melts your face.”

“Don’t forget the onion.”

“And extra onion,” adds Evie.

You wipe off some grease from the corner of your mouth.

Evie sighs, her shoulders heaving before she turns to look at you. “Thank you. By the way. You didn’t have to come.”

You roll your eyes and give her your best smile. “I’d do anything for you. Plus, I work remote. I can literally go anywhere in the world at any time and still be able to do my job. Honestly, it’s fine. Plus, I’m not paying rent or anything. It’s amazing.”

Evie shakes her head in amusement. Her plate is carefully balanced on her belly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

The abrupt change startles you.

“Nope,” you reply quickly, nibbling on the reminder of your crust.

“Remember that man with the balaclava at Riot Room?” Evie gestures toward her face as if she’s wearing one. “The one Jade, Sam, and I all convinced you to have sex with?”

You drop the pizza crust onto your plate. “Yes.” Why is Evie asking about him?

“Do you ever think about what happened to him? Like, what he might be doing now?”

All the time.

You lick your lips and rub your fingers together over the plate. Crumbs fall from your hands. “Sometimes.”

It’s a total lie. You think about your wraith all the time, especially in the dark when your hand is between your legs. The memory of him is like a deep, poorly healed scar. It is a slash across your heart.

Ghost.

His touch will never fade. He marked you, made you his, and you won’t forget a single moment you spent with him.

“I can’t believe you missed Sam making a move on his friends. What was his name?”

“Gaz?” you offer, vaguely recalling the man that spoke to you when Ghost wouldn’t let go of your arm.

“Was it? I thought Sam said his name was ‘Kyle.’”

You shrug. “The man I ran away with called himself ‘Ghost.’”

Evie nods, yawning. “That’s true.” She shifts slightly in your direction. The plate on her belly stays put. “We have an early morning.”

“Do we?” you ask nonchalantly, thankful for the pivot in conversation.

“Did you ever meet Archie’s grandmother? Amelia?”

There are only a handful of times you’ve met anyone from Archie’s family and most of them were during those last few weeks leading up to the wedding.

“I don’t believe so,” you reply slowly.

Evie rubs at the side of her belly in agitation. “You can’t stay with me forever. And while I appreciate you, I’ll need support when you’re gone.”

Sighing, Evie removes the plate from belly and tries to sit up. Knowing her efforts will be in vain, you take the plate from her and set it on the coffee table.

Evie murmurs a quiet ‘thank you’ and falls back against the couch. “We’re going to stay with her. She lives in the Clapton area of London.”

You’re surprised. Evie loves this home. When her and Archie first moved in, it’s all she could talk about. “You don’t want us to stay here?”

Evie’s mouth turns downward, and tears start to form in the corner of her eyes again. You understand the moment the words leave your mouth. This place holds too many memories.

“It’s not like anyone else will have me,” she sniffles even as she tries to laugh it off like it doesn’t bother her.

“They’re a bunch of idiots. And don’t deserve your tears. Fuck. Them.” You stuff the rest of your half-eaten crust into your mouth.

It might not be the nicest thing to say, but the majority of Archie’s family are assholes who deserve to be called by an insult rather than their names,

Evie turns back toward the television. You snuggle in next to her and Evie’s head falls against your shoulder. A single tear rolls down her cheek and you absently wipe it away.

The next day is all business.

It keeps Evie busy enough that she can’t stop to cry, but you still make her take frequent breaks. It’s clear that Evie hasn’t been taking care of herself since Archie’s funeral. She may be eight-months pregnant, but she’s abnormally sluggish and forgetful. Evie keeps losing her train of thought, or she starts to mumble to herself instead of speaking directly to you when you ask her a question.

It’s upsetting, but it mostly makes you angry. It means that Archie’s family has completely abandoned her now that he’s dead. They have no reason to interact with her.

On top of that, there is too much to do, and Evie needs all the support she can get. You don’t want to make England your permanent place of residence, but Evie is like a sister to you. She is family. You won’t toss her to the side.

The biggest hurdle is making sure Evie has adequate help. You’re not the only person Evie should need to rely on. After Evie went to bed last night, you promptly messaged Jade and Sam, detailing the situation. Both of them want to come out, but their jobs are not nearly as flexible as yours.

With the essentials packed, and the car loaded, you and Evie clean out the kitchen, tossing out all the open perishables while boxing up everything that is still good and unopened. The two of you will stop at a local food bank and drop it off.

At midday, the two of you are in the car, driving to London. By American standards, the drive isn’t that far, but the traffic is horrendous. Evie drives, and you take notes of everything that needs to be done while being the perfect passenger princess.

Everything in the house will need to be organized and gone through. Evie plans on staying with Archie’s grandmother which means she needs to downsize. You’ll need to contact an estate agent to appraise and ready the house for the market. All the furniture will either need to be sold, donated, or brought to Ameila’s home. With Archie’s death also comes an enormous amount of wealth all tied up in various assets. None of it makes any sense, and Archie’s personal solicitor will need to be contacted.

None of that includes setting up a nursery or supporting Evie through the rest of her pregnancy. Plus, there is your job to think about. Yes, you do mostly freelance work, but you’re usually sent work by the company that contracts you. There are deadlines that you need to hit.

The GPS beeps and Evie turns onto a massive thoroughfare, crossing a large bridge before coming to a massive roundabout. From there, Evie follows the road a few minutes. She turns onto a side street lined with various business and homes. You recognize nothing. This city is completely foreign to you.

“We’re here,” says Evie, nodding to a two-story brick house. She pulls into a tiny driveway and turns off the car.

Amelia’s home is what you picture when you think of houses in England. Maybe you’ve watched one too many movies, or maybe the stereotype holds true, but it fits the bill. On the outside, it’s clean and taken care of. The short driveway and path to the store is perfectly lain without a single weed. Even the stunted hedges under the front windows are perfectly trimmed.

You’re out of your seat and to the driver side of the car before Evie has the chance to open her door. When she tries to head to the back of the car to empty the trunk, you politely chase her away. You’ll make multiple trips if you need to, but you’re not allowing Evie to lift a single thing.

The front door opens and a short, stout older woman steps out onto the stoop. Her graying hair is clipped to her shoulders. She wears tan pants, the knees of which are patched over with sunflowers on white fabric. The rainboots on her feet are splattered with mud, and the yellow coat and white linen shirt she wears are speckled with a bit of dirt.

Amelia grins as she removes the gloves she’s wearing. “Evelyn!” she calls out.

“Amelia,” greets Evie, her arms outstretched.

Evie waddles over to Amelia and the two of them embrace. Amelia pulls back at the same moment you approach the two women.

Amelia smiles. “Can’t forget you.”

“You—” The words leave your mouth in a huff when Ameila wraps her around your waist and squeezes like she’s trying to snap your spine.

“Evie’s friend,” breathes Amelia, stilling holding tight.

“That’s me, ma’am,” you manage, the sound of your voice mostly strangled breathing.

Amelia abruptly stops hugging you and the sudden release of tension is a perfect inhalation. “Blimey! Hear that, Evie? She called me ‘ma’am.’” Amelia tuts. “None of that ‘ma’am’ nonsense around here. Call me Amelia.”

She glances to the left of you and then the right. You only managed to snag a few bags from the car before walking over to them.

“Well,” begins Amelia. “Hand me a bag and let’s get inside. I have the kettle on. Along with some biscuits and jam.”

“Good,” you sigh. “I’m starving. Ran out of car snacks halfway to London.”

Evie glances over her shoulder and grins at you. “That’s because you ate them all.”

You make a face and Evie laughs, entering through the front door.

The first thing you notice about the place is how many goddamn doors there are. Just inside the front door is another door that enters the living room, then another that leads to the stairs. None of it is open. It’s bizarre. Tight and cramped.

You have to wiggle your way sideways into the living room.

“Drop the bag there dear.” Amelia points to a spot near her sofa. “We can grab them later. Take a seat at the table. Enjoy a cuppa before I start dinner.”

The kettle whistles loudly as you enter the kitchen. Evie stretches a bit before she slides into a chair. You select the chair next to her. Amelia grabs three mugs from a cabinet and sets them on the counter. From a different cabinet, Amelia grabs a tea tin and drops a bag into each mug. She removes the kettle from the stove and starts filling the mugs with hot water.

Steam rises into the air. “Now I know all about Evie, but I know nothing about you other than what she’s told me.”

“Whatever she’s told you. It’s isn’t true.”

“It’s all good stuff.”

“Like I said. None of it is true.”

Evie tries and fails to stifle a snort.

Amelia’s mouth forms an amused smile. “She told me you were a writer.”

“Not exactly,” you say slowly. “I’m an editor. I usually do technical work, but I occasionally branch off into the publishing world of fiction. Especially if I’m looking for a little extra cash flow.”

Amelia ambles over to the table, expertly carrying all three mugs. She sets one down in front of Evie first and then you before herself.

Amelia settles into the unoccupied chair.

“She said your job allowed you to move around. That’s good. Glad you’re here. Evie needs more than me looking after her.”

You swallow, the mug hot against your fingers. “I’m glad I came.”

When you wake in the morning, it’s early. The sun is just starting to ascend.

Evie is still asleep, her breathing even and calm. You slowly unfurl yourself, walking on quiet feet to the bathroom with a change of clothes in tow. You brush your teeth and wash your face. It’s a bit cold but not overly so. You open the small window in the bathroom to check.

You head downstairs, a knee-length cardigan wrapped around your body. The kitchen light is on. There is a hot kettle, two mugs, and tea bags set out. The gesture is lovely but you cannot live on tea. You’ll need coffee eventually or you’ll go insane.

The back door is propped open, and you walk up to it, poking your head out into the early morning chill. Amelia is out in the backyard tending to her garden. You step out onto the top stair and call out to her.

Amelia glances up and waves you over.

As you approach, she starts talking, her warm breath creating steam before her face. “Checking on the tomatoes. Bit chilly this morning. Plants don’t like it much.”

You wrap your cardigan a little tighter around yourself. “Can I do anything to help you?”

“That’s sweet of you. But no. At least not out here.” Amelia gestures to the raised garden beds with an outstretched hand. “Could you go to the bakery just across the way? Grab some pastries for today and tomorrow?”

You nod. “Of course. Where is it?”

Amelia removes her gloves and tosses them down onto the edge of the wood garden bed. “When you go out the front door makes a left until you come to the first cross-street. Turn left again and then an immediate left at the small corner store. Just walk that and you’ll see it.” Amelia shrugs. “Usually a line by this time.”

“Is there coffee?”

“They do indeed,” replies Amelia with a knowing grin.

“I’ll just grab my coat.”

“Take your time.”

You head back upstairs to the bedroom to grab your coat. Evie is still asleep. Silently, you snag your coat off the back of a chair and slip it on, leaving through the front door.

There is surprisingly little traffic as you follow Ameila’s detailed instructions. You take a left and follow the row of houses all tightly packed together. When you make it to the cross-street, you turn left again. The corner store comes up quickly. Turning left again, you keep your gaze on the storefronts that line the street. After the corner store is a pub, another pub, a salon, a few restaurants, another pub.

Then, a tattoo parlor.

141 Ink the sign reads. It’s dark inside but it’s fairly early. The sun is much higher now but it’s still not late enough for a tattoo shop to be open.

You shrug and walk on, noticing the line Amelia mentioned almost immediately. It’s not nearly as long as you expected it to be, and you’re through faster than you anticipate.

When you step inside, the smell of roasted coffee beans, baked bread, and cinnamon greet your nostrils. There are so many options and for a moment, you’re a little overwhelmed. But with more people lining up behind you, you make a few selections and collect a coffee for yourself.

With bag and coffee in hand, you start to walk back the way you came. The pastries smell delicious and it takes you a second to realize that the door to the tattoo parlor stands open.

You frown and stop right outside the door. Checking your watch, your eyebrows rise at the time. It’s still incredibly early. Who opens a tattoo parlor at this hour?

Curiosity gets the better of you. You walk up to the entrance and glance inside.

The first thing you notice is a dog. It’s an all-black German Shepard that lays in the early morning sun from the window. His eyes are open and he’s looking at you with interest but not enough to lift his head.

There is the sound of metal clanking against metal. It draws your gaze upward and away from the dog. Your eyes catch a bit of movement. You narrow your focus as your sight adjusts to the shadowy interior.

A man is there with his back to you. He shifts. Turns. And then your heart drops into your stomach.

It’s him. And that is impossible. Of everyone it could be, how could it possibly be him.

Your wraith.

You are frozen. Utterly shocked. He turns a bit more and notices you standing there in the open doorway.

There is zero doubt. None. This is him.

This is Ghost.

Fuck you think. Shit shit shit shit.

You step back and Ghost takes a step forward, his hand falling to his sides, his back straightening like he’s about to move toward you.

Everything about him is the same. All broad shoulders, towering height, and imposing darkness. You know it’s him because of the balaclava. That’s the same, too.

You shake your head and take another step backward.

Ghost takes two.

You turn on your heel, and bolt.

Chapter Text

Then (Three Years Ago)

Gently, Simon guides you over one thigh. Once settled, he removes the condom and ties it off, tossing it into the nearby bin.

He is satiated. Happy. Every inch of him vibrates with pleasure. You are new and fresh, but so perfectly comfortable. Simon could stay like this forever.

Simon’s arms are around your waist, and his hands move in slow circles, caressing your body in gentle comfort. You are warm beneath his palms, and Simon focuses in how your skin feels against his.

It’s nice. Lovely. He could get used to it. He could get lost in you.

He nuzzles your neck, and discreetly inhales, imprinting your scent onto his memory. The two of you will linger here in this room for a bit. Once the euphoria of pleasure passes into calmness, Simon will suggest the two of you leave together. He wants you alone. Truly alone. He wants to take his time, and understand all the ways he can make you scream for him.

When you rip yourself out of his arms, it comes as a shock. Like a blow to the face or the burst of a hollow point on impact.

You stand on wobbly legs, facing the mirror. At first, all Simon can see are the backs of your thighs, and he has an intrusive desire to drag you to his mouth to suck on your supple skin. But he does not move toward you, he simply holds there, his arms extended like you’ll fall right back into them at any moment.

You tug on your skirt, putting it back into place. You adjust your top and smooth out the winkles. The movements are strange, and Simon doesn’t understand at first.

It’s like…

Are you leaving?

You slide a hair tie off your wrist and put your hair up into a messy bun. “I need to go,” you say sharply, grabbing your jacket off the floor and tugging it on.

Simon is silent for a moment, completely thrown off by your sudden declaration. Then it all comes roaring forward, and everything catches up in that moment. He tucks himself back into his jeans, quickly grabbing at his belt as you snatch up your purse and start to tug the folding chair away from the door.

“Wait,” he says, starting to stand.

The folding chair gives and you shove it aside. Your hand is on the handle in moments, pushing it open, striding through.

“Wait!”

You don’t pause or look back.

“Fucking hell,” says Simon as he almost catches some skin in the zipper of his jeans. He adjusts himself, and then his jeans are secure. He works the balaclava back into place and takes off after you.

By the time Simon rounds the corner, the basement door is slamming shut. He doesn’t make it there before it closes. Bursting through it, Simon takes the stairs two at a time, coming to a stop at the top. Scanning the crowd turns up nothing. The crowd has swallowed you up like a dark monster.

This is not what Simon planned out in his head. The two of you should be walking out of the club right now and to his flat. Once there, he planned on bending you over every surface and worshipping your body until the only thing you understand is his name.

Simon scans the dancefloor and does not see you. He doesn’t see your friends either which is just as irritating. You could be at the exit by now. You could be sliding into a cab at this very moment.

The thought of you leaving spurs Simon to action.

“Lt!”

Simon doesn’t falter. He ignores Soap, but the Scotsman steps into his path.

“Out of the way, Johnny,” snaps Simon with irritation.

Soap’s eyebrow arches slightly. “We’ve been looking for you. Where’d you go?” Soap’s mouth turns downward and he leans in, inhaling deeply. “Why the fuck do you smell like pus—”

“Piss off, Johnny,” mutters Simon, pushing past him and heading toward Riot Room’s front entrance.

Simon shoves himself through a dancing couple, not caring that they both give him nasty looks. He could give a fuck. Simon wants you. He needs you.

“Lt!” Simon ignores Soap. “Simon!”

He keeps going, descending the stairs even as Soap chases after him. Distantly, Simon hears Gaz and Price calling after him, but he doesn’t turn around to look.

“Simon,” says Soap, grabbing Simon’s shoulder in an attempt to stop him. It doesn’t work. Simon shakes him off, his gaze fixated on the cab that’s pulling away from the curb.

He watches you through the window. You’re looking right at him, and Simon suddenly feels incomplete, as if without you, his story is unfinished.

Simon rejects this outcome.

You. Are. His.

In the light, Riot Room is a bloody joke.

Simon observers the club from across the street, leaning against a light pole while he pretends to read the morning paper. Riot Room closed hours ago, and a few hours before that Simon was having it off in its basement green room.

You ran from him, and Simon didn’t even have the chance to secure your number. A first name and a face can go a long way, but if you’re not in a system somewhere, he might not be able to find you, and Simon is good at finding people.

He takes a long, final drag of his cigarette before putting it out and depositing it in the correct trash receptacle. Curling his fingers under the edge of the balaclava, Simon returns his mask to its proper place.

Tucking the morning paper under his arm, Simon glances both ways before strolling casually across the road. He does not walk up to Riot Room. Not directly. Instead of the front door, Simon heads for the alley where you made your confession.

The alley entrance to Riot Room is shut. The gate is in place and it’s all chained up, but that won’t stop Simon. Executing his mission and securing his goal drives him to break a few rules on occasion.

And you are the exception.

Moving like his namesake, Simon slides into Ghost, becoming one with the shadows. He hauls himself up and over the gate, landing quietly on the ground. The stairway to the basement is right there, and Simon takes it. When he arrives at the door, Simon tests the handle.

It’s unlocked.

Simon smirks behind the balaclava. The chained gate is a delusional sense of safety that makes people careless. And whoever closed last night is certainly that.

When the door opens, the overhead light flicks on. Removing his tools from his pocket, Simon starts picking doors until he finds what he’s looking for.

The security room is small, only big enough for the monitors and a small desk. Simon boots it up. But the moment it warms up, and its information is revealed to him, all his confidence goes out the door.

Over half of the cameras in this place don’t work. The ones that do all have grainy, almost indecipherable video. Simon checks each working camera feed, rewinding until he finds you entering Riot Room.

From there, Simon tracks your steps, but there is absolutely no fucking way he’s going to find a clear image of your face. In all the crowd shots, you are one with the masses. Unfindable.

The only other working camera is the one in the basement hallway, but even that is grainy. The few seconds your face is on the screen is when you were running from him, and your face is entirely blurry.

“Fuck,” mutters Simon. Then, louder. “Fuck!”

Growling, Simon downloads the videos. Once done, he goes back and erases all record of you from their achieve.

Simon holds the data in his gloved palm. He curls his fist around it, silently hoping that this will be the piece that leads him to you.

Now (Three Years Later)

When Simon opens his eyes, the wood panel ceiling of his bedroom grins back at him. The boards warp into a vicious, mocking smile and the nails are the teeth. Simon cannot look away. His gaze is glued to the ceiling, fixated as if obsessed with the slowly melting image.

Against the tips of his fingers, Simon senses something warm and wet. There’s a snort—a sound that seems so distant even in his room. Instead of the wood, Simon focuses in on the sensation against his fingers. It burrows, sliding all the way to his palm. His hand is lifted from the bed, and feeling returns.

Slowly, Simon’s fingers bend.

It’s a snout. A familiar one.

Bravo.

As if reading his mind, the all-black German Shepard whines. Simon blinks a few times and the wood panels in the ceiling return to normal.

“Hey, Bravo,” murmurs Simon, the raspy gruffness of sleep still clinging to his voice.

Using his head, Bravo positions Simon’s hand between his ears. Simon laughs and scratches the spot behind Bravo’s left ear that he loves so much. Oddly enough, it’s the same spot Riley always liked.

But Riley is gone. Has been for many years.

Simon hits a spot that sends Bravo’s tail into a whirlwind, spinning like a helo’s blades. The swirling tail kicks up the air and Simon shivers. He lightly tugs on the tip of Bravo’s ear which earns him a lick and a pathetic whine.

Shaking his head, Simon slowly sits up, groaning as he does. Everything fucking hurts. It always does in the morning. He sits up completely, leaning against the bed’s headboard. Simon runs his hand over his face before threading his fingers through his hair, tugging absently on the ends, reaching for his cellphone on the nightstand.

“Fuck,” he groans, and it’s for various reasons.

It’s early. Too. Fucking. Early. There’s still another hour before his alarm is set to go off. But that isn’t the only thing holding his attention.

Simon opens the unanswered text messages and frowns.

I had fun the other night.

We should do it again.

Below the texts is a half-naked photo of the woman he fucked a few nights ago. It’s a goddamn good picture, but Simon isn’t interested in her. They agreed on it being a one-time thing. It’s not like her or anyone else’s touch could ever replace what Simon truly wants.

It’s been three fucking years and yet Simon can’t get the fuck over it.

Simon locks his phone, deciding to deal with it later. He’ll politely—but forwardly—say that he isn’t interested. Because he isn’t. There are certain needs, specific urges that occasionally need to be satiated, but Simon never takes it further than that.

His right shoulder and upper bicep throb as if the burn scars aren’t scars at all but fresh wounds. They’re two years old now, and they healed well, but the nerves underneath still act up from time to time. The doctors told him the damage there might be permanent.

Other than his shoulder, his right leg is stiff and slightly swollen. It almost always is in the morning. This injury healed like shit, and Simon deals with it every day. He could take pain medication for it, but Simon isn’t interested in consuming narcotics.

Simon knows what that can do to a person. He’d rather be in pain than consume the things that made his father who he was. He refuses to be anything like that man.

Bravo’s wet nose pushes against Simon’s bare thigh. Simon tilts his head to the side and smiles. Bravo taps him again, the dog’s dark eyes nearly blending into his black coat.

“Ready to start the day?” Simon asks in a murmur, reaching out with his good arm to scratch between and around Bravo’s ears.

Bravo leans into the scratches, his eyes closing slightly with contentment.

Ever since Simon’s forced retirement, Bravo has been his constant companion. It’s not like Simon wanted to leave. Price, Gaz, and Soap didn’t want it either. But Simon took a beating—a bloody fucking awful one. He was out for months, and by that point, SAS was pushing for retirement.

The upside to that goddamn fucking mess is the tattoo parlor. The retirement package SAS offered Simon, along with a hefty incentive, finally convinced him to step back. SAS not only paid for the parlor and Simon’s flat, but the entire building.

He owns it. The property is his. And that has given him purpose again.

Simon tosses the blankets off his body and then immediately covers up the rager pointing up at him. “Fuck,” he mutters, slowly shifting to the edge of the bed.

Everything pops and cracks against each other. The crunching sound of his joints is loud in the quiet of his bedroom. Simon sits on the edge of the bed, both feet flat on the floor, hands on the edge, and his head down.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, not wanting to stand but knowing he has to.

Bravo jumps off the bed and pads to Simon’s side. He sits, head and ears indicating his alertness. When Simon doesn’t immediately stand up, Bravo lifts his paw and sets it on Simon’s good knee.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches in a hint of a smile. “I’m ace, Bravo. Promise.” Bravo removes his paw but stays by Simon’s side.

Simon sits up, hands on his thighs, and rolls his shoulders until they pop, releasing tension. It’s instant pleasure, and Simon repeats the process until the muscles in his arms move without issue. He does the same thing with his elbow and wrist joints, finally reaching above his head to pop his spine.

Once his muscles are warm and relaxed, Simon pushes up off the bed. At first, he limps, but once he’s in the bathroom, everything is fine. It’s a temporary blip. Simon scrubs his face and then grabs his toothbrush, popping it into his mouth along with toothpaste.

He’s so absorbed in it that when he straightens abruptly to stretch a spasming back muscle, Simon accidently smacks his erection against the porcelain rim.

“Fucking hell,” barks Simon, bending over slightly, clutching his toothbrush in one hand.

Bravo barks from the bedroom, and Simon sticks his head out the bathroom door.

“You don’t need my permission to take a piss.” Bravo’s front paws tap repeatedly against the floor, the nails clack clack clacking away. “You have a fucking door, Bravo. Go.”

Bravo bolts from the bedroom. Simon waits until he hears the flap of the dog door before returning to the bathroom. Sighing, he leans against the doorframe and palms himself. If he clears his mind, this will be over quickly.

Several minutes later and Simon is gripping the toothbrush so hard he might just snap it in two. He spits into the sink and returns the toothbrush to its home inside the medicine cabinet. What Simon is about to do is a last resort. Not that it’s shameful, but that he wishes for the real thing and not the simple trinket.

Simon steps back into the bedroom, his gaze falling on the dresser in the corner. Slowly, he strides across the floor, pausing once he’s there. His hands hover just shy of the handle of the drawer before he yanks it open.

What Simon seeks is right there, staring back at him. Simon reaches in and lifts the shredded, lace underwear. The image of it tearing away from your body as he pulled lives rent free in his head. He plays it on a loop.

The woman it belongs to is long gone, and not finding you again is one of the biggest regrets of his life.

Simon had one night—no. One night is incorrect. The two of you had only a moment together. An hour or two at the most.

No. Not a full night. If the two of you actually had a full night together, you would be in his bed right now. It would be your hand stroking him and not his own.

That is what Simon intended when he was inside you. In his head, he planned on taking you away from Riot Room and the crowd. To get you alone. To go somewhere private where Simon could fuck you properly without the fear of being interrupted. He wanted to understand your delicate lines, and where they ended. He wanted your harshness. Your attention.

The moment you bumped into him; you were his.

Simon still feels that way. In the dark, when sleep is an absent companion, Simon imagines what it would be like to possess you. To know that you alone belong to him.

But you are not his woman.

And you are not in his bed.

You are…wherever you are.

You ran from him, and Simon remembers every detail of that flight. The shaking of your hands as you adjusted your skirt bothers him still even after three years. In the moment, Simon thought he hurt you, but right before you left the green room, you glanced at him. And Simon knew—he knew—you wanted to stay with him.

But why didn’t you? Why did you run?

Simon rolls the delicate lace between his fingers. Your scent is long gone from the material. That is of little significance to Simon. The memory of you brands him. Like his scars and tattoos, you are amongst them, but under them, buried deep within his body. Every angle, every curve, every soft sigh and sound are their own ink.

Defeat is bitter. He tried. Really, he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most about it. Not that you left him but that Simon couldn’t find you after. You evaporated like rainwater.

Simon will never be rid of you. You are a ghost. A haunting that dwells within himself.

He returns to the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, clutching that lace underwear in his fist. Simon recalls the encounter like it was only yesterday. He licks his lips, imagining your taste, and how he learned your flavor from more than just your mouth.

The groan Simon lets out as he finishes into his hand should only be for your ears. But you’re not here, and the reality of that settles over him as he washes off his hand. He dries off and pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants.

Simon exits the bedroom just as Bravo comes back in through the dog door. Simon’s flat is right above the tattoo parlor which makes his trip to work a short one. Bravo follows along behind as Simon enters the second bedroom. The space is now a personal gym, and this morning, Simon needs to rage.

Using his phone, Simon engages the Bluetooth speaker. Shredding, heavy metal comes blasting out of it and Simon sets to work on the boxing bag. When that doesn’t quell the burn under his skin, Simon takes Bravo for a run.

None of it helps. Not even in the shower when Simon has to jerk one out again.

Simon lies to himself. It’s the picture on his phone that has him worked up and not the remembrance of you. That is what he tells himself as he enters the kitchen and pauses at the dining table.

Resting on top is a small box. Simon received it yesterday. It’s open, and Simon reaches inside, smiling down at the note he holds in his hand.

Looks like you got that brag rag, Lt. Congratulations, you’re a winner.

“Cheeky bastard,” smirks Simon, tossing the plain, white notecard onto the table.

Inside the little box Soap sent is one of those cheap coffee mugs that you can get engraved with whatever you want. On this one, it’s a photo of Soap and Gaz doing a very serious thumbs up pose next to a snoozing Price.

At the bottom of the box is a magazine. UK Ink it reads at the top. On the cover is Simon. But not Simon. No. It’s Ghost on the cover. That’s the face of 141 Ink. Simon’s customers don’t know him by any other name.

In the photo, Ghost wears all black everything except the balaclava. The skeleton mouth at the bottom of the fabric is the only splash of color on him, but they have enhanced his eyelashes a bit, highlighting the paleness. Simon doesn’t mind the creative freedom.

It’s a special edition of UK Ink, and Simon won top prize of “Best Tattoo Artist.” It’s certainly deserved—Simon has worked hard over the past two years. While Simon appreciates the recognition, it’ll only add to his already busy schedule.

Stuck to the bottom corner of the magazine is a sticky note with another message from Johnny.

Make sure to sign this for me, Lt.

Simon carries the mug to the kitchen counter and makes himself his morning tea before setting Bravo’s breakfast out. The German Shepard munches contentedly while Simon chugs down a protein shake. The texture is shit and he doesn’t understand how anyone could enjoy it, but he has to drink them now.

Technically, Simon’s body is still healing. It’s a fucking shame, but at this point it’s simply a fact of life. He spent the first couple months of recovery trying to figure out where the fuck it all went wrong. It only got worse when SAS started pushing for retirement.

Simon believed he fucked up, and that they didn’t want him anymore. He passed all the psych evals and even some of the physical tests. But he didn’t pass all of them, and some he couldn’t do at all.

It was Price that convinced Simon to finally put his service aside and do something else.

My job is to look after you, Simon. Listen to me on this.

Simon rinses out the mug and heads back to the bedroom. He dons his persona, slipping into Ghost like a second skin. Bravo waits patiently in the hallway until Simon emerges, the two of them taking the back stairway into the parlor’s backroom.

Simon flips on the light and then steps through the curtain that acts as a partition between the backroom and main parlor. He disengages the alarm system and unlocks the three deadbolts. Once done, Simon opens the door, guiding the doorstopper with the toe of his boot. The shop is often stuffy in the morning, and the fresh air always seems to add a bit of lightness to the space.

When Simon steps away from the door, Bravo promptly makes a home in the early morning sun.

The aroma of coffee, freshly baked bread, and sugar form the bakery two shops down floats in from outside. It tingles Simon’s senses, and he briefly considers going down there to snag a chocolate croissant before they’re all gone. Bravo can watch the shop.

Opening his work laptop, Simon checks his calendar, taking note of all the clients he’s seeing today. Simon is the sole artist and piercer for 141 Ink. He’s been booked up for months, and him on to cover of UK Ink is only going to make that schedule even more cramped. A second artist or two would be helpful, but Simon doesn’t trust easy, and the process alone to hire someone is already a daunting task.

Simon opens up his business email and grimaces. The number of emails in his inbox doubled overnight. It’ll easily take him a week or more just to sort through it all, especially if more pile up on top of it.

Sighing, Simon pushes off from his desk and starts to set-up for the day. He checks through and tests all his guns, takes a quick inventory of his needles, and sanitizes all customer surfaces just in case he forgot the night before. He never does, but at this point it’s a habit.

Standing next to the tattoo chair, Simon sets a metal tray on top of his rolling cart. It clanks loudly and Simon winces, the sound sending a momentary spike of adrenaline through his body.

“What the fuck is wrong with me today?” mutters Simon, the agitation still lingering on his senses.

As if answering his question, the air in the room shifts. Simon freezes, his hand hovering just above one of his tools. Slowly, Simon turns, checking out the rest of the parlor, unsure of where this unease is originating from.

Bravo moved but that’s it. The dog is calm.

Frowning behind the balaclava, Simon pivots fully and the entire world comes thundering down around him.

There is a woman standing in the doorway. She clutches a coffee cup in one hand and a brown bag in the other. Simon can smell the butter from across the shop. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted slightly in surprise.

He knows those lips. He’s kissed them, tasted them, watched as they opened to swallow him down.

It’s you. And that is impossible. Of everyone it could be, how could it possibly be you.

Fuck thinks Simon. Bloody fucking hell.

You take one step back as Simon takes a step forward. His hands fall to his sides and his back straightens. Every muscle within him is coiled like a serpent ready to strike. If this is you, he’s not letting you go again.

Simon won’t allow it.

Everything about you is the same. The only difference Simon notices is the slight tiredness under your eyes. He wants to rub it away, to chase away whatever it is that kept you up in the night.

You shake your head and take another step backward.

Ghost takes two.

You turn on your heel, and bolt.

The moment you disappear, the moment you sprint past the door, Simon is off like a shot. Sliding onto the pavement, Simon pauses, the hunter in him focusing on his prey. Bravo barks but Simon ignores him.

Simon’s gaze zeroes in, and then he’s running, even when his bad leg screams out in protest. You round a corner, and Simon is closing in.

When he comes around the curve, Simon slams into someone. He ricochets off, the force of it throwing him into a nearby flower bush.

“Watch it you FUCKING WANKER!”

Simon growls and hurls himself to his feet, snarling as he brushes off leaves, flower petals, and tiny twigs. The person he ran into, the man who hurled the insult, immediately pales upon seeing him emerge from the flower bush. Simon doesn’t even apologize.

He searches the street in the direction you ran.

Nothing. You are nowhere.

Simon turns on the man and grabs him by the collar. “Did you see a woman?”

“What?”

“Just. Now,” growls Simon, growing agitated.

The man shakes his head and Simon drops him. Before the man’s feet hit the pavement, Simon is already jogging down the street, searching for any sign of you.

All he sees are houses, cars, and strangers’ faces. You have vanished yet again.

Bravo’s cold nose pushes against the palm of Simon’s hand. He glances down at the German Shepard. “You’re supposed to be watching the shop.”

Bravo whines and Simon turns his back on the street, questioning whether he actually saw you at all.

Chapter Text

Sticky.

Sweaty.

Chest heaving.

Legs shaking.

And none of it the pleasant kind.

Your coffee is gone. It is somewhere down the street, splattered across the pavement, and likely creeping toward a storm drain. Whatever didn’t land on the ground spilled on you. It is in your hair. On your face. Smeared over the front of your coat.

The entryway floor of Amelia’s home is your refuge. You’re seated on the linoleum with your back against the door and legs outstretched in front of you. With shaking hands, you reach above your head to double-check the deadbolt. It’s locked, and yet it doesn’t smother the racing of your pulse.

How could it? You’re seeing things. Hallucinating. Who you saw simply isn’t possible. Of all the people in the world, how could it be him? How could it be Ghost? Your wraith. The man you took a risk on. The man who worshipped your body as if you were the only thing he’s ever wanted.

For a second time, you ran. Turned tail. Bolted.

Why? Why do you always run from everything? Why do you dart away the moment you start to get close? That’s the reality of your ineptitude to figure your shit out. When Ghost held you in his arms afterward, when those large, veiny hands of his caressed and squeezed your thighs, realization came charging toward you like a herd of stampeding animals. Yes, it was sex, but there were smaller moments—flashes of emotion—that you felt within yourself and radiating from him.

After it was done, you knew. The look of rejection and determination in his eyes when you glimpsed him through the cab’s rear passenger window only confirmed what you already understood. Your wraith claimed you in Riot Room’s green room. He branded you, inked your skin, took you within himself and then etched his essence into your flesh.

You told yourself in that moment that you would never be free of him.

And you were right. Unequivocally correct.

Not only did you run a second time, but he chased after you again. That realization is almost as earth-shaking as the fact that he’s just two streets over from Amelia’s home. Your wraith is within reach, and he still wants you, even after three goddamn years.

No, you say to yourself. It’s not possible.

Now you’re just making shit up to feel better. He can’t want you—can’t desire you after all this time. Ghost must have thought you were someone else, or he wants an explanation on why you left him hanging.

Is he someone who holds grudges? Will he threaten you like way he did that man who puts his hands on you?

I’ve killed men over less.

Unlikely. That wouldn’t make sense. While a pillar of darkness, with you, Ghost was anything but. The very idea of him being rough with you is immediately dismissed.

“Fuck,” you whisper at the ceiling. You blink rapidly and realize you’re crying.

One tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand. It’s the hand that held the coffee, and the sticky residue rubs against your skin, causing you to flinch away from your own touch.

Evie’s laugh startles you out of your stupor. You hear Amelia’s gentle chuckle as well. Their voices drift toward you from the direction of the kitchen. They can’t see you on the floor like this. You need to pull yourself together. Covering up the spilled coffee that stains your face and your clothes isn’t possible, but you can easily pass it off as a slip up. It’s these fucking tears you need to control.

As you shift forward in an attempt to try and drag yourself off the floor, the brown sack with the croissants scrunches under your fist. You glance down at it and wince. It’s smashed. Croissants are delicate, and they’re probably nothing but crumbs now.

You want to laugh but you’re afraid it might sound like you’re drowning. This entire situation is fucking awful. Ridiculous. You have no idea what to do about Ghost. And should you even care in the first place?

There is no debt owed. There are no strings with a hookup. Why are you spinning this idea that you are required to do anything about any of this? Ghost is not your responsibility, and a one-time hookup does not make you obligated to be his…anything?

The phantom of Ghost’s hands upon your thighs comes creeping up to the forefront of your mind. The slow drag of his fingers over your skin is so tangible that for a moment you almost believe that he’s really here, touching you, wanting to be closer.

Evie laughs again and that solidifies your resolve. You came to England for her. Evie’s husband is dead. He is in the ground and she is eight months pregnant. There is only you and Amelia here to take care of her. Evie is your priority.

Not Ghost.

Not your wraith.

“Fuck,” you repeat. Somehow, that one small word makes you feel a little better.

Peeling yourself off the linoleum is like removing a stubborn book cover sticker. It’ll either be perfect, or a straight up mess. You fall somewhere in between that spectrum.

As you enter the kitchen, Evie and Amelia don’t appear to notice you at first. They’re in deep conversation, and it isn’t until you’re nearly at the small breakfast table that they both realize you’re in the room with them. Evie’s stunning smile falters when her gaze falls on you. It’s a slow transition as she begins to take in your appearance.

Her eyes widen in concern. “What happened? Are you okay?” Evie starts to stand but you hold up a hand.

“I tripped,” you answer. It’s not exactly a lie. You did trip in your efforts to outrun your wraith.

Evie doesn’t need to know that information just yet, especially with Amelia sitting right there. You’ll have to tell Evie what happened, even though the very idea swirls the anxiety in your stomach around until you think you might puke what little coffee you did manage to consume before it met the pavement.

Evie settles back in the chair but the concern hasn’t left her face. “Hurt?”

Not physically.

“I’m fine,” you reply, setting the brown bag on the table. “But I’m a little worried for the croissants.”

Amelia grabs the bag and peers inside. “Oh dear. Well. At least you’re uninjured. That’s the most important thing.”

Using the table as a support, Amelia pushes up from her chair, and heads for the kitchen counter. Reaching into one of the cabinets, Amelia produces a large plate. Returning to the table, Amelia gently opens the bag and slides out the croissants onto the plate. An avalanche of broken golden pastry and crumbs follow.

You wince at the sight of the crushed croissants. “I’m going to change.”

Amelia arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps a shower?” She gestures toward your head, indicating the remains of the latte that have dried in the strands.

“That too,” you mutter, removing your coat and heading for the stairs.

After you shower out the coffee in your hair, you’re left with the final crushed croissant, and the rest of your day is spent making various phone calls on Evie’s behalf. By bedtime, you’re still working, but this time on actual paid work.

Evie sits up, propped against the headboard as she reads a book. You’re spread out at the end of the bed on your stomach, scrolling through emails.

“Evie?” you ask into the quiet.

“Yeah?” she replies, not looking up from her book.

You rest your chin on your elbow. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Evie marks her page in her book and sets it on the bedside table, resting one hand on her bulging belly. “What’s on your mind?”

Your work email pings and you briefly glance at it. Sighing, you turn back to Evie, ignoring the new email. After breakfast and the ridiculous amount of phone calls, you spent the rest of your time editing an instructional manual for a furniture company. The deadline is approaching, and you thought work might take your mind off the morning’s events.

But it didn’t. And your mind is still a swirling storm of anxiety that just won’t abate. You cannot stop thinking about Ghost and the intense look in his eyes when he realized it was you. The brief surprise became hardened determination, and that is what pushed you to bolt. Couple that with him chasing after you, and you’re an overflowing pot of boiling water.

Closing your work laptop, you push it to the side, sitting up until you’re fully facing Evie.

“Is it about this morning?” she asks softly.

How is this woman so goddamn intuitive? That kid isn’t going to get away with anything.

“Yes,” you reply slowly, drawing out the s a bit.

Her brows crease, and suddenly, Evie looks ready to fight God. “If someone hurt you—”

“No,” you say quickly, holding up both hands. “Stop. I’m fine. I’m just…” You trail off and then sigh heavily, rubbing your face with both hands as you try to figure out what it is you want to say.

Evie doesn’t speak. She waits until you’re ready.

Your hands drop to your lap. “I saw him this morning.”

Evie frowns. “Saw…him?”

You nod and lean forward a bit. “Him.”

Evie blinks, her lips parting slightly as her brain starts to piece the puzzle together. As it all starts to fall into place, Evie shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re having a laugh.”

Groaning, you throw yourself down on the bed, face-first. “I wish that I was,” you say, turning your head so your voice isn’t muffled.

“Are you sure it was him? Absolutely sure?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“That is not true,” says Evie with a bit of bite to her tone. “I’m just trying to process how it’s possible.”

“You and me both.”

Evie adjusts on the bed, and sits up a bit more. “But where did you see him? And more importantly, did he see you?” You wince, and Evie groans. “Tell me from the beginning. All of it. From the moment you left the house to when you returned. Every. Detail.”

Rolling onto your back, you tell Evie everything, all of it rushing out of you like water moving out of a tipped glass.

“Oh shit,” murmurs Evie as she absently rubs her belly.

“No kidding.”

“And it’s the same one from Riot Room? Ghost? That guy?”

You nod. “I am one hundred percent sure on that.”

Evie stares off into space for a few seconds while she absently rubs at the underside of her belly. She turns toward you abruptly as if yanked from her thoughts. “I need to see this man for myself.”

You bolt upright. “Absolutely not.”

Evie shrugs. “Then tag along if you’re that concerned.”

“That is not the point, Evelyn Green.” You throw one arm out to emphasize your point. “Ghost is in the past. We had sex—”

Evie interrupts. “According to you, it was,” she raises both hands, creating air quotes around the next words, “best sex you’ve ever had.”

“We had sex once,” you continue. “What more is there to say? I don’t need to dwell on him.”

Evie rolls her eyes. “Please. After that night, you changed. We all saw it. Even if none of us said anything to you at the time.”

You pause, pulling back a bit. “What do you mean?”

Evie sighs heavily. “I saw Ghost chase after you. I saw him standing on the curb. I saw him watching the cab drive off. And I saw your face when you turned away from staring at him.” Her head tilts to the side a bit. “The emotion on your face. It was like…it was like you knew you had just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

“Evie—”

“Shut up and listen to me.” She takes a breath. “Sorry. It’s the hormones. I’ve been moodier lately.”

And your husband is dead.

Evie winces as she adjusts on the bed. “When we arrived back to the hotel from Riot Room, did you realize you were smiling like an idiot in love? I know who you were thinking about. You told us every detail in the cab. And as you talked, you couldn’t stop grinning.” Evie removes her hand from her belly to rub at her lower back.

You stare down at your hands.

“A man doesn’t chase after someone he doesn’t want. Then you tell me that this morning, he ran after you? It’s been three years, and he still tried to catch you.” Evie shakes her head. “What isn’t clicking here?”

You open your mouth and Evie points at you. “Don’t make an excuse. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Then what’s your plan?” you sigh, playing with the hem of your shirt.

Evie’s lips purse and she rubs her round belly absently. “There’s a little café across the street. We can camp out. Watch the shop.”

“So we’re going to stalk him?” you ask skeptically.

“Yes!” Evie holds out a hand. “Give me your computer.”

Reluctantly, you do so. Evie rests it on her stomach. Opening it up, she starts clicking and typing away at the keyboard.

“What’s the name of the shop?” she asks without looking away from the screen.

“One-four-one ink,” you reply, scooting up beside her.

The tip of her Evie’s tongue is between her teeth. She taps away at the keyboard, entirely focused. She looks like Jade right now who always knows all the loopholes in finding shit out about people.

“Ha! Look at that.”

You lean closer and glance at the screen. You meet those dark eyes framed by pale eyelashes that look like halos. It’s Ghost on your computer screen. There is no doubt.

“That’s him,” you whisper.

Evie clicks through the various pages on 141 Ink’s website. Most of it contains information about services, ways to contact the shop, and a gallery of Ghost’s work. There is a very small “About” section that vaguely describes the start of 141 Ink, but nothing jumps out at you. It’s only two sentences worth of information. Other than that, the site is fairly normal.

All of this is right in front of you, and yet you still don’t have any additional information about this man. Ghost is just that. A ghost. A stranger. And yet, when you were in his arms, it felt so natural and comfortable.

Evie grabs her phone off the bedside table and opens Instagram. She enters 141 Ink into the search bar and taps on a result. She grins and hands you her phone. “Look at this. The guy has some serious talent.”

The photos and videos on 141 Ink’s Instagram are a lot more personal than the ones on the website. While many show pictures of completed piercings and tattoos, there are some that are much softer. Like the black German Shepard you noticed basking in the sun on the shop’s floor. There is a photo of him snoozing next to a waiting customer.

It’s personal. Sweet. And you can’t help but smile at it.

And Evie is right. Ghost is incredibly talented. Some of the work is simple and straightforward, but there are many more artistic pieces. They’re gorgeous, as if you’re looking into someone’s fever dream. The color, highlights, and dimension are all unnaturally realistic. Ghost certainly as an eye for this.

It’s such a strange thing to look at all this work, and think about Ghost. When you first met him, Ghost was a haunting shadow. A creature out of hell. Tattoo artists don’t have that same kind of aura to them. At the time, the possibility seemed out of the question. Ghost oozed danger, and you were certain he was going to snap the man’s neck who put his hands on you.

I’ve killed men over less.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Fine,” you finally concede. “We’ll scope the place out from the café across the street. But I am not talking to him.”

Evie rolls her eyes and laughs. “Sure thing.” She closes up your laptop and you take it from her, placing it on top of the nearby desk.

You slide in under the covers, and Evie returns to her book.

The following morning, you and Evie head for the little café across the street from 141 Ink. The sign outside the café says The Bird, and the logo is a blackbird on a branch. The inside is warm. Cozy. It’s early enough that you and Evie snag a corner table next to the window. Not knowing how long you’ll be there, Evie over orders as compensation for the server’s lost time.

When the food is delivered, the table is covered without a spare place to set anything down. It’s an absurd display, but Evie has money to spend, and the two of you will likely be here for several hours.

You fill up your coffee cup and the server tops off your mimosa glass. Evie stuffs her mouth full of pancakes. When the server turns around to leave, Evie grabs her backpack, digging around inside.

“Have some spy gear in there?” you joke, not expecting Evie to remove a pair of binoculars. You set your mimosa flute down on the table and cross your arms. “What is that?”

“It’s for research,” says Evie, shrugging her shoulders. She scans the café with narrowed eyes and then twists toward the window, holding the binoculars up to her face.

“I don’t know you,” you mutter, picking the flute back up to take a long sip. The bubbles in the champagne tickle your tongue, and you decide to swallow down the rest. It’s not like you’re driving. The two of you walked here.

Evie drops the binoculars from her face just as the server comes back to the table. You politely set the champagne flute down and the server uses their pitcher to refill your glass.

“Thank you,” you reply as they nod and turn to leave.

“What time does the shop open again?” asks Evie as she munches on a mouthful of pancake. “You said it was early.”

“It’s way past time now. I’m guessing the time I saw him wasn’t the actual opening time.”

Evie frowns and then holds the binoculars up to her face again. “I don’t see any movement inside.”

“This is absurd,” you say, waving your hand in the air.

“Wait!” Evie lowers the binoculars and you glance out the window.

Your eyes narrow slightly, gaze focusing in on the door of 141 Ink. There is movement. A shadow. A brief pause, and then, the door is opening.

Ghost is standing right there in the doorway as he guides the doorstop with the toe of his sneakers. He wears black joggers, a black t-shirt, and a zip up hoodie that’s open in the front. The hood is down but he’s wearing his signature balaclava. Beside him, the German Shepard appears momentarily before disappearing back inside.

Evie sighs appreciatively. “He is so large. Was he like that when the two of you hooked up? I never really got a good look at him.”

Maybe it’s the space between you and Ghost that makes you feel safe in your observation of him. He is the same, perhaps a bit softer in a few places where the muscles aren’t nearly so defined anymore, but you couldn’t really say for sure. From this distance, Ghost appears the same, but then again, you didn’t actually see all of him.

“He hasn’t changed,” you answer. “Not that I can tell.”

Evie chews around some pancake and then swallows. “I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Absolutely not, Evelyn Green.”

Evie points her fork at you. “Listen, bitch.”

“Evie,” you hiss, glancing around the café to see if anyone heard.

“I am trying to help you,” she says simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to go talk to this man. “And since you’re not going to do it. I’m going.” Evie stands up and cradles her belly, nearly waddling to the door.

“Evie,” you call out, but she ignores you.

You watch in horror as Evie crosses the street and strolls up to the open door of 141 Ink. She knocks on it, waves—likely at Ghost or the dog—and then steps inside. You itch to reach across the table and snag the binoculars to see what Evie is up to in there.

“Oh my god,” you murmur to the air, tossing back the rest of your mimosa.

Several minutes later, Evie reappears in the doorway, and you sigh with relief. But when she steps outside, Ghost follows her. He offers her his arm, and she takes it. The black German Shepard stands guard in the doorway as Ghost escorts Evie to the edge of the road.

When Ghost glances to the left, Evie looks up, sees you, and eagerly points at him with a big grin on her face. Ghost glances to the right, then the left again, before helping Evie across the road. When they make it to the sidewalk, they keep walking as Evie gestures at the door to the café.

Ghost opens the door for her, and when Evie steps inside, her grin is downright smug when she notices you. You can’t run this time. There is no escape from this.

“Thank you,” says Evie as she slides into her seat, her hand on her belly.

“People drive fast on that road,” he replies.

Ghost turns to leave and freezes when he sees you sitting there. You watch as his pupils dilate. Science says that when human eyes dilate like that, it’s because they see someone they love. It’s also a sign of the biological need to reproduce. And you’re watching it happen in real time with Ghost.

Your mouth does not form words. Instead, you simply stare, and Ghost stares back.

Ghost blinks and then he’s almost shaking his head like he’s not sure of where he is. “Enjoy your meal,” he says.

Your gaze drops, noticing the way his hands clench and unclench. You’ve seen him do it before. At Riot Room. When he hesitated in the seconds before touching you.

Ghost exits through the door, and your gaze follows him. He pauses right outside The Bird’s large window. Ghost pushes up his balaclava to his nose and lights a cigarette.

You follow him out the door where he pauses to push up his balaclava and light a cigarette. Then he’s jogging across the street, leaning against his tattoo shop to smoke. Ghost is looking directly at you, and you cannot stop staring back.

Those dark eyes are stones that crush your bones, and no one can pull you from your torment expect him.

It isn’t until he puts his cigarette out and goes inside his shop that you release a deep sigh. Turning back to Evie, you groan at the sight of her feral grin.

“How could you?”

Her grin only widens. “You’re going to be thanking me once you talk to him.”

“What did you say to him?” you ask, exasperated. Evie shrugs, and stuffs more pancake into her mouth, saying nothing. “Evelyn Green, I swear to God.”

Evie stuffs another mouthful of pancake into her mouth. The server reaches out to snag an empty plate and you address them, needing something strong. “Can you leave the mimosa pitcher?”

“Sure,” she laughs, bringing it back a minute later. You immediately pour yourself another glass and stare down at your own breakfast which is entirely untouched.

Evie points to your plate with her fork. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No. I’m getting drunk instead.”

The moment you and Evie return home, Amelia is already in the kitchen with a kettle on for tea.

“How was breakfast?” asks Amelia as she starts setting everything out on the table.

“Amazing!” beams Evie, nearly bouncing on her toes.

“Fine,” you reply, voice monotone.

Evie grabs your arms and gives it a good shake. “We should tell Amelia.”

“Absolutely n—”

You don’t even get your words out before Evie is charging forward. “Do you want to hear who we ran in to at breakfast?”

“Amelia doesn’t need to hear that.”

“Hush,” says Evie, waving you off. “Amelia, are you familiar with the tattoo parlor just a street or two over. Across from the café we went to?”

Amelia nods. “Oh, yes. I’ve chatted with the young man that owns it. Very nice. Very,” Amelia holds her arms wide. “Large. Those muscles on him always impressed me.”

Evie grins and you slouch into a seat. “During my bachelorette party, this one ran off with him for a bit.” Evie points at you over her shoulder.

Amelia tilts her head slightly in confusion and Evie makes a gesture with her hands replicating intercourse.

“Oh,” laughs Amelia, turning in your direction. “Did you?”

The kettle shrieks and Amelia takes it off the burner, carrying it over to the little table, setting it down on a neatly folded towel. Evie takes a seat to your left while Amelia sits across from you.

“I need every detail.” Amelia starts assembling the tea and you slouch further in the chair.

You leave out the act itself, not wanting to detail to Amelia exactly how good Ghost was in that green room.

“And you ran from him?” ask Amelia slowly.

“Twice!” says Evie and Amelia shakes her head in disappointment.

“It’s done,” you reply sharply. “It’s in the past. We need to let this go. I need to let this go.”

Amelia leans back in her chair. “This sounds like a second chance to me. Why don’t you go talk to him? At least find a bit of closure.”

Evie places her elbows on the table. “Or get it on in the tattoo parlor.”

“That too,” nods Amelia.

The alcohol sits heavy in your stomach. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Suit yourself, but tomorrow we’re all going to the pub. On Sunday’s I go to the Dancing Faun. The owner always puts on American baseball on the telly for me.”

“You watch American baseball?” you ask skeptically.

“Oh, yes.” She leans forward as if she’s passing on a secret. “It’s the uniforms.”

Evie cackles, and you roll your eyes.

The next day, near lunchtime, you, Evie, and Amelia all head to the Dancing Fauna. It’s on the same street that The Bird and 141 Ink are on. Amelia assured the both of you that it’s usually an older crowd and that people around your age typically don’t venture inside unless everything else is packed.

Which means you won’t see Ghost. You can cure your headache with more alcohol and call it good.

The outside of Dancing Faun is a deep, forest green with gold accents. The door is solid black. Amelia pushes on it and Evie follows behind with you bringing up the rear. It’s fairly dark inside. The only light comes from a few hanging lamps above the bar and along the wall. Several televisions display various sports including rugby and soccer.

“Amelia! Usual spot?”

You glance to the right and notice the bartender. He’s roughly middle-aged, likely leaning toward the higher end of forty.

“You know it, Ben,” replies Amelia.

“Already have it on. And you brought guests.” Ben’s voice is gruff but his smile is kind.

“Just the two. And only one is drinking.” Amelia gestures at Evie. “This one will need some tea and perhaps something to eat?”

Ben nods and wipes his hands with a bar towel, already moving into action.

Your gaze takes in the rest of the bar. There are only three people taking up seats. Two sit close to each other but with one chair between them. The third person is at the end of the bar, closest to the door and what looks like an entryway that leads to a flight of stairs and perhaps a back room.

As you focus on the man sitting at the end of the bar, you squint, confused at first. Then you notice the black German Shepard snoozing at his feet on the floor. Then the man is turning toward you, his balaclava pushed up to his nose, a beer glass lifting toward his mouth.

He stops. You stop.

Ghost is here. Your wraith. Yet again, the two of you are meeting in unexpected places.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Looking away quickly, you stare at the back of Evie’s head, following Amelia as she starts to introduce you to everyone in the pub. You smile when prompted, but you hear nothing of what is being said. You sense Ghost’s gaze on your back, and the very idea of his eyes on you sends a rippling heat of pleasure down your spine.

It’s not right. It’s not fair. Your body is betraying you.

Amelia turns and you follow her, nearly clinging to Evie in your desperation. Amelia pauses and introduces you and Evie to the two men sitting next to each other at the bar. Then you’re right in front of Ghost and Amelia is beaming at him.

“This is Simon,” she says casually. “Runs the tattoo parlor just a few shops down. He’s the only young one we allow around here.” Amelia grins and you want to flee all over again.

Ghost—or rather, Simon’s—gaze is fixated on you. Unmoving.

Amelia pats your shoulder. “I know the two of you know each other, but it’s been a while. How about you two catch up and Evie and I will go enjoy the game.”

“Amelia—”

“Sit,” insists Amelia, quickly ushering Evie away.

You’ve been betrayed.

Slowly, you sink down on the stool next to Simon—Ghost? What should you call him now?

“What will it be?” asks Ben, his gaze expectant.

“I’ll take whatever he’s drinking.” Ben shrugs and grabs a glass, filling it up before sliding it over to you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Ghost sits up straighter, and shifts in his stool. He keeps one arm on the bar top, but the other rests against his leg, his hand poised on his knee. Your knee is touching his, and the very tips of his fingers brush against your jeans.

You have all his attention, that is very apparent.

“Hello,” you say weakly, unsure of where to begin.

“Hello,” he replies, and the sultry purr in his voice breaks something in you.

There is no going back.

Ghost—Simon? Is all there is.

Chapter Text

“Ready to go, Bravo?”

Simon shrugs on his coat and glances at the German Shepard. Bravo’s nails clack clack against the floor of the tattoo parlor as he takes a spot next to the door. He sits at attention, ears straight and alert as he clutches his leash in his maw.

They do this every Sunday and Bravo knows the routine.

Sighing, Simon walks up to Bravo and takes the leash. The dog surrenders it easily, but the moment Simon grabs hold, he recoils.

“Christ, Bravo. Need to get that under control, yeah?” Simon shakes the leather leash free of Bravo’s drool.

Bravo makes a pitiful little whine in answer. Simon reaches out to scratch the top of the dog’s head before going to one knee to secure the leash to Bravo’s collar. Getting down is the easy part. It’s the standing again that always aches.

Simon’s bad leg is acting up today. At least, more than usual. It has been months since Simon went to physical therapy, and he might need to start working it back into his schedule if this is going to be his new normal.

Wincing as he pushes off from the floor, Simon wraps the end of the leash around his fist. It’s habit, and more for the sanity of others than himself. Bravo is well-trained. Used to be a bomb dog for one of the many SAS divisions.

During his time on base, Simon would always take time to play fetch with the military dogs. Sometimes they were ones he worked with directly, while others just happened to be on base at the time with their units. Maybe it was Riley’s shadow that always prompted him to do it. He loved that dog, and a little piece of Simon went missing when he died.

Then Bravo came along, and their retirements just happened to fall around the same time.

Simon couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

It’s Sunday. And Sunday is Simon’s day to do whatever the hell he wants.

No work. No computer. No phone. No exercise.

Nothing but him, Bravo, and drinks at Dancing Faun.

Simon isn’t bothered there, and he’s thankful for that. When he first moved to the area, Simon kept ending up in pubs where people his age or a bit younger frequented. He was never left alone at those places. Someone would eventually approach him. Either it was some drunk wanker trying to fight him, or someone wanting him to take them home.

No one bothers Simon at Dancing Faun. Most of the people who come in are much older than Simon, and a good many of the men are veterans themselves. They understand Simon and his need for a bit of solitude. The owner of the pub, Ben, is also good at keeping strangers away.

Maybe it’s the balaclava that attracts them. Maybe it’s the mystery. People are attracted to danger, and while Simon left that life a few years ago, he’s never shaken his violent shadow. Retirement can’t erase the people he’s killed or the enemies he’s put away. That life is sticky. No matter how hard you scrub at it, a residue always remains.

But Dancing Faun is Simon’s one refuge from the whole world. He can drink, think about absolutely fucking nothing, and catch a football or rugby match. Afterwards, he goes home and searches through his contacts for someone willing to have it off for a bit.

It’s just physical. Only flesh. An attempt on his part to fill a vacant hole.

But today, Simon doesn’t need to call anyone, because you’re here. He knows that now without a solitary doubt. When you appeared in the doorway of his shop, Simon truly believed he hallucinated the whole thing.

But he imagined nothing.

You are real and whole and here. Somewhere.

Simon just needs to figure out how to make you come to him. He needs to make it happen.

Exiting through 141 Ink’s front door, Simon secures the deadbolts behind him. Bravo remains at Simon’s side, alert but happy, his tongue hanging out of his open mouth. At the very end of the street on the corner is Dancing Faun.

The outside of the pub is a deep, forest green with gold accents including the sign and lettering. The door is solid black with no window, just a silhouette of a faun holding a pipe. Simon pushes open the door and steps inside, Bravo right on his heels.

It’s still early, and no one is at this pub or any pub at this hour. But Ben always opens a little early just for Simon.

The inside is dimly lit, only a few of the lamps on the wall are actually on. The hanging ones above the bar are on but that’s it. The overcast morning light isn’t helping much. One of the televisions is already on displaying a repeat of a rugby match.

When the door shuts behind Simon, he hears a familiar voice call out to him.

“That you, Simon?”

“It’s me,” he replies, bending down to unlatch the leash from Bravo’s collar. When the latch is released, Bravo pads over to their usual spot at the bar, sitting patiently on the right side of the stool.

Ben appears from around the corner carrying a plate. He’s older than Simon but not by much. The guy has about ten years on him. When Simon takes a seat on his usual stool, Ben sets the plate down in front of Simon, grinning.

It’s a full English with double of everything. While the pub doesn’t consistently serve food, Ben’s wife always makes Simon breakfast every Sunday morning. It’s tradition at this point.

Next to the plate, Ben sets down Simon’s beer and a cup of breakfast tea.

“Saw you on the cover of that magazine. Congrats. It’s deserved.” Ben leans against the bar top as Simon reaches up and removes the balaclava, setting it aside.

Ben doesn’t even blink or flinch. Why would he? Simon isn’t ugly. The few scars on Simon’s face don’t detract from his features. He might hide behind the balaclava but it isn’t because Simon hates himself.

Far from it.

He has a persona to put on. He needs separation between himself and everyone else. The people who meet him and come get tattooed all expect “Ghost” and “Ghost” wears a mask. Ben doesn’t give a shit about “Ghost,” and so Simon goes without when it’s just the two of them.

“Thanks,” replies Simon, taking a sip of tea before deciding what part of his plate he wants to tackle first. “How’s business?”

“Steady. Rent’s going up. As are my bloody taxes.” Ben shakes his head and Simon slices through one of the roasted tomatoes. “Fucking Tories and Labour can’t fucking agree on one bloody fu—” Ben glances up and immediately stops talking. “Sorry.” He holds both hands up in a placating gesture. “No politics on Sunday.”

Simon smirks. “Can I have my tea first?”

Ben drops his hands and leans against the bar top again. “But—and hear me out—if you have friends in the government…” He waves one of his hands around absently to indicate his point.

“I was military. You know this.”

“I’m aware, Simon. I’m only saying—”

“Don’t,” chuckles Simon as he cuts up the sausage on his plate.

Ben waves him off. “I know. But it’s the same bloody thing in the end.”

Simon snorts and grabs his tea. “No politics on Sunday, Ben.”

Ben gives a mocking, half-hearted salute before changing the subject. “Christmas is coming up in a couple months. Heading to the Highlands again?”

Every Christmas, Johnny invites Simon out to the Scottish Highlands to stay with his family. They spend most of their time on the MacTavish farm. It’s quiet out there, and Simon enjoys it.

Simon doesn’t have anyone. His family is gone. In the ground. Johnny knows this which is why he started inviting Simon ever since they first started working together. Gaz has come out a few times, and even Price showed up once for a short hunting trip.

But this year? Simon isn’t sure. You’re here now, but he has no idea for how long. If you’ll be in England for the foreseeable future, would you go with him? Would Johnny be okay with that?

The toast sticks in Simon’s throat and he has to wash it down with the remaining tea.

“That’s the plan,” he replies because it’s the only semi-truthful answer he can give.

Ben nods and taps the top of the counter. There’s a clatter from the direction of the kitchen and Ben sighs, his eyebrows rising slightly in a goodbye as he heads in the direction of the noise.

After that, Ben leaves Simon alone. He cleans the bar and glassware, puttering around Simon as he readies the place. When Simon finishes, Ben takes the plate, and then promptly offers it to Bravo who licks it clean.

The balaclava is back in place once the first wave of customers begins to roll in.

A few come in at a time—all of them old men who know each other. Regulars. Retirees who come in every day. They either scatter about individually or cluster in small groups near a television. Several of them acknowledge Simon with a nod of the head. Two take up spots at the bar.

Simon finishes his second beer and moves on to a third, considering when he’s going to switch over to whiskey. He always does. The door of the pub opens again and Simon takes a long swig of the golden amber liquid in his glass.

“Amelia! Usual spot?” calls out Ben.

The door is not in Simon’s line of sight, but he knows Amelia. She’s one of three women who comes to the pub on Sunday. Ben always puts on American baseball for her. She’s chatty, and has—on occasion—talked Simon’s ear off. But she’s sweet, and he’s never minded the attention. Sometimes, she even brings vegetables from her garden, and Simon always appreciates the gesture when she does.

“You know it, Ben,” replies Amelia.

“Already have it on.” Simon notices Ben’s sudden shift. His shoulders sharpen, back straightening as he watches something. It’s not confusion. Not exactly. Surprise? “And you brought guests.”

Guests. As in, plural. As in, multiple.

“Just the two,” laughs Amelia. “And only one is drinking. This one will need some tea and perhaps something to eat?”

Curious, Simon shifts slightly in the stool, bringing his glass up to his mouth for a drink to hide that interest in who it is that Amelia brought with her.

The first thing he notices is a young woman cradling a pregnant belly. He knows that familiar face. Evelyn. She stopped by his shop yesterday and introduced herself. But that’s not the first time Simon has seen her. She’s your friend, the one you were with at Riot Room. Simon saw her face every time his gaze was on you, and then again when he tore apart Riot Room’s security system in search of you.

Simon still has the old grainy video. He’s watched it so many times with the hope that he’d pick up on something. A clue that might lead you to him again. Three years he’s watched that surveillance feed. Three years and he hasn’t let you go.

Evelyn’s cheeks are rosy from the cold and she grins widely at Ben. Simon escorted her across the street and to The Bird after they chatted for a few minutes. People drive fast on it, which is true, but he was also curious. He thought that if she was around, you would also be around.

When he saw you there in that café, reality started to sink in. But he didn’t say anything. He simply stared like a bloody idiot and then politely excused himself. Simon isn’t shy, but he wouldn’t necessarily call himself bold. It was more like a subtle realization that Simon isn’t crazy, that he didn’t imagine you in the doorway, that these three years have only been preparing him for your return.

Simon’s gaze slides past Evelyn and lands on the woman standing behind her. He freezes, his glass halfway to his mouth.

You see him. And Simon sees you.

You’re here. In this pub. With him.

And you cannot run this time. There is no possibility to bolt without causing a scene. You’ve come to him, and now all Simon needs to do is get you to talk to him. That’s all he really wants. He wants to hear your voice, to find some understanding, to know if this obsession is entirely one-sided.

Simon observes your eyes widening and the soft inhalation as your lips part in surprise. He knows those lips. He’s kissed those lips. Felt them against his skin. They are a brand and those parts of him that know the memory of your mouth heat with desire.

The muscles in his legs are poised for action. They tell him to get up. To go to you. To drag you into his arms and take you away from prying eyes. Because Simon wants answers as much as he wants to revel in your warmth and return to those memories.

He’s been feasting on that old encounter, dishing out little fragments at a time to staunch the hunger but never enough to keep it away. This is his chance. This is his opportunity. Right now. In this place.

Something will happen between the two of you. Simon knows this in his very marrow.

As if suddenly realizing who it is you’re staring at, you quickly glance away from Simon, gaze focused on the back of Evelyn’s head or a point beyond. Simon wants to draw your gaze back to him. He hates that he cannot take action.

Because he will. Simon will take action now that you’re completely in his sights. But he needs to be strategic about it.

Amelia grabs hold of Evelyn’s upper arm and begins guiding the two of you around the pub. The damn woman stops at every table. Speaks to every person. It’s like Amelia is dragging this out on purpose.

Simon does not look away once. You have all his attention, and perhaps you know this. You’re so…ridged, and Simon senses an uneasiness to the way you forcibly smile at every person you meet.

He is so absorbed in your presence that he doesn’t hear Ben calling to him.

“Simon.”

Simon hears his name in the distance. He ignores it, instead watching as you move on to another table.

“Simon.” This time Ben leans into Simon’s line of sight, snapping his fingers.

Simon blinks and then shifts his gaze in Ben’s direction. Ben frowns, and Simon immediately softens his features. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know he likely looks irritated.

Ben nods toward the glass. “Want another?”

Simon pushes the empty stein toward him in silent answer. Ben snags it and tucks it away somewhere, grabbing a clean one to fill. When he sets it down on the bar top and Simon reaches for it, Ben draws it out of his reach. “You’re acting funny.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Simon dryly, knowing exactly what Ben is referring to.

Ben snorts and then pushes the newly poured beer in Simon’s direction. Simon takes it and immediately takes a long drink. It doesn’t burn going down, but it’s not soothing either. Simon is on edge. He can feel it, like a venomous snake curled up in a pile of leaves.

Amelia turns and you follow, moving ever closer to him. She comes to a stop at the two men sitting near each other at the bar. Amelia is all smiles, as is Evelyn, but your smile has slipped into a neutral stare that only makes Simon sad. Like before, there is a weariness under your eyes that he longs to rub away.

Is it him? Does the very idea of the two of you coming together again bother you?

Simon immediately dismisses the idea. He noticed the tiredness when you were standing in the doorway of his shop. There is something else going on, something deeper, and Simon wants to know what it is. If he can, he will take it from you if that will ease the burden. That is, if you’ll allow him to.

The conversation between Amelia and the two men ends quickly. She guides you and Eveyln in Simon’s direction, and then you’re right there, in front of him, and Amelia is beaming like she’s just achieved some lofty goal.

“This is Simon,” she says casually, gesturing toward him, but Simon notices the underlying mischievousness to Amelia’s smile. “Runs the tattoo parlor just a few shops down. He’s the only young one we allow around here.”

Amelia’s grin is infectious, the kind that could make anyone smile. But Simon isn’t smiling. He’s too focused on you. He is so goddamn close. Simon could reach out and easily pull you right into his lap.

Amelia pats your shoulder. “I know the two of you know each other, but it’s been a while. How about you two catch up and Evie and I will go enjoy the game.”

Even though Amelia is speaking to you, she’s staring at Simon as she talks.

What are you up to, Amelia?

Her eyebrows rise slightly and Simon understands. She knows about you and Simon, at least to a certain capacity. Why else would she be abandoning you to him?

Evelyn’s grin is just as wide. Her gaze keeps darting between you and Simon with clear hope in the way she clutches her hands together in front of her chest.

“Amelia—” you interject, clearly frazzled.

“Sit,” insists Amelia, quickly ushering Evie away to her usual table in the far corner.

At first, you simply stand there, and Simon believes that you might turn your back on him and walk away. But you don’t. You don’t walk away from him nor do you break eye contact.

Slowly, you sink down on the stool next to him. Your gaze keeps darting across and over his face, like you can’t believe what you’re seeing. Are you trying to remember him? Are you relearning him the way he’s currently relearning you?

“What will it be?” asks Ben, his gaze expectant.

You slightly turn your head in Ben’s direction to address him but you’re too focused on Simon. It’s a victory. A win. Simon knows he’s won in some capacity by how intensely you’re focused in on him.

“I’ll take whatever he’s drinking.” Ben shrugs and grabs a glass, filling it up before sliding it over to you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Simon notices Ben’s attention shift to him. It’s a silent ask to make sure Simon is fine. That he’s not being bothered. But you’re not a bother, and Simon gives the look no acknowledgment. No one is going to take you away from him.

Never.

Simon sits up straighter, shifting in his stool. He keeps one arm on the bar top, but the other rests against his leg, his hand poised on his knee. Your knee is touching his, and the very tips of his fingers brush against your jeans.

It’s an electric jolt when Simon makes contact. But it’s also his way of pushing a boundary. Will you accept his touch or move out of it?

There is a span of breath, and it is you that speaks first.

“Hello,” you say weakly, brow softening.

Your voice is a remedy, the embrace after a long absence. Simon revels in it, absorbs it into himself, devours the quality of those syllables until it repeats in a pounding rhythm within his brain.

He is happy. He is whole.

“Hello,” replies Simon, and the sultry purr in his voice is unstoppable.

There is no going back. There is no return to how things were. You are all that Simon needs. Forget the shop and all of his responsibilities. You are finally here, not just a dream or memory.

That old encounter is now new and fresh. It is yesterday as much as it is three years ago.

You blink, mouth forming into a smile that stretches toward your ears. It is genuine and soft, and you glance down at your hands in embarrassment, trying to hide from him.

But you’re not allowed to hide from him. Simon wants everything. He wants those delicate lines and your harshness. He wants this smile to be aimed at him, to know that it is he that makes you happy.

When you glance up again, your smile is a bit gentler, but it only makes Simon eager.

“You’re a tattoo artist?” you ask though you already know the answer.

“You sound surprised,” replies Simon.

“Well, yes. I—” You pause, and then try again. “When I met you at Riot Room you seemed…dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” he laughs.

“Yes.”

“And yet you left with me?”

You glance away quickly, and stare at your fingers where they rub at the condensation on your glass. “Dangerous doesn’t mean I didn’t feel safe.”

Dangerous doesn’t mean I didn’t feel safe.

Safe. You felt—feel? —safe with him.

“What is it that you think I did for a living?” asks Simon, amusement creeping into his tone.

“Wasn’t tattoo artist,” you reply softly, lifting the glass for a small sip.

Simon’s index finger moves of its own accord, tracing slow circles over your knee. It feels natural to touch you, and you don’t pull away from him.

“I was military.”

“Was?” you ask, one eyebrow arching in curiosity.

There is so much Simon can say after that. And so much he can’t. Simon considers every possible answer before telling you the truth. “Forced into retirement. Sustained a few permanent injuries in the field.”

You surprise Simon, not because you apologize for something out of your control but because you reach out and take his hand. Squeezing softly, you look him in the eye, and the gaze is so direct that it startles him.

“And I’m sure you were very good at what you did.”

“The best,” replies Simon instantly.

The smile that spreads across your face is beautiful. He wants to capture it, to press his mouth to yours and steal it for himself.

“How long are you here for?” asks Simon, changing the subject.

You shrug. “Not entirely sure. A while.”

“And how long is a while?” Simon needs to know. Will he only have you for a few days or will he have you for weeks? Months?

“I’m supposed to be picking up a visa at the US Embassy next week. It’s being expedited but I still came early. Someone is working very hard behind the scenes to make it happen.”

You don’t elaborate, and Simon isn’t sure if he should push the subject or not. Visas typically last up to six months depending on what kind it is, and that gives him hope.

“So, you’ll be around?” he asks with just the slightest bit of hesitation.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’ll be around.”

Relief floods Simon’s veins. There will be plenty of time with you. He will make the most of it.

“Are you staying with Amelia?” prompts Simon, his gaze quickly shifting to find the woman across the pub. She’s sipping on her beer, but it’s clear that her attention isn’t really on the television.

“I am. The two of you know each other.”

Simon’s gaze returns to your face. “I know everyone who comes in.”

“Self-proclaimed old man, then?” you tease.

Simon grins, chuckles. “That an issue?”

“No,” you laugh softly, and it’s then that Simon realizes you’re still holding onto his hand. Your palm is warm and comforting. It isn’t slack or limp. It is present, clutching his with gentleness.

“Have any availability in your schedule?” The question surprises Simon. “For a tattoo that is.”

Technically, he has zero room in his schedule for the next few months, and will likely be booked out even longer once he starts chipping away at all those goddamn emails in his inbox. But for you? He’ll make room. Fuck everyone else.

“Tell me when and what time and I’ll make it happen.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

You lick your lips and Simon follows the movement, wanting to lean into that. To taste and remember. But he holds back. There will be a time for him to do so, but not right this second. No matter how badly he wishes for it to be so.

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to call you,” you say with an awkward smile and shrug of your shoulders. “Ghost is what you told me at Riot Room but Amelia called you—”

“Simon,” he interjects. “To you, I’m Simon.”

“But Ghost—”

Simon’s hold on your hand tightens. “I know what I said. But Ghost is…a persona. He is separate, and I don’t want to be separate with you.”

“Simon,” you say slowly, rolling his name around on your tongue.

His name sounds so sweet in your mouth. He wants to know all the ways you can say it. How would you say his name when he finally kisses you again? Or when his mouth is on your body and between your legs? What will his name sound like when he’s buried deep inside you? How will his name sound then?

“I like the way you say my name,” he whispers, and the words leave him without second thought.

Your eyes widen. Your lips part. And Simon squeezes your hand again, shifting a little closer to you on the stool.

This place is too public. There are too many eyes on you. Simon needs to take you away. There are questions that still sit heavy in his mind. Things he wants to know.

His thumb runs over the back of your hand. “Will you come with me? Outside? Just for a bit?”

“Simon,” you murmur, and it takes everything in him not to groan with pleasure.

“Please,” and Simon is close to begging.

You glance over your shoulder at Amelia and Evelyn. They aren’t looking this way, and that seems to do it.

“Okay,” you agree, not even asking him where it is he plans on taking you.

Dangerous doesn’t mean I didn’t feel safe.

Simon slides out of his stool, standing, towering over you. Bravo perks up but Simon shakes his head at him. “Stay here, Bravo.” Bravo’s ears droop slightly but the dog puts his head back down.

You stand, too, never taking your eyes off of him. While your gaze is a rush, it’s your hand which still clutches his that makes Simon tingle all over. That is what he clings to, latches on to skin against skin.

He steps back and you step forward. You are following him, moving with him, and Simon’s blood is singing, thrumming with victory, rushing to a place it shouldn’t but is.

When the two of you turn the corner down the hall, Simon tries not to rush. He is eager but fuck—he needs to control himself. This could easily spiral out of his control if he doesn’t reel himself in. It doesn’t matter how much Simon wants you. If you’re not interested, he can’t push for it.

But you’re following him. You’re talking with him. You’re holding his goddamn hand.

He can’t be wrong about this.

The two of you approach the door to the private patio, and Simon almost snaps. There is a small alcove under the stairs. Simon has to control himself, to not push you up against the wall there in the dark, and kiss you until you become soft and compliant in his arms.

Instead, Simon inhales deeply, and pushes open the door to the patio.

It’s small, just a few tables with chairs and a couple of portable heaters. The patio itself is in the alleyway that cuts through the entire street, pushing up against a row of houses and a few businesses. There is a privacy fence that keeps out any potential onlookers. Simon only comes out here to smoke, and while he could go for a cigarette, he’d rather go for you.

Leading you to a bench pressed up against the wall of the building, Simon finds a spot right under one of the heaters. It’s cold out but it’s still fall. The coats are enough but he’s not risking shit. Either the heater will keep you warm or he will.

The two of you sink down onto the bench, and still, you do not let go of his hand. Simon refuses to be first. If you won’t let go, he won’t either.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes as if trying to calm your nerves. Simon cannot hold back what it is he wants to ask.

“Why did you run?”

Your eyes snap open, and you turn toward him. He sees the sorrow, and the battle behind your gaze. You’re finding the words, gathering your thoughts, and Simon silently hopes that you do not try to lie to him.

“At Riot Room?”

He shakes his head. “Not just there. Outside the shop, too.”

You blink. Look away. Glance back. The very bottoms of your eyelids are watery. Simon does not want to be the reason you cry, but you ran from him twice. Bolted. At Riot Room, he was hurt. Devasted. He didn’t understand.

Outside his tattoo parlor, that exit he can dismiss. It’s been three years and you were probably shocked. But that first escape haunts him lays across his skin like a ghost.

“I’m sorry I ran from you,” you whisper.

Simon shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.”

You glance down at your combined hands, but you’re not saying anything.

“Tell me,” murmurs Simon.

Slowly, Simon lifts his free hand, lightly takes your chin between thumb and forefinger. He guides your head up, moves your gaze back to his face. Once you’re looking at him again, Simon’s thumb travels the line of your jaw.

You lean into the touch. “I…was too close.”

“Too close?” pushes Simon.

“Yes. You felt…I wanted to stay. But I was scared.”

“Of me?”

“No!” you say quickly, your free hand gripping his upper arm, squeezing. “Never. It all felt like more. That it wasn’t just sex between us. That scared me.”

“And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?” Simon leans in and you do not pull back or shrink away. You also lean forward, and Simon is so close to getting what he wants.

“It’s been three years,” you murmur. “You don’t mean that.”

“Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.”

Simon let’s go of your hand, only to wrap his arms around your waist. You surrender to him, and Simon changes position on the bench, straddling it, pulling you into his lap. Your legs effortlessly go around him, and your hands cling to the neckline of his shirt.

“Have you thought of me? Tell me the truth,” growls Simon.

You’re so close. Lips just a breath away from touching his.

“Yes,” and when it leaves your throat, Simon hears the gentle break. “Many times. So many times.”

Simon hand travels up from your waist to grab the back of your neck. Your inhale is sweet. Wanton. He can’t have you completely, not at the moment, but he’ll take whatever it is you’re willing to give in this moment.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

The words barely leave his mouth before you’re closing the distance. Simon answers you with a kiss of his own. There is no hesitant gap, no pause for breath, just you and him and your mouths meeting.

The kisses that follow are not mechanical or stagnant. They are generous and lovely and hungry. Your lips are soft, and Simon’s grip on the back of your neck only strengthens when your hips roll against him.

Your hand on his chest forms a fist, your fingers digging into the front of his shirt. Simon doesn’t care if you tug and pull, if you accidentally rip it. You can have whatever the fuck you want with the way you’re kissing him.

Simon groans low in his throat as his other hand makes passes over your thighs, hips, and lower back. He’s exploring your curves, relearning your body. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has.

His blood is boiling. It is screaming, telling him to take you home, to finish what he started in the green room within the basement at Riot Room. Simon will make you his. You will take every inch of him, beg him repeatedly for more until you lose your voice, and Simon will do it, will keep going until you’re a deliciously perfect puddle in his arms.

Your fist unclenches, trails downward, and stops just above his belt. You’re going to make him fucking feral if you keep touching him like this. Any lower and it’s over. There will be no asking about taking you home.

Simon will simply toss you over his shoulder and go straight there.

Sitting up a bit, you shift in his lap, and that one small movement rubs the one spot blood is rushing to.

Fuck.

He doesn’t want to break the kiss. Simon doesn’t want to pull away, but all of his control is slipping away, melting from him like ice in the sun.

When Simon breaks the kiss, you whimper, and Simon’s answer is to dig his fingers into your thighs, pressing up into you to show you exactly how he wants you.

“Come home with me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your lips are swollen and puffy. They’re perfect, and he nips at the bottom one before gently sucking it into his mouth.

“Right now?” you breathe.

Right now? No. The two of you can’t run off together right now. Simon has a fucking tab to pay, even if Ben could give a shit and tell Simon to pay him later. Plus, there is Amelia and Evelyn to think about.

Yes, they pushed you into Simon’s path, but you’re technically here with them. He won’t take you away. Simon is selfish when it comes to you, but he’s already waited three fucking years. What’s a few more hours until you’re back in his arms?

“Tonight.”

You’re shaking your head. Why are you shaking your head?

“I can’t,” you reply and now Simon is the one shaking his head.

“When?” he asks. “When can I see you again?”

Your gaze flicks up and Simon is lost for a moment, only thinking about how wonderful you feel in his lap. It takes him back to Riot Room when you first straddled him on that couch, kissing his lips, touching his body.

His mind wanders further, forming the image of you spread out, facing the mirror.

“Tomorrow? I can stop by in the morning.”

The morning. It’s not enough time with you. What Simon wants is for you to come over tonight. He wants to take you over every surface in his home like he planned on doing three years ago.

But he’ll take whatever you give him. If you can come by tomorrow morning, Simon will cherish it. He will be happy knowing that you want to see him at all.

And while he wishes all of this, there is a hesitant hopefulness in your gaze, like Simon will reject the offer. Are you just as nervous as he is? Are you wanting him as much as he wants you? Do you desire to be close to him in more ways than just your bodies meeting?

Because Simon wants all of you. Every bit.

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

Your smile is sweet. Wholesome. You throw your arms around his neck and kiss him, nearly knocking Simon onto his back.

“Sorry,” you laugh, beginning to pull away.

“No, you don’t. Come back here.” Simon grabs at you, pinning you against his chest, taking your mouth again, deepening the kiss until your lips part for him. His tongue traces the edge of your bottom lip, and yours darts out to meet him.

Simon is lost in you. Lost in your mouth, lips, and tongue. Lost in your touch. Lost in—

“Hate to interrupt!”

You pull back so fast you almost fall off the bench. Simon might not be in the military anymore, but his reflexes are still sharp. He catches you before you topple over.

Evelyn stands in the doorway, one hand over her eyes like she’s just walked in on something she shouldn’t be seeing.

“Amelia paid the tab. We’re leaving.”

“Shit,” you mutter, starting to unravel yourself from the bench.

Simon stands with you, his fingers slipping from yours as you head for the doorway. You glance back and smile, quickly looking between him and Evelyn before darting inside. Evelyn drops her hand and then crosses her arms over her belly, grinning wickedly.

“You’re welcome, Ghost.” She winks and disappears inside, the door shutting softly behind her.

Simon stands there in the autumn cold, his bare fingers lightly touching his lips in memory of you.

He laughs softly, drops his hand, and pulls the balaclava back into place.

Chapter Text

Spiderwebs are delicate, intricate things. They are works of art that kill, trapping and tangling their prey within their glossy strings. Beautiful. Deadly.

Simon is a spiderweb. Has been since the moment you met him at Riot Room. His dark allure drew you in until you stuck and went with him into that green room. Then, he devoured you to the point of ruin.

No other touch has lived up to his. It doesn’t matter that it has been three years and you’ve tried to find him in so many different people. Not one could ever be him. No one could ever touch or worship you like he had in Riot Room’s basement.

Your wraith. Ghost. Simon. Who, after all this time, still thinks about you. Still craves you to the point of near obsession.

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

Simon’s words are phantoms. They haunt you, clinging to you the rest of the day and well into bed when you stared at the ceiling and replayed his words in your head. Your response to those sweetened bullets was no lie. You’ve thought about him often, wanted to know where he was and what he was doing with his life.

Now you know. And yet it doesn’t feel complete. There are so many hollow sections to your wraith. But that hardly matters because the two of you are constantly in orbit of the other. Tied by a teether or maybe gravity. Spinning toward each other until the smaller mass succumbs to the greater object.

The two of you are moving dangerously close to a collision.

Which is why your hands nervously tug on the ends of your sleeves outside 141 Ink. You promised Simon you’d come see him in the morning, and here you are. And you do want to see him, to speak to him, to slide into his lap and feel his lips again.

Yesterday’s kisses roll up to the forefront of your mind, taking root in the cervices of your brain. Memory surfaces, causing your cheeks to heat. It is the recollection of his warm but rough hand in yours, of how is arms wrapped around you in a perfect embrace, and the taste of him that you never forgot and longed to keep exploring.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Simon wants this to be more. He desires a relationship beyond what the two of you had in Riot Room. You felt it then, creeping into your bones and senses until it was an all-consuming sensation that made you bolt. Even then, you knew.

Now, the idea sounds wonderful. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The door to 141 Ink is shut. The lights are off. The front of the building is a deep purple in color, almost black in appearance like an eggplant. The door itself is black with the 141 Ink logo in the center above a small window on the bottom half. It’s an odd place for a window, but Simon has a dog, Bravo, and it’s likely for him.

Above the storefront are two levels of old red brick. There are a total of three windows on each level. Nearly all of the other buildings along the street have this. It’s likely an apartment. Maybe two. Simon might be up there right now if he in fact lives above the parlor.

You purposefully came early so that maybe—just maybe—Simon might not be there, and you could brush it off, saying that he missed you. Make up another time to meet. Because that’s what you always do. You run. You bolt. You hide.

And hiding seems awful. It is that instinct that drives you to do it, to keep yourself safe and protected, to keep control. Simon isn’t someone you want to run away from this time. He was so earnest and sincere yesterday when you were in his lap and his lips were pressed to yours.

You also noted how aroused he was, the solidness of him grinding against your core every time your hips shifted in his lap. In that moment, you were thrust back to Riot Room, to how he felt inside you, and how perfectly your bodies fit together.

You were made for him, and he for you. In that tiny room, you knew.

But you’re also starting to panic. Simon has not showed, and perhaps you’ve arrived far too early. Which is funny, since just a few days ago the door to 141 Ink stood open about this time. It’s not too farfetched to believe he’d be up at this hour on a Monday.

You’re not even standing directly in front of the door. You’re nearly on the curb, pacing, questioning whether you should turn around right now and go back home or see this through. Amelia is probably putting the kettle on, and you didn’t eat before you left.

On cue, your stomach growls and you frown down at it, beginning to walk away.

The moment you turn and take a step, the familiar sound of deadbolts unlocking snarls your attention. You freeze, clutching the front of your coat as the door to 141 Ink swings open.

Simon is right there. One hand on the handle of the door, and the other leaning against the wooden doorframe. He’s so tall and broad. Like this, you can see all of him clearly. Yes, Simon is a little softer in some areas, but it only adds to his thickness, making you hunger to know what it’ll feel like when you’re under him.

When. When. As if you know it’ll happen. That none of this will fizzle out but extend outward, heading toward that inevitable collision.

Because you were never under him before. But you think about it now. How those massive arms of his will hold you down, pin you beneath him, create a cage you won’t want to be released from.

“Hi,” you say, almost breathy.

“You came,” replies Simon. It’s an exhalation. A relief and happiness laced into the words that he speaks. You cannot see his features beneath the balaclava, but his body language and tone of voice tell you all you need to know.

Simon’s hand drops from the door frame and he steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, and you’re forced to squeeze by him. The heat of him is strong, and his scent is decadent. Rich. Smoky. Like a foggy day in the Pacific Northwest or a quick, frantic kiss in a London alleyway. You have to force yourself not to turn into him, to inhale and remember him like this.

Now that you’re actually inside 141 Ink you can see the space for what it is. The inside of the tattoo parlor is industrial with exposed brick walls and dark wood floors. The lighting is warm, brightening up the space. Above you are black metal pipes and a solid support beam. In the back of the space is the tattooing area. While you can see some of the chair, most of it is obstructed by a short privacy wall. Behind that and to the right of it is storage, and to the left is a small office space with a desk. Overall, it’s fairly simple, but inviting.

Bravo greets you with an enthusiastic tail wag that sends a breeze your way. You laugh and hold out your palm. Bravo immediately sniffs your hand like you have a treat hidden somewhere. But you don’t, and while the German Shepard seems briefly disappointed, it’s short-lived. He nuzzles your hand and you promptly scratch under his chin and behind his ears.

“Can’t have her all to yourself, Bravo.” Simon’s gruff voice slips over you like a comforting blanket. There is humor in his tone, but underneath is a hint of possessiveness.

Your cheeks heat, and you pull away from Bravo, only to turn to face Simon. He’s so close, and when you’re fully facing him, Simon slides an arm around your waist and draws you even closer. Your hands instinctually go out to rest against his firm chest.

Underneath your palms, beneath his shirt, are his pectorals. They flex under your hands as he inhales, and he draws you closer still. Simon’s free hand, the one not currently wrapped around your waist, delicately cups your cheek, cradles it so gently that you begin to melt.

Simon is strong. This man could easily break you—or anyone—and yet this tenderness is so out of place, like it shouldn’t be possible with a man like him. But your wraith is capable, loving, and you find yourself pressing into him, hands sliding up his chest to lightly tease the bottom of his balaclava.

While you’d like it off, to see Simon fully, you know that’s a limit. You don’t push it, but you do tug a bit, indicating what you want. Your gaze flicks upward, only to meet a gaze that is as soft as Simon’s touch.

Those perfectly pale eyelashes are gentle halos against his dark eyes. His brown irises remind you of light through a whiskey bottle. Everything about his gaze is relaxed including his brow and eyelids. It’s a startling look, one that speaks to deep desire.

The very idea sends a ripple of heat to your core, warming you between your legs. This is the intimacy you noticed back at Riot Room, that Simon’s gaze was more than someone simply interested in a quick hook up.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, tone nearly a purr. “Or are you going to make me wait a bit longer?”

Your lips pull back into a soft smile. “Are you teasing me?”

Simon’s pulls you flush against him, and the hand attached to that arm slides from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing. “I think you’re the one teasing.”

You squeak, then laugh as Simon removes his hand from your cheek to wrap that arm behind your back. You’re trapped against him, and even though you cannot see his mouth, you can see the way the balaclava stretches as he smiles.

With gentleness, you slip your fingers beneath the edge of the balaclava, easing it up over his chin and mouth to rest against the top of his nose. His blackout neck tattoo is on full display, as is the scar that runs along his jaw. You remember that scar, and one of your fingers absently traces it.

Simon turns into the touch, and then your finger is brushing over his bottom lip. He lightly kisses your finger, and then nips at it playfully.

“Stop,” you laugh.

“Then give me your mouth,” replies Simon, his head dipping to chase what he’s asking for.

You happily give it to him.

The moment your lips meet, you melt into Simon, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Simon surrenders to you as much as he seeks control. The arms around your waist shift as his hands start to explore, caressing your back, hips, ass, and thighs in tender strokes.

Simon does not shove his tongue down your throat. He doesn’t push or guide you anywhere. All he does is kiss you, as if that is all he needs. As if it is enough. There is the faintest hint of smoke and black tea on his tongue, and it is comforting.

That is what Simon is. What you’ve been missing. Comfort. He is so warm and bright and bold even though you know him as your wraith. He is not a demon at all, or a creature out of hell. At least, not with you, and it is fucking delicious.

The heat of arousal burns in your core, and though you’d love to take this to more private corners, you can maneuver Simon into a more intimate position. That way, you don’t have to be on your goddamn toes to kiss him.

At the moment Simon breaks away to take a breath, you turn out of his embrace, his lips meeting your cheek instead of your mouth. Simon grunts, and you attempt to wiggle out of his arms.

“No.” And it’s nearly a growl that escapes his throat. “I haven’t had nearly enough.”

Simon’s words are a bolt to your core. Your fingers tighten in the fabric of the collar of his shirt, and he dives in again, claiming your mouth in a deep kiss. You’re primed, wired. You want to have a little control.

Pushing on his chest, Simon reluctantly releases you, but he does not allow you to move away from him. You’re still tucked against his chest, and his head hangs low, creating a deeper sense of closeness. He runs his thumb over your cheek at the same moment your gaze darts to the nearby sofa.

141 Ink’s waiting area consists of two small sofas. One is pushed directly against the wall facing the street under the massive front window. The other is against the wall that connects to it, creating a tiny nook at the front of the shop.

Simon’s gaze follows yours. “You want to sit?”

I want to sit in your lap you think.

Carefully, you place your hand on his chest and push enough to indicate that you want Simon to move. He does, walking backward toward the black leather sofa as your hand guides him. When the backs of his legs knock into the couch, Simon sinks to a seated position.

At first, he’s sitting up straight, forearms resting on knees, all of his curious attention focused on you. With exaggerated slowness, you take off your coat. First the left shoulder, and then the right, tossing it onto the sofa beside Simon.

Simon immediately rests his back against the sofa, spreads his legs, and drapes his arms over the top of it. The corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of an amused smile. He drops one arm to rest his palm against his thigh.

He doesn’t say anything. He only rubs his hand there. Back and forth in silent invitation.

It’s so much like Riot Room that you forget you’re in Simon’s tattoo parlor.

His chest heaves, each inhalation deep like he too is full of anticipation. It’s clear that Simon is reigning himself in, pulling back enough to not scare you off or force you into anything you don’t want to do. All he wants is your permission first, and when he has that, it’s over. Done. You’ll submit to whatever he wants.

You know this.

And he knows this.

Standing between his legs, you lift one leg and plant your knee on the outside of his thigh, repeating the motion with the other, before settling in his lap.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” says Simon, as his head tilts back. Your mouth comes down on his throat, and Simon groans. “On second thought, I like meeting like this.”

You smile against his skin, peppering his throat with little kisses before following the line of his jaw, and then finally his lips.

Maybe it’s too much for him, because Simon immediately grabs for you, hands roaming everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. It’s a possessive, needful series of touches that is laced with desperation. You are equally needy—equally wanting to consume and touch and devour every bit of this man.

Simon sparks something bright within you. Gives it life. Blows the low embers into resounding fiery brilliance. You are perfect in his arms. You never want to leave.

His hands slide under your sweater, under your shirt, finding your skin. It’s just the tip of his fingers at first, and then his palm. Then he is grabbing hold, squeezing your waist, moving upward until his hand slides into the space between your breasts before retreating.

You whimper at the loss, and Simon breaks the kiss, only to give you more along your jaw and the spot behind your ear.

Simon’s head dips, nuzzling your throat, the balaclava scratching against your cheek.

“I want to kiss you,” murmurs Simon as his lips brush against the side of your neck.

You laugh, fingers lightly digging into his biceps. “My lips are right here.” You turn toward him and meet his dark gaze.

“I’m not talking about these lips,” replies Simon, his thumb gently pulling on your bottom lip. He releases it and it bounces back into place.

“Oh,” is all you say, startled.

Memories emerge. Sensual ones. Dirty ones. The ones from Riot Room when you were bent over and Simon was behind you, tonguing you like it was all he ever wanted.

But how far can the two of you go before someone interrupts this private moment. If you say yes, would he do it right here, or would he take you somewhere else, and if you agree, would that be it? Or would the two of you keep going until there was nothing between your bodies?

Just skin against skin.

“Oh?” he asks, amused. Simon’s hand slides to the back of your neck, drawing you back to his lips. This kiss is much gentler than the rest.

He lets it linger, only pulling away enough to look into your eyes. “I’d very much like to kiss you.”

You swallow, knowing what he means. He’s not talking about your lips or face or neck. Simon is talking about the rest of you. The place between your thighs. The small, sensitive flesh that has so easily made you come undone for him before.

As you begin to form a response, your stomach growls. It’s loud, completely betraying the fact that you were too nervous this morning to eat.

Simon’s lips part like he’s about to say something but your stomach interrupts him again. He shakes his head, grabs your waist, and easily lifts you out of his lap and onto your feet.

“Bravo, watch the shop.”

Bravo barks as Simon grabs your coat off the couch and presents it to you, opening it up for you to slide your arms inside.

“Simon—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and you snap your mouth shut under his command, sliding your left and then right arm into your coat. Simon helps ease it over your shoulders, and then he walks off into what you guess is a back hallway. He returns with his own coat, tugging it on just as Bravo takes up position near the door.

There is no asking. Simon takes your hand and guides you to the door, ushing you out into the cold. The moment the door is shut, you see Bravo’s face appear in the window as he hops onto the couch.

Simon has not released your hand once, not even when he uses his free hand to lock up the shop. Dropping his keys into his pocket, Simon effortlessly pulls you into his side, releasing your hand to slide an arm around your waist.

The way Simon tucks you against him forces you to turn into him, to wrap one of your arms around his waist, to rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment—a brief flash—there is peace like this. It’s so natural to hold onto him. Even like this, everything is in place, as if you were always meant to occupy this spot.

Then, the two of you are walking down the street together like any other couple.

But are you a couple? Is this what it is? Or are you making it all up in your head, weaving a fabrication of what you desire versus the reality?

Simon snuggles a bit closer to you, and you immediately forget your trepidation. He is so goddamn warm, a buffer against the chilly autumn air.

It isn’t until the two of you come to the bakery you visited the other day that Simon untangles himself, leaning forward to open the door for you before you have the chance to. Inside, it is balmy. Freshly baked bread and sugar is in the air. It is heavenly, and you inhale deeply, allowing the sugar to saturated into your nostrils.

Simon is right there, guiding you toward the cases. You remember the croissants, and how crushed they were. You didn’t even get to enjoy it properly.

“Usual?” ask the woman behind the counter.

Simon nods, and she opens one of the cases, removing not one, not two, but three chocolate croissants. You look up at him, a question forming on your lips. Simon side-eyes you and shrugs.

“This one will have an American.” Simon indicates you with a quick tilt of his head. Your eyebrow arches, but Simon ignores it.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning toward him fully to ask him what it is he thinks he’s doing. But Simon still ignores you. He puts in an order for tea for himself, and then rattles off your coffee order.

How the fuck does he know that?

Simon digs around for his wallet but you’re already putting your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” he replies, handing over some cash to the woman behind the counter. He puts the change into the tip jar, and then places his hand on your lower back. “Follow me. I know a spot.”

You surrender to him, allow Simon to take the lead. He escorts you to a set of stairs leading to a second level. You follow behind him, the stairs spitting the two of you out into a cozy space. It’s mostly sofas and armchairs with a few sparse tables, and there is no one else up here besides the two of you.

Simon guides you to the massive window at the far end of the room. There are two small lounge chairs and a table that face the large window. Simon takes off his coat and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs. You do the same.

“Sit here,” he instructs. “I’ll be back.”

“Yes, sir,” you mutter, not thinking Simon hears you. He grunts and pinches your butt.

“Ow,” you say in response even though it didn’t hurt. Your arm goes out to swat at him but Simon is already gone, taking massive steps toward the stairs.

You watch him go, sliding into the chair in front of you. It’s overcast today, and the traffic on the road is starting to pick up. Simon arrives minutes later carefully balancing two drinks and two plates. You stand to help him, arms outward to catch anything that might fall, but somehow Simon manages it, setting it all down on the table without issue.

You didn’t know the bakery sold made to order food. And staring down at the plate, you’re close to tears. It’s a classic American breakfast with all the fixings you could want. Since coming to England, you’ve missed it.

Looking down at the plate reminds you of all the times you, Evie, Jade, and Sam would go for breakfast food after a night of drinking. There are so many memories of the four you packed into a booth at Waffle House consuming cheap coffee and smothered hashbrowns. But this plate before you is much nicer than the cheap breakfast you’d consume still buzzed from whatever alcohol you’d been downing.

Simon’s plate has the three chocolate croissants on it, and it’s clear that they warmed them up because the chocolate inside is perfectly melted. Simon sighs happily as he takes a bite.

“Sweet tooth?”

Simon drinks his tea before he answers. “I like sweet things.”

“Like chocolate croissants?”

“Like you.”

Your fingers hover above your fork. Your face steams like a pot of boiling water. There is no reason to be this nervous, to be this on edge with him. This man has been inside you. This man understands how to make you melt in his hands.

“You’re teasing again,” you reply, finally picking up your fork and digging in.

“Am I?” he asks, tearing away another chunk of the croissant to pop into his mouth.

The eggs on your plate are perfectly fluffy and melt on your tongue. You don’t even need to use your knife to cut into your waffles. They part like butter.

You’re in a bakery, eating breakfast that Simon ordered for you, and you have no idea where to take this conversation. This is too real—too date-like, and while that twists your stomach into a knot, it is also an uplift of wind.

Simon didn’t need to do any of this, but he wanted to. There was no question whether or not you wanted to eat, Simon just took it into his own hands.

Because he wants to take care of you says a little voice in your head.

Simon’s words from yesterday show their colors again, waving them around in front of your eyes.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

You swallow down a syrup-coated bite of waffle and decide to change the subject.

“You promised that you’d fit me into your schedule,” you say.

“I did,” he agrees, the slightest bit of hesitation in his tone.

“Do you have a time or date in mind?”

Simon smiles against the rim of his tea mug before he takes a sip. “You tell me when and I’ll make it happen.”

“So if I wanted to do it now, you would?”

Simon doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d call my first client and reschedule.” He says it so easily, like it’s not an inconvenience to anyone, even though forcing someone else to move to make room for you seems entirely unfair.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” you murmur.

Simon sets the mug down on the table. “What if I want to do it? Does that not matter?”

“Of course it does,” you breathe. “I just don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Simon is already halfway through his second croissant. “You’re never that. Not to me.” He looks so serious, so upset that you’d even believe that about yourself.

“Do I book a consultation first?” you ask, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter note.

“You can look through my portfolio when we go back. If you want.” Simon absently rubs at the back of his neck before stretching and resting one arm behind you on your chair. His fingers lightly brush against your spine.

He nods toward your plate. “Finish up and we’ll head back.”

Simon adjusts in the chair, his hips flexing slightly as he shifts. His gaze is out on the street, tracking every person and car. It’s odd. You recall him mentioning that he was military when the two of you first met, and perhaps this is just a habit.

You take your time, enjoying every bite, and when you’re done, Simon stands first, offering his hand before offering your coat. When it’s on, he checks you over. There are two worry lines that slice between his brow, but you’re unsure of what might be bothering him.

Should you ask? Would he even want you to? Simon has been open with you about what he wants, but not necessarily about himself. Those are pieces you don’t have. You don’t have a full picture of him. It is unclear, but you wish that it wasn’t. And you hope, with time, that Simon will open up, giving you those pieces of himself to hold within your heart.

With fingers intertwined, Simon escorts you downstairs. He stops at the counter to snag a large homemade dog treat from a glass jar before the two of you return to 141 Ink. Simon hands you the treat to give to Bravo, and the adorable German Shepard couldn’t be happier. His front paws joyfully dance against the floor, his entire butt moving with his tail as you remove the paper label from around the treat’s middle.

When you present the treat to Bravo, he doesn’t dive for it. He takes it gently from your hand and then promptly finds a spot in the window light, peacefully munching away at it.

“Here,” says Simon, offering a thick black book.

You take it with both hands, shifting the massive tome to one arm so that you can open the cover. It’s Simon’s official portfolio. The title page includes his credentials, contact information, and some stylized shots of his artwork. You flip the page, completely absorbed in the art before you. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there staring down at the portfolio until Simon clears his throat.

“You can sit down.” He lightly lifts his arm in the direction of the sofa.

“Right,” you laugh, cradling the portfolio like it’s a precious gift and you don’t want to break it. You sink down onto the sofa and Bravo pads over, laying down next to your legs, resting his head on your feet.

Simon motions to the tattoo chair behind him. “I need to finish setting up.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me.” You have your coffee, a foot warmer, and this beautiful book of art.

While Simon sets up, you take this moment to observe him in his natural element. He is so calm as he moves about the space. He’s efficient too, completely focused on the task at hand without looking rushed or stressed.

Bravo shifts, rolling onto his side. You reach down and scratch at the dog’s belly. When you return to the book, you’re lost in the color and talent, entirely absorbed in the artwork. Some of the photos are of actual tattoos while others are high-resolution photos of his artwork. Whether they’ve been sketched on paper or done digitally is unclear to you.

Regardless, Simon is talented. And you start to form an idea about where this talent came from. He’s ex-military. Did he have time on deployment to sketch? Did he ever carry a little notepad or sketchpad with him wherever he was in the world? It’s a sweet image, and one you’re achingly curious about.

“Simon.”

He immediately gives you all his attention. He sets down whatever it is he’s holding in his hand and walks over to you.

“You good?” he asks when he saddles up on the opposite of your legs from where Bravo lays. Delicately, he reaches out and runs his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say, flustered by the touch. “I had a question.”

He nods, indicating that you should ask.

“Did you make art while you were in the military?”

Simon shifts on his feet. “I did.”

He doesn’t say anything more, which is frustrating, but it’s something you want to know. So you push anyway.

“On deployment or…?” You trail off, hoping he takes it.

Simon shrugs. “Not really. My deployments were numerous but short term. Focusing on…covert assignments in classified locations.”

Short-term deployments? Covert assignments? Classified locations?

You frown. “Like American Special Forces?”

He shrugs. “They’re comparable.” It’s not the answer you wanted. But Simon must know this because he sighs and continues. “I created mostly on my time off, and sometimes on base if I was training new recruits. Had lots of time.”

“I see,” you reply softly, trying to imagine Simon curled up in a bunk late at night sketching away.

“See anything you like?”

Simon means in the portfolio but you can’t help thinking he means himself.

“It’s all amazing,” you murmur, flipping back through the pages. You point to several pieces that you particularly like. “But they don’t have to be like this. I’ll take whatever you come up with.”

Simon nods and takes the portfolio. “I can sketch up a few ideas, show them to you later. Start small and if you’d like more, I’ll add to it. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you nod. “It sounds wonderful.” Reluctantly, you push off from the sofa, and Bravo makes a muted sound in the back of his throat like he’s annoyed that you’d actually get up and disrupt his slumber.

“What do I owe you?”

Simon’s brow rises slightly. “Owe me?”

“It’s a consultation, isn’t it?”

Simon shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Simon—”

“Not happening.”

“I need to do something for you.”

“You owe me nothing. Consider the tattoo a gift.”

You shake your head. “I can’t accept that.”

Simon shrugs. “You can.” He glances over at the clock and the middle of his brow creases. “My first customer will arrive soon.”

“Are you dismissing me?” You’re teasing him, and he knows it.

Simon steps into your space, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, keeping you in place. “You’re welcome to stay.”

You do long to stay, but there are so many things on your plate. Groceries is priority, especially since you’ll be staying with Amelia for a while. You’re not letting that woman pay for everything. You’ll be damned if you take advantage of such a sweet old lady.

“Probably better that I’m not a distraction,” you breathe, entirely on edge from how possessively he holds onto the back of your neck.

“Probably,” replies Simon, slotting his pelvis against yours. You feel the hard length of him and shiver. His other hand reaches for your hip, and you cannot do anything else but allow it, melting into his body as he pulls you close.

“One to keep me hanging?” he asks softly.

You smile, and push up the balaclava enough to press your lips to his. You go back to flat fleet. “So you can think about me all day.”

“Count on it.”

Chapter Text

Happiness is subjective.

What makes someone happy? Is it the amount of money they have? Is it the first sip of freshly made tea? Is it the sound of summer rain or the smooth pages of a freshly bought book?

It could be all of those things. And it could be none of them.

Simon knows what makes him happy.

Cracking open a fresh bottle of ink for the first time. The sharpening of the end of a charcoal stick to use in his sketchbook. Johnny’s terrible fucking jokes that Simon pretends to hate but silently loves. And…you.

Simon has you. You are his, and no one can take that away from him. It’s warm under the sheets. Perfect. And that’s because you’re here, with him, just as you’re supposed to be.

Which is strange since Simon hasn’t seen you in three days. And somehow, you’re snuggled up next to him, snoozing beneath the covers. He doesn’t recall you coming over last night, but maybe he had one too many drinks. Maybe it slipped his mind, and he was half-awake when you finally arrived back into his arms.

Simon shifts, the bedding moving around him as he turns his face to the left, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of you seeps into his nostrils, flooding his lungs and senses with peaceful contentment.

This is home. This is where he should be, and where you ought to stay.

Simon sighs heavily, a smile forming on his lips as you respond to him, snuggling into his side. To make room, Simon lifts the arm nearest you, stretching the ache out before slipping it between you and the bed. He drapes it over your shoulders, pulling you even closer to him. Your answer is to rest your leg over his, and for your hand to fall softly against his bare chest. Simon immediately grabs it, bringing your knuckles up to his lips.

He kisses each bone gently before returning your palm to its previous position. You hum softly, the sound pleasing, blood rushing to his groin with his need for you.

This is all Simon wants. This is all he needs. You are in his bed. You are his woman.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Happiness. Simon requires nothing else.

Your fingers draw slow circles over his chest. They trace his tattoos there, following the lines and dips in a lazy, unhurried fashion that lull Simon back into the state between wakefulness and sleep. Simon’s eyelids flutter, then close, reveling in your touch.

Soothed and pliant, your hand travels lower to his stomach. There it pauses to draw little circles, moving back up to his chest and then down again, moving lower to his pelvis, to his—

Simon groans as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. “What are you up to, love?”

Your reply is a muffled giggle, and to stroke him once, twice, three times. Simon’s fingers dig into your skin, pushing for an answer with a possessive grip to your waist. You turn your face into him, lips finding his flesh, brushing against skin as you continue to work him with your hand.

Simon’s eyelids open slightly, and he watches you through his pale lashes. There is a soft, mischievous smile on your lips and your hair is a tousled mess that he wants to run his fingers through. You’re so beautiful like this. And all fucking his.

“I’m pleasing my man,” you murmur, thumb brushing over the head.

There might be sheets covering up the sight of you palming him, but Simon doesn’t need to see to understand your touch. While you’re not working quickly, there is purpose to each stroke, and it’s becoming harder and harder for Simon to ignore the growing pleasure in the base of his spine.

My man is what you said. Simon belongs to you as much as you belong to him. A deep, primal part of Simon flares with pride. He needs to claim you, to fucking ruin you until all you know is his name.

Simon shifts his arm from across your shoulders to over your hips. His hand slides across the curve of your ass, dips between your slightly spread legs to tease the entrance of your pussy with the tip of his fingers. Your little inhale is sweet. Sugar-laced. And Simon lets it rot his teeth.

He fingers slide upward, circle your clit in little circles until your strokes faulter and your hips buck against him. Simon adjusts his hand position so he can fuck you with his fingers as he toys with your clit.

Together. The two of you are together. Your hand continues to palm him, pulling blooms of cum from the slit. While you’re pleasing him, Simon is more attuned to your body surrendering to him, allowing his fingers inside, stretching and prepping that pussy for his cock.

Simon is going to take you. And he is going to fucking enjoy it.

Your body shivers, and you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling the little moan that threatens to leave your mouth. That small sound is delicious even though he’d rather hear you scream for him.

The muscles in Simon’s arms and legs are coiled tight, ready to push you onto your back and spread you wide. He’s going to make a goddamn mess of you.

But it is not Simon that makes the first move. It is not Simon that takes the initiative.

You sit up completely, swinging one leg over his waist to straddle him. You settle yourself in his lap, his cock resting against the inside of your thigh with silent impatience. Instinct has Simon reaching for your hips and thighs, intent on gripping and massaging the skin there.

Yet he does not have the chance.

You are lifting your legs up, bending the knees, resting your feet flat on the bed. Confused at first, Simon’s hands fall away, hovering near your shins. But that confusion quickly disappears when you open for him fully, revealing yourself entirely to his gaze.

Simon licks his lips wanting to taste every bit of your pussy. That stickiness needs to be on his lips and chin. His mouth deserves to worship you, and for you to receive such prayer. You open like a blooming flower, your head tilted slightly to the side as you watch him.

Your gaze is all primal need and wanton lust. It fuels his own desire, charges it to a blistering height. With one hand on your knee, Simon reaches between your spread thighs. You whimper as his fingers run over your slickness. It collects and drips off the tips of Simon’s fingers. Greedily, Simon brings his drenched fingers to his lips, sucking them clean one by one.

“Gonna give me what I want?” murmurs Simon, resting his freshly cleaned fingers on his chest.

“Asking me to sit on your face?” you tease, flexing your hips slightly.

Simon grins. “Breakfast in bed? You’re too sweet to me.” His hand on your knee slides up, grips the thigh, pulls.

You tumble into his arms and Simon snakes his arms around your waist to keep you from escaping. Laughing, you lightly beat on his chest. But you are caught, unable to break free from Simon’s ironclad strength. You submit to him, and Simon flares with pride. Everything he needs is right here.

With your forearms on his chest, you lean forward and present your mouth. Simon eagerly takes your lips, not caring that both of you need to brush your teeth. You smile against his mouth and then draw back a bit. You look just as you did before while curled up next to him, all gentle mischievousness.

With palms flat against his chest, you push back into a seated position. You reach down between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, flexing your hips upward. With just the slightest shift of your hips, the head of Simon’s cock presses to your entrance.

Simon’s hands immediately dart out to grab hold of those hips. In moments, you’re sinking down on him, parting, opening up and welcoming him inside. You’re tight and wet and goddamn perfect as more of him disappears.

The muscles in Simon’s jaw clench, and his left hand leaves your hip to run through his hair. To—

Run through his hair? His…hair.

No mask. No balaclava. You’ve never seen him without it. You haven’t—

“Fuck,” Simons groans loudly as you push down on his chest to flex your hips up and back down on him. You lift, roll, go back down. Again. Again. And again, until you’ve taken every fucking inch of him.

Forget the fucking mask. He’ll deal with it later. Right now, you’re his priority.

Your hands on his chest slide upward and stop at the base of Simon’s throat. You’re not choking him, just pressing on his collarbone, using Simon as an anchor while you fuck yourself on his cock.

Even if you were choking him, Simon could give a shit. Break his goddamn collarbone. Choke him out. He’d love to see you try. You wouldn’t have the strength to do it, but watching you like this above him, riding him and using him for your pleasure is its own sick fantasy.

Simon could get used to this. If this is how you want to start the day, he’ll take it.

“Say my name,” growls Simon, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Say it.”

His dick is glossy, disappearing and reappearing with every bounce and roll of your hips. There is no condom, and that too his strange, like the missing balaclava and the fact that you are in his bed this morning.

Your head falls back, exposing your neck. “Ghost,” you moan, and Simon freezes.

Ghost. Ghost.

You called him Ghost at Riot Room. You called him Ghost when his cock was buried deep inside you. You called him Ghost when your orgasm sent you shaking in his lap, squeezing him until his own end came.

But you don’t call him Ghost now. You call him Simon. He told you to call him that now, and you have ever since.

Your nails dig into his skin. Cutting. Stinging.

“Ghost,” you whimper. This time, there is pain in the way you say his name.

Something is wrong.

Your nails drag away from his throat and to his chest, leaving behind jagged lines of red. Heat flares, but he’s not focused on it. Simon keeps one hand on your hip and pushes himself up to a more seated position. He longer cares or is interested in you fucking yourself on him.

He says your name, one hand reaching for you. There is no pleasure on your face. No joy. There are tears and your eyes are wide open, bloodshot.

The one hand he has touching you sinks into your skin, the flesh melting underneath it like sludge. Simon blinks, not understanding. Why are you melting? Why are you fucking melting?

Simon says your name again, sitting up completely, his arm going to your back to support your rapidly dissolving weight. Because that is what happens. Like ice cream in the sun, your skin disintegrates, and Simon cannot hold on to you.

You slip through his fingers.

“No,” whispers Simon. Then, louder, “No!”

Simon continues to call out to you, almost screaming, his voice laced with agony. It drips from him, but you are unresponsive. Sinking, sinking into murk.

It is growing dark, and Simon shoves himself forward in an attempt to salvage the last remaining vestiges of you.

But you are not there. He does not cradle you in his arms. Simon cradles a sniper rifle. All black and shiny. Polished.

There is no bedroom and no warm bed. It is cold, and his breath becomes steam in the air. Simon knows this place. It’s Chicago. And in Chicago, Simon kneeled on the top of a building with this very weapon in hand. At the end of the barrel, in Simon’s sight, is where Hassan and Johnny should be.

But the building is blocked, obscured by a massive figure crouching on the ledge like a stone gargoyle. Simon stares at a skull face. A reaper. Grinning.

It’s teeth and bone face are white and shiny, but between those pearly incisors are flecks of red. Dried blood.

Death grins at Simon.

Mocks him.

The reaper reaches out with one boney hand, gripping the end of the barrel. It opens its mouth, flashing its teeth, then bites down on the firing end. It gnaws on the metal. Chewing, chewing like its teeth are steel.

Johnny is across the street being tossed around by Hassan.

This reaper needs to fucking move. Simon needs to take the shot.

You can’t save Johnny.

But Simon did. He knows he did. This is the past. It’s already happened.

You can’t save him. You can’t save Gaz. You can’t save Price.

Bloody salvia drips around the reaper’s teeth, running down the length of the barrel.

You can’t save them. Just like you couldn’t save your brother. Just like you couldn’t save your mother.

Simon’s finger tightens on the trigger.

“Lt. The window,” crackles Johnny’s voice over the comm channel.

The reaper chomp chomp chomps. Grins.

“The window!”

Dead brother. Dead mother. Dead friends.

Simon pulls back on the trigger.

The shot is an explosion. The back of the reaper’s head blows outward only to become a raging inferno. Flames lick upward, so high it seems impossible. Everything around Simon burns. His back and arms ache, throb, the old wounds opening up to remember just how he got them.

Before the towering inferno is a dark figure. It’s just a man’s back at first. An outline. A silhouette. But he turns, keeps turning, and Simon sees the figure for who it is.

It’s him. It’s fucking him.

The handle of Simon’s favorite knife sticks out of the man’s chest. The man grins, and blood stains his teeth. He wobbles, stumbles, moving closer to the precipice.

This man does not deserve a name. Simon will not speak it, not even silently.

Time pauses in suspense as the man falls backward into the flames. Simon’s back and arms are screaming their own song of sorrow as the nerves in his skin singe. This is the moment. This is the hour. This memory is a brand. A tattoo.

A fucking swamp.

Simon smells charred skin, but he’s not sure if it’s his own or his fallen enemy. The flames rage, widen. Over the crackling of the fire, he hears a gunshot. Then another. Then, another. The sound warps, lengthens, and the flames become smooth like Simon is seeing them through a fogged mirror.

The shot comes again but it’s—it’s not that.

The sound repeats and Simon frowns.

It’s…a dog?

Simon blinks. The flames recede as if suctioned through a small hole. Simon blinks again.

He is staring at a wall. A familiar wall. It’s Simon’s bedroom. He’s in his flat above the tattoo parlor. He is in his bedroom. He is in his bed.

Simon tells himself this. Repeats it.

His cheeks sting and his eyes ache.

A sweeping wave of anxiety rushes up Simon’s back and into his chest, tightening his throat. The sound that escapes Simon is cracked, a choked sob. He leans his elbows on his knees and places his hands over his face.

Breathing. Hyperventilating. Wanting to scream. Needing to rage.

Bravo’s wet nose presses against the underside of Simon’s bicep. Simon does not respond. He does not react. Bravo whines, and forces his way in, sliding his large head under Simon’s arm to rest against his chest.

These episodes are always the worst, the ones that creep up when Simon least expects it. But that isn’t the only thing bothering him. Simon hasn’t relived the moment his entire career ended for almost a year. That memory doesn’t—shouldn’t—bother him anymore. Yet, something triggered it.

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea of why. It’s no coincidence that it started with you and ended with him. That man is dead. Fucking gone. And yet Simon thought he saw him on Monday morning. Just loitering across the street from where you and Simon were enjoying breakfast.

At the time, Simon dismissed it, believing his mind was playing some cruel joke.

Simon’s fingers drag over his scalp and then down his face. Sighing, he finally gives in, falls back against the bed.

Bravo snuggles in close, and Simon drapes his arm over the dog’s back. “I’m ace, Bravo. Give me a minute.”

Simon blocks out everything, focusing on steadying his breathing. He doesn’t move again until his hands stop shaking.

Groaning, Simon sits up again, and Bravo leaps off the bed, heading for the open bedroom door. While he aches as he always does, some of the usual pain is numb, like his body is more concerned about his psyche than his physical ailments.

Pushing through the soreness, Simon starts his morning as he always does, moving through his routine as a way to steady his mind. It works…enough. Some of that lingering anxiousness burrows down into his bones. He’ll likely be on edge all fucking day.

It’s Thursday, and Simon hasn’t seen you since Monday morning.

He’s been busy, but he also doesn’t have your damn phone number. If he were still SAS, he’d have your number before you’ve even given it to him. Simon is trying to be better than that. Some things are just habit like when he broke into Riot Room the next morning after you ran from him. Simon was ready to hunt you down and drag you to his bed.

While a piece of him would fucking bark at the opportunity to chase you down, Simon knows better. He needs to do all of this differently. He needs to be careful. To not scare you away or be too overbearing.

In the kitchen, Simon frowns down at his dining table. It’s covered in torn out pages from his sketchbook. After work, he stays up late creating design after design, not particularly liking any of them. He wants them to be perfect for you, but none of them stand out to him, and your approval is the only thing he’s after.

Turning his back on them, Simon glances at his phone, checking the time. It’s still plenty early before he needs to officially open the shop. There is still time for him to go see you.

Simon taps his knuckles against the wood before making a decision.

Fuck it. He’s going.

“Bravo! Get your leash!” calls Simon over his shoulder. Bravo’s nails clack gently against the floor as he retrieves his leash, bringing it to Simon moments later.

The autumn air is cool but not overly so, and the walk to Amelia’s is brief. Amelia is a nice woman, and since going to the pub every Sunday for almost two years, he’s grown to trust her. He’s fixed a few things for her around her house in exchange for vegetables from her garden.

When Simon strides up to Amelia’s front door, he intends to knock, but pauses just before doing so.

It’s early. What the fuck is he doing? Why would you want to see him at this hour?

Bravo whines softly and places a paw against Simon’s thigh. The German Shepard tips his head to the side in question.

“Fucking hell. Fine.” Simon pounds on the door, dropping his hand into his pocket as he waits for an answer.

There is silence, and it only stretches, the seconds ticking by.

Frowning, Simon knocks again. After waiting a full minute, worry slithers into the pit of his stomach.

Why is no one answering the damn door?

Not questioning his next actions, Simon tries the handle. It turns easily, giving way to him.

The door is unlocked.

The door is unlocked and no one is answering.

Simon stares into the silent house. His body and mind slide into that military training, transitioning into Ghost fluidly. He sinks down to one knee and unlatches the leash from Bravo’s collar. Bravo senses this change, his own training kicking in.

In a near silent whisper, Simon gives Bravo your name, tells him to find you, and Bravo does just that. His nose goes to the ground immediately, sniffing everything, moving in erratic patterns until finally backtracking to the stairs.

Simon nods, and Bravo ascends with Simon on his heels.

At a shut bedroom door, Bravo sits, staring at Simon. There is a tingling in the tips of Simon’s fingers and a thudding beat in his chest. Slowly, Simon rests his gloved hand on the doorknob. Turning it silently, he opens the door, anticipation coiling like a snake ready to strike.

The first thing Simon notices is how much this space smells like you. The scent of you rushes into his lungs, and the memory of the dream flares, threatening to pull at his resolve. The next thing he notices is the made bed and how there is no one in the room.

On quiet feet, Simon enters, his boots leaving impressions in the carpet.

No signs of a struggle. Nothing tipped over or seemingly out of place. There is not a thing in this room that should have him worrying like he is. This is ridiculous. Absurd.

It was just a dream. Just an episode. She is fine.

Simon walks around the side of the bed. Draped over the back of a chair is the sweater you wore on Monday. Delicately, Simon slips his hand underneath the fabric and lifts it off the chair, bringing the sweater closer to him.

He gives in to indulgence, pressing the soft fabric against the bottom half of his balaclava. He inhales deeply, shudders, everything in him roaring to life, wanting to seek you out yet equally angry that it’s a garment and not the real thing.

This has your scent on it, unlike the torn piece of clothing he still keeps in his dresser drawer. But Simon isn’t going to take your sweater. He doesn’t need to because you’re already here, back in his life, and wanting him. Knowing that is enough, but it doesn’t explain why the front door is unlocked and that no one answered when he knocked.

Simon returns the sweater to its original spot and starts to turn back toward the door. A muffled pounding sound draws his attention to the nearby window. Frowning, Simon walks up to it, looking out into the backyard.

There, kneeling next to a raised flowerbed, is Amelia.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon.

He storms out of the room, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, Bravo racing after him. Simon passes through the sitting room and kitchen toward the backdoor. He’s not quiet about his arrival.

The door nearly flies off its hinges as Simon bursts through it. He stands on the top step of the stairs, hands on his hips as Amelia glances up from her work.

“Simon,” she says, a little surprised yet with a pleasantness to her tone that says she’s happy to see him.

“Your front door is unlocked,” he growls.

Amelia waves him off like it’s not a big deal. “Forgot to lock up after the girls left. It’s only been a few minutes.”

A few minutes. Simon missed you by a few bloody minutes?

Simon bites back all the questions he wants to ask. He wants to know where you are and for how long. He needs specifics.

“An unlocked door invites danger,” says Simon through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” replies Amelia, placing one hand on the edge of the raised garden bed. She pushes herself up to her feet before Simon can get to her and assist. “You know all about danger. Don’t you?”

Amelia knows about Simon’s time in the military but she doesn’t know specifics. Simon knows plenty about her though. Not because he looked up information but because of all the times at Dancing Faun when she’d talk his ear off. Amelia married rich, popped out a bunch of kids, and then divorced rich.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “I came to see—”

“I know who you came to see,” interrupts Amelia. “She’s not here at the moment. Left just this morning with Evie. Off to Cambridge for a few days.” Amelia brushes past Simon as she removes her garden gloves. “Come inside and have some tea while you’re here.”

Bravo sits patiently at the top of the stairs, tail wagging. Amelia pats the German Shepard’s head politely before heading inside. Bravo doesn’t even wait for Simon. He follows Amelia into the house.

Grumbling, Simon heads up the stairs and into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. He locks it in case Amelia forgets.

Amelia fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove, turning on the heat. Simon doesn’t sit down. He stands awkwardly next to the table.

She notices and nods at a chair. “Sit.” Simon doesn’t. She arches a single eyebrow, and something in Simon obeys without question. Maybe it’s the motherly stare of disapproval, but he complies.

The chair is far too small for his large frame. Simon has to adjust, spreading his legs enough to not feel cramped.

“Why are they in Cambridge?” The question slips out by accident.

Amelia grabs two mugs from a cabinet and shrugs. “If you don’t know, then it isn’t my place to tell you.”

“Amelia—”

“What are your intentions?” Amelia turns around and faces Simon fully.

Simon blinks, completely surprised by her question. “What?” he asks softly.

“I care about Evelyn. And I care about everyone that she cares about. Including the young woman who you’re…entangled with.” Simon understands Amelia’s meaning without her having to spell it out. “I want to know what your intentions are with her.”

Under the table, one of his hands forms a fist.

His intention is to make you his. For you to be his woman. But Simon can’t say that. Amelia is talking about dating. She is talking about marriage and kids and what the future looks like with you.

And in that moment, Simon realizes that he hasn’t thought about any of those things, at least, not in specifics. He’s imagined waking up to you in his bed every morning. He’s thought about what it would be like to have you to come home to at the end of the day.

But for three long years, the only thing Simon has truly thought about, is how to get you back. Now you’re within reach and Simon hasn’t taken a fucking second to even comprehend where or how this will play out.

Has he completely fucked this up? Has he gone about this wrong?

“Your silence is worrying me, Simon.”

Fuck. Was he silent this whole time?

Simon clears his throat. “We’ve only seen each other twice.” It’s a throwaway answer, and Amelia knows it.

She frowns with disappointment. “It’s not my place to tell you why she’s here. That’s for her to tell you when she’s ready.” Amelia sighs. “And I won’t have you mucking her around only to leave her in the mud after you’re done. I won’t have it.”

Tossing you to the side is not an option. Not having you beside him is not an option. Simon will have you. There is no compromise.

The kettle shrieks and, without looking, Amelia grabs the handle and moves it off the stove. “Are we in an understanding, Simon Riley?”

Amelia uses his full name. She only ever calls him Simon.

“We’re clear,” he replies.

Amelia nods. “How do you like your tea?”

“All done.” Simon turns off the gun and sets it down on the metal rolling tray. He takes a wipe to the freshly done tattoo. “Want a photo before I seal it up?” Simon tosses the wipe into the trash can and glances at the man sitting in the chair.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Simon nods and applies the adhesive bandage over the new ink. It’s perfect work, full of color and intricate lines. He rolls back in his chair, removing his gloves and tossing those in the trash as well. The man in the chair, Leo, adjusts in the seat, sitting up.

At the sink, Simon scrubs his hands. Once done, he grabs a few papers about tattoo aftercare while Leo fishes around in his pockets. When Simon presents the packet, Leo hands Simon his credit card.

With the transaction done, Leo exits, and Simon quickly closes up shop, turning the deadbolts and activating the security system. Bravo still snoozes on the couch, completely oblivious to everything happening around him.

Simon grabs the bottle of sanitizer and sprays down the tattoo chair. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Simon ignores it, continuing to wipe down the chair. The phone cuts off and starts up a few seconds after it ceases.

Again, Simon ignores it.

Again, the phone rings.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, tossing the paper towel into the trash and fishing out his phone.

MacTavish the screen reads. A brief flare of panic rises in Simon’s chest.

He answers the call, bringing the phone up to his ear. “Johnny?”

“LT!” Simon pulls the phone away from his head, grimacing from Soap’s piercingly happy tone.

“Stop fucking shouting,” snaps Simon. He swallows and cracks his neck. “And I’m not a lieutenant anymore.”

On the other end of the line, Soap makes a dismissive noise like he doesn’t quite care. “You get my package?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Simon smirks behind the balaclava. “I use the mug every morning.”

Johnny barks a laugh. “Oh aye, Lt. Bet you do.” There’s a rustling on the other end. “You up for a visit?”

“A visit?” asks Simon hesitantly.

“Yeah. Need your advice on something. Captain and Gaz are coming too.”

Simon returns the spray bottle to its designated spot. “Why are you calling me instead of Price?”

“Because if Price called, you’d say no.”

Simon pauses near his desk, and glances at the screen of his laptop. “Can I ask what kind of visit?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Best not to say over the phone. And we haven’t seen you in months. Plus, Ma keeps asking if you’re coming for Christmas.”

Simon grins. “Is she coming, too? Bringing the whole family with you, Johnny?”

“Oi. Fuck off,” he laughs. “Expect us on Saturday.”

The three of them visiting him sits heavy in his stomach. They’ve all come individually, and a few times in a pair, but never all three. It’s only happened twice before. The first time was directly after Simon’s forced retirement. The second time was when the tattoo parlor first opened and they came to support him. Since then, Price, Gaz, and Soap have all come by on their own for one reason or another.

But not together.

That same anxiety from earlier in the day rears up yet again. Whatever needs to be talked about, whatever the three of them need to say to him in person and not over the phone, worries Simon. It digs its claws in.

Another thought nags at him as well, and Simon cannot let it go. He’s not with SAS anymore, and if he was, he’d do this himself. Johnny would help him, would do this for him if Simon only asks.

Simon exhales slowly. “Johnny, I need a favor.”

Soap’s response is immediate. “Anything, Lt.”

“You remember that woman I chased after? The one at Riot Room.”

Soap is quiet a long moment before he answers. “Aye. I remember.”

He’s not proud of what he’s about to do, but fuck it. “Can you find out what you can about her?” Simon rattles off all the information he has and Soap remains silent the entire time.

“I’ll find out what I can and get back to you,” he says after Simon stops talking.

No. Simon is not proud of asking this of him, but Simon is desperate. He needs to know everything about you. It’s habit, and while a small part of him tells him it’s wrong, Simon pushes it down, smothering the objection.

“Saturday then.”

“Saturday.”

Chapter Text

The excitement of the day is starting to set in. Everything was a whirlwind this morning, and only now, in the quiet of the kitchen in Evie’s Cambridge home, is it all beginning to catch up with you.

The continuously growing list of things to do is as messy and vast as the scattered assembly of carryout boxes on the kitchen island. Most of it is Chinese takeout boxes—which, to your disappointment—is not like American Chinese takeout at all. Evie thought it hilarious when you began opening boxes only to discover multiple containers of curry sauce and mushy peas. Greasy burgers were ordered and consumed instead. Now, as you begin sifting through the mess, tossing containers into a trash bag, exhaustion is showing its teeth, reminding you just how hectic it’s been.

Outside the patio doors, the sun is low, it’s beams hardly breaking over the natural hedge fence along the property line. The lights above the kitchen island and stove are on, adding to the low, warm glow of the evening sun. Scattered across the countertop behind you are various stacks of paperwork. You and Evie need to go through all of it, but you’re unwilling to burden her with too much.

Evie is still grieving, and she’s eight months pregnant, quickly approaching nine. The only thing Evie needs to worry about is getting plenty of rest and the upcoming labor. She doesn’t need to fret over conversations with the estate agent or Archie’s solicitor. Not to mention the fact that the solicitor brought up potential troubles with Archie’s family, indicating a barrister might be needed if they decide to fight over Archie’s money. That did not reach Evie’s ears. Those people have already done enough, and if you can, you’ll keep their poison away for as long as possible.

No. The main concern is Evie’s pregnancy. With the move to London, all of Evie’s medical history has to be transferred to her new hospital and doctor. It’s incredibly close to the due date for everyone’s liking, but it can’t be helped. Evie won’t be giving birth in Cambridge.

Sighing, you toss yet another empty container into the bag, purposefully keeping your back to the stack of papers. You offered up the idea to the estate agent of selling the place fully furnished to which you were quickly dismissed. Frustrating, because it means your job becomes much more difficult, but understandable. People want to make new memories. They don’t want to cling to someone else’s old ones.

Over dinner, you and Evie discussed how she wanted to clear out the house of her belongings. Sell it? Donate it? Put it in storage? Take it with her? There wasn’t a true decision but there was an agreement on beginning the process.

It’s a start. It’s something.

Tomorrow, Friday afternoon to be exact, you and Evie are heading back to London. It’s a quick turnaround, but you’re eager to return and see your wraith. Just thinking of him, speaking his name in your mind, is enough to swirl the quietly simmering heat in your belly to a healthy boil. The warmth that arrives with Simon’s name spreads to your toes and throughout your limbs.

Smiling, nearly giggling, cheeks fevering with the memory of his kisses from Monday, you lightly press the tips of your fingers to your lips, floating in the memory of how they tasted his skin.

Then, you remember where you are. And what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Get a fucking grip,” you mutter under your breath, stuffing the last of the takeout boxes into the trash bag.

When you return from tossing the bag into the outside bin, you wash your hands before reaching for your phone. In the group chat with Jade and Sam, you give them a quick update, silencing your phone afterward, plugging it in to charge for the night.

Evie is upstairs somewhere, likely rummaging around in things she shouldn’t be. She has a knack for that, doing things without asking for help, believing that doing so is a sign of weakness. It’s that American Midwest can-do attitude. Independent and self-sufficient. A good ole’ Missouri girl. That’s Evelyn Green.

Rubbing at your right temple, you head upstairs, aiming for the master bedroom. The door stands open, and as you approach, you stop short the frame when you hear a choked, strangled sob.

“Evie?” you call out.

You listen intently, not sure if you’ve misheard. But you hear it again, a pained sound that sounds more injured animal than human.

Cold fear twists your stomach, drags it down to the floor, stomps all over it and grins.

“Evie!”

Shoving through the door, you don’t find her anywhere. Scanning the master bedroom, you notice the scattered clothes across the bed and the rumpled sheets. But the room is dark. The only light comes from the walk-in closet. Its angles are sharp like a blade and you fear the worst. What if she’s fallen? Surely, you would have heard the crash, or a solid thump?

Heading toward it, the rising fear intensifies until it lodges in your throat, waiting to emerge like a striking snake.

You step into the beam of light.

Sitting in the middle of a large pile of clothes is Evie.

She’s bent over, at least, as bent as her belly will allow her to be. Her pale cheeks are slashed with red and tear-stained. Her shoulders shake with every sob, each one appearing painful. And, in her hands, she cradles a little beige box.

The lid is off. The white ribbon on the top is yellowed and brittle. It rests to the left of Evie’s right foot on one of Archie’s button ups. Within that little beige box is a boutonnière. It’s Archie’s boutonnière. The one he wore on their wedding. It’s dried out now, more potpourri than flower, a silent witness to Evie’s suffering.

“Oh. Evie,” you sigh, going down on your knees in front of her, your hands outstretched but not touching, unsure of how she’s needing comfort.

She glances up. Chokes. Hiccups. “He’s gone,” she whimpers, and all you want to do is absorb her pain.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know, Evie. I’m so sorry.”

“He—he’s gone.” Fresh tears form in the corners of her eyes. They quickly compound on each other, rapidly filling the bottom of her eyelids. “He’s gone and I—”

A gut-wrenching sob rips from her. Like someone is reaching down her throat to tear out her vocal cords.

With extreme gentleness, you place one hand on her shoulder. The other cradles her hand holding the small beige box. “Evie—”

“He’s gone!” she wails. “And this is all I have left!” Evie gestures around at the clothes.

“You have so much more than that,” you soothe, lightly rubbing her shoulder in slow circles.

But Evie is shaking her head, sniffling hard, sucking up all the phlegm that threatens to slip from her nostrils. She’s a mess. A cacophony of a storm.

She glances up. Stares at the ceiling of the closet. “What happens when I start to forget his face?” Evie turns her gaze to you, the defeat and sorrow there sharp enough to shred the soul. “What happens then?”

“You won’t,” you insist, grasping the sides of her face. Strands of her dark hair stick to her tear-stained skin. Your brush them out of the way. “You love him, and the memory of that love is enough.”

Evie keeps shaking her head. “I can’t do this,” she murmurs, cradling her belly with one hand. “How do I do this without him?”

“You can, Evelyn Green. And you’re not alone. You have me. And Amelia. Jade. Sam.” With the pad of your thumb, you remove a few falling tears from her cheek. “This baby will be surrounded by love. She’ll never be without. She will always be safe. And when you tell her stories of her father, all she’ll know is how much you love him, and how much he wanted to meet her.”

Tears spillover to paint Evie’s cheeks as she leans into you. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her close, offering your shoulder to rest her head on. Neither of you talks, and this isn’t your place to say anything at all. This is for Evie, and whatever she needs.

Keeping one hand clutching the beige box, Evie reaches up with the other, fingers wrapping around your forearm. Digging, digging in where they land and are sure to leave little half-moons behind. Fuck it. You hardly care. You’re too focused on keeping her aloft, on being Evie’s anchor where she has none.

You won’t allow your friend to sink.

You stay like this until your knees hurt and your lower back aches. You stay like this until Evie signals she’s ready to let go with a gentle squeeze of your arm. As she pulls away, Evie wipes at her eyes. She still clings to that little box, but she needs rest, and you know she’ll never forgive herself if she takes it to bed with her and crushes it.

Placing both hands around the box, you silently implore her to let go. Evie does, hesitantly, and you lay the precious cargo on the ground. Presenting your hands, you put Evie to bed, keeping watch until you’re certain she’s truly asleep and not faking it for your benefit.

Only then do you return to the closet. Only then do you lift the little box from off the floor to carry it downstairs and set it next to your charging phone. Going to the mantel over the fireplace, you select your favorite photo from Archie and Evie’s wedding day. It’s a simple one, but the love oozes from it, sticks in between your teeth to blissfully rot away the enamel.

In the photo, Archie and Evie look at each other and not into the camera. It’s not staged. Just a moment caught when they thought no one was looking. A moment special only to them. Taking it to the kitchen, you rest it next to the box holding Archie’s boutonnière.

By the time you crawl into bed in the guestroom, it’s close to morning.

The few hours you manage to snag are not nearly enough. And when you awaken, you realize quickly that there is no amount of coffee in the world that can save you. Dragging yourself from bed, you clean up the clothes Evie left on the floor of the closet without disturbing her. Down in the kitchen, you make breakfast and place several phone calls. Nearly all of them are to Archie’s solicitor and the estate agent.

You’re exhausted. Fucking gone, but you have to do this for her.

Evie doesn’t drag herself out of bed until almost noon. By that time, the two of you need to start heading back to London. You take the driver seat, and Evie sits passenger with the little box holding Archie’s boutonnière and the framed photo resting in her lap.

“Simon came to see you,” are the first words out of Amelia’s mouth when she greets you.

“He did?” you squeak, nearly dropping the bag you just removed from the trunk of the car. Excitement and giddiness blooms in your chest.

Simon came to see you. He came…to see you.

But why would he not? He chased you down. Pursued you. Looked for you relentlessly. Of course he’d come by. You know this.

After visiting him at 141 Ink on Monday morning, you stopped to grab some groceries before heading home. Amelia and Evie nearly tackled you when you came through the door, both of them eager, pecking like annoying hens, seeking information. Too embarrassed to admit that you’d straddled him in front of the big window and sucked on his neck, you glossed over the more intimate moments much to their frustration.

Amelia had popped open a bottle of wine afterward and asked you if you knew anything about his history in the military. In all honesty, you know very little, just what he mentioned that morning. Thinking about it now, you truly don’t know anything concrete about your wraith. Physical chemistry is a good thing to possess, but that won’t last if there is nothing else to connect to.

Amelia already appeared to know this, and mentioned that you might want to take a delicate step with him in that area. “A bad injury” is what she said, but Amelia didn’t know any of the details. Then again, Amelia might know, and was only considering Simon’s privacy.

“Oh, yes. He was here. Burst through the backdoor and yelled at me for forgetting to lock the front one.”

Evie’s head pops up above the top of the car. “He yelled at you?”

You glance at Amelia, unbelieving that someone like Simon would raise his voice at her.

“Oh, posh,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Perhaps yell is a strong word. Growled. Said with irritation. Better?” Amelia shrugs one of the bags over her shoulder.

You and Evie exchange a knowing glance.

Could you go see him tonight? You consider the options. You could stay here and have dinner with Amelia and Evie. Or, you could go see Simon. Enter his shop while he’s working, observe him in his elements. And afterward—

“Are you all right? You look like you’re about ready to faint.” Amelia’s voice snaps you back to reality.

Shit.

Evie stands slightly left and back to Amelia. She’s grinning, knowing exactly where your mind drifted off to.

You smile awkwardly. “I’m fine. Just surprised.”

Amelia makes a face like she doesn’t believe that for a second. But she shrugs, not commenting about it. “You should visit him. It’s Friday. Make a night of it.”

“Are you sure?” you ask hurriedly, not wanting to sound too eager.

Amelia scoffs. “Evie and I will be perfectly fine.” She turns to Evie pointedly. “Won’t we?”

“Perfectly peachy,” winks Evie, shimmying her shoulders suggestively at you before following a cackling Amelia inside.

Your grab several more bags as if one less trip will truly cut into seeing Simon time. Then it’s done, and you’re nearly sprinting up the stairs for a shower and a change of clothes.

“How do I look?” you ask around your toothbrush, turning slightly so Evie can see every angle.

Evie glances up from her phone and grins. “If Simon isn’t all over you the moment you walk through the door, he’s a fucking idiot.” She points at you with her phone. “And you can tell him I said that.”

You snort, and then cover your mouth quickly. Evie laughs too but it’s more of a wheeze and that only makes the strangled, airless sounds you both make that much worse.

“Oh shit,” hisses Evie. “I peed. Thanks, bitch.” She half-rolls, half-flops out of the bed and starts waddling toward the bathroom.

“You’re welcome,” you call out to her retreating back.

Evie holds out her middle finger before shutting the bathroom door. Pulling on your coat and grabbing your purse off the top of the dresser, you head downstairs to slip on your boots.

Every step you take toward 141 Ink is light. Unhurried. It’s easy. Yes, you’re anxious, but that’s only because you’re eager to see Simon, to feel his hands on you, and forget yourself for a bit in his embrace.

As you near, that nervousness starts to slither up, blooming like a poisonous flower. Beautiful, but deadly, waiting for you to consume it. The black and eggplant-purple exterior come into view and that only amplifies what is already screeching under your skin.

“You’ve got this,” you tell yourself. “It’s fine. Calm. Down.”

Your heart and brain and limbs won’t listen. It amplifies further as you reach for the door.

Pushing it open, you’re met with warm air and the scent of pine underlined with the faintest hint of sterile cleaning solution. There is no soft chime when the door opens, but it might have been swallowed up by the music. Heavy metal rushes out from the speakers. It’s not overly loud, nothing that would damage the ears, but it’s certainly loud enough to muffle a conversation. You’re curious if this is Simon’s choice, or if it’s the customer currently in the tattoo chair.

Your glimpse of Simon and his client is brief. Immediately upon entrance, an all-black German Shepard leaps off the couch and greets you, tail wagging so fast it stirs up the air creating a breeze.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon, scratching under his chin and then between his ears. Bravo leans into it, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in perfect contentment. “Good boy.”

When you straighten your back and glance up, you notice Simon in the back of the room next to the tattoo chair. He sits on a small stool with a black cushion on wheels. The person receiving their tattoo is on their stomach, back presented to Simon as he works. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s completely lost in his craft.

You take this time to observe him, standing there in the entrance of his parlor while Bravo aggressively licks the inside of your hand. Simon isn’t wearing a jacket, only a black t-shirt with short sleeves. It fits him snuggly, clearly hugging every muscle. Both tattoo sleeves are on full display. One is solid black. The other consist of various images and symbols that all interweave around each other. Other than the black t-shirt, Simon wears black joggers and sneakers.

Simon sits up a bit, rolls both shoulders. The muscles in his arms flex with the movement. Your wraith is all power. There is so much strength there, and your brain conjures up the memory of Riot Room when Simon lifted you effortlessly, held you aloft as he brought your bodies together over and over again.

He dips the tip of the needle into the ink, bends forward, returning it to the skin. Returning to his work. You desire closeness, to admire the art as he’s creating it on the man’s back, but also don’t wish to disturb his concentration. Watching him in his natural elements is peaceful. All that earlier anxiety is suddenly gone.

When Simon reaches for the ink again, Simon finally glances up. The moment your gazes lock, he freezes, hovering in a moment of stasis. It breaks, and Simon starts to stand, his arm extending outward to turn off the tattoo gun.

Nope. No. This is not what you want. You’ve disturbed him, throttled his concentration.

You shake your head vehemently, holding up both hands, pointing at the couch in the waiting area. Bravo lightly headbutts your thigh, clearly upset that you’ve taken away your hand for him to lick.

Simon holds his position. Knees slightly bent, legs just starting to extend like he’s ready to leap up at your request. Moving quickly, you settle yourself on the couch, Bravo jumping up next to you, snuggling down onto his belly, his large head plopping into your lap.

Only then does Simon sink back onto his stool.

The distance between the two of you is too much for your liking, but you know the feeling is mutual. Simon’s gaze is heated, and his body, which at first faced the client in the chair, is turned in your direction. Those dark, gorgeous eyes of his linger. They drag up your body, and back down again. Simon is taking his time, and under that wanton stare, you feel bare. Exposed. Chest cavity broken up and strewn out. Vulnerable.

It's unnerving. And yet thrilling. It’s how you felt when you first accepted his offer at Riot Room, when you off-handedly brought up the proposition and Simon made sure to end it.

His gaze remains a few seconds longer before Simon finally returns to the man lying face down on the chair. With one hand on top of Bravo’s head, you press the other hand to your cheek. It’s hot. Feverish. And you suddenly notice the growing slickness between your thighs.

Attempting to shift focus, you give most of your attention to Bravo, talking softly to the dog about your day, lulling the massive hound to sleep.

Even like this, you can’t help but notice all the times that Simon consistently glances up from his work, gaze focused in on you like you’ll somehow disappear. Sometimes it’s a quick one-two and he’s right back in it, set in on his work. Other times, he draws it out, as if silently telling you that he sees you. Those glances seize your heart, wrenching it right down into your stomach.

Once Bravo falls into a gentle snooze, and you have nothing else to direct your attention toward—except Simon’s lingering stares—you opt for productivity. With no idea how much longer Simon has with his client, you slip your phone out of your coat pocket and start catching up on work emails. Several deadlines are approaching quickly, and you’re terribly behind. You need an afternoon to yourself to simple work without interruptions. But that’s been difficult, especially when most of your time has been devoted to Evie.

“Done.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Simon’s deep timbre. The client stretches, half-rolling half-stumbling to his feet.

Simon gestures for them to turn around. “Back to the mirror,” he instructs.

From off a rolling cart, Simon snags a hand mirror, presenting it to the client. It allows the man to admire Simon’s work. You have a clear view of the mirror. It’s just an outline, but it’s massive, covering the man’s entire back.

“Color and shading will take a couple sessions,” says Simon. “What do you think?”

You don’t catch what the man says, but you do hear Simon’s amused chuckle. He takes the hand mirror and places it on the tattoo chair. The two of them talk for a bit as money is exchanged and Simon hands him a care packet. The client shrugs on his shirt and coat, heading for the door.

As he approaches, he slows, noticing you on the couch. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He pointedly takes his time opening the door, a flirty smile on his face aimed at you as he steps out onto the street.

When the door clicks shut, you glance at Simon. His fists are clenched, hanging at his sides. Those dark eyes of his are bullets, ready to kill, completely fixated on the shut door.

“Simon,” you call out softly, a little of your worry slipping in. His gaze immediately adjusts, moving to you, softening entirely when he takes you in.

He tears off his black latex gloves and tosses them into the trash, already striding toward you as he does so. Bravo grumbles a protest as you bolt upward and off the sofa. You don’t even make it halfway to Simon before he’s on you, grabbing at the back of your neck and your waist, pulling you in for a kiss.

There isn’t a chance for you to push up the balaclava. And Simon doesn’t appear to care. He kisses you through the rough material, and you giggle against his cloth-covered lips.

“Simon,” you laugh, pushing lightly on his chest with your palms, voice slightly muffled from the balaclava.

He pulls back just enough to give you the faintest bit of breathing room. Then, he’s shoving his balaclava up to his nose, revealing those gorgeous lips of his. They are there and gone quickly, Simon already reclaiming what is so rightfully his.

You open and Simon slips his tongue inside, fingers digging roughly into the back of your neck, drawing you closer. This kiss is desperate. Needy. And so full of emotion that when he draws back, you’re momentarily breathless.

Simon’s smile is soft and you easily match it with one of you own. “Amelia told me you stopped by,” you murmur.

“You went to Cambridge,” he states. It’s not a question, and that gives you pause.

You nod. “I did.” You do not elaborate or give him an explanation. The situation with Evie is…complicated. While you wish to tell Simon everything, you also don’t want to unload, to dump all your worries onto him without warning.

“Do I have you for the evening?” he asks, hopefulness laced within the words.

A creeping sadness wiggles in. Simon cannot have you for the whole evening even though you’d love nothing more than to stay the entire night. But you won’t allow the disappointment to make a home. You are still here, with him, and that is enough.

“You have me for a few hours,” you answer, waiting for the discontent on his end.

It does not come.

Simon’s thumb traces the length of your throat. His smile is still there. Unchanged. “Do you want to join me upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“To my flat. For a drink.”

“Oh.”

“If not it’s fine,” says Simon quickly. “I understand. Quieter than one of the pubs.”

You nod eagerly, popping up on your toes. “Yes,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

Going upstairs to his flat means that you and Simon will truly be alone. And that singular thought, one that speaks to uninterrupted pleasure, starts a thrumming in the lower recessives of your belly that only moves farther south with each passing second.

“Good,” he sighs with relief.

Did he think you’d say no? Is Simon just as nervous, just as eager to want to be with you?

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Of course he does. Of course.

“Just need to,” he gestures to the room. “Close up.”

“How can I help?” you ask.

Simon thinks for a moment. “Floors?”

“Done.”

The two of you work in tandem, moving through the motions in a natural, domestic dance that seems so normal and so routine that it doesn’t feel odd. It’s comfortable. Cozy. Like you could live this life easily and not regret a single moment.

When the floors are cleaned, and surfaces are sanitized, Simon shuts off the main lights, locks the front door, and arms the alarm system.

Simon doesn’t say anything. Just overs his hand to you, palm upward.

There is no hesitation on your end.

Gently, you take his offered palm, admiring the little tattoos on his fingers as they fold over your hand. Simon guides you to a door you’ve never noticed before. It’s blocked off by a curtain, and when Simon opens it, the two of you step into a narrow hall. To your right is a door that leads out to the sidewalk. To your left is a staircase heading up to a landing.

Simon’s grip on your hand tightens as if you’ll make a run for the street. He does this sometimes. You’ve noticed these tiny gestures where he seems to cling a little too tight, and you question whether it’s a need to feel close to you, or anxiety.

Remembering what Amelia told you the other day, that you may need to be gentle with him, that Simon had a bad injury, you consider how that might influence someone. How it might change their perspective on things.

You return his tightened grip with a gentle squeeze of reassurance, silently prompting him to take the lead. Simon does, bringing you to the top of the landing. The front door doesn’t have a traditional lock but a passcode. Strange. Completely odd. But, then again, Simon is ex-military. Old habits?

Simon punches a series of buttons and the little red light on the top righthand side turns green. The audible sound of gears turning and locks—definitely plural—unlatching reaches your ears. Simon pushes down on the handle, and then you’re inside, Bravo right on your heels.

You’ve never thought about what Simon’s space might look like. Perhaps you figured it would be like any other bachelor pad. But Simon’s home is warm, and has a similar feel to the tattoo shop downstairs.

The interior is industrial with brick walls and exposed grey-black pipes running along the ceiling. The floor is hardwood, a deep, rich brown. To your left is a kitchen and dining area. All the cabinetry is black, the countertops butcher block, and the appliances stainless steel. To your right is the living room. The television is massive, and the sofa is large. You easily picture yourself and Simon snuggled on it, watching a movie.

Directly ahead of you is a short hallway. It branches left, disappearing to a place you cannot see. But you do notice an open bedroom doorway to the right of the end of the short hall.

“I have whiskey.”

You glance away from the doorway and find Simon. He nods toward a small bar next to the dining table. He’s right. There is only whiskey there. “Then whiskey it is.”

Simon laughs softly and grabs two rocks glasses. His gaze scans over the various bottles. Finally selecting one, Simon lifts it from its perch. Removing the cork, Simon pours a double on both. He brings your glass to you, and you take it with both hands, glancing down at the amber liquid.

This will hit you hard. You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“Are you hungry?” asks Simon, as if reading your mind.

“What?” you blink, looking up.

“I can order us something. Or I could cook.”

“You cook?”

“I’ve perfected a few meals.” Simon shrugs. “And instant ramen.”

“Instant ramen?” you ask, deadpan.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest, the whiskey in his glass sloshing slightly as he does. “And other things.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says automatically.

He wants to do this. He wants to do this.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nod. “You pick. Cook’s choice.”

Simons starts to turn away, but promptly returns, holding up his hand like he’s about to say something. He pauses, and sets his whiskey down. “Hold on.”

“Holding,” you say to his retreating back.

Simon disappears for a minute and reappears clutching a stack of papers. At first, you’re confused, but as he draws closer, you recognize them for what they are.

They’re pages out of a sketchbook, and there isn’t just a handful. Simon has to be holding as least a few dozen individual pieces of paper. And that’s not even the most startling thing. It’s the way he’s holding them, almost nervously, his thumbs rubbing the pages in an anxious tick.

Simon presents the stack to you. “Couldn’t decide on what I liked best.”

Your whiskey glass is on the dining table in an instant. Fingers itching, you gently take the papers from him. Already, from the very top sketch, you’re awed by the artistry. You don’t even look as you sink down into a chair. Placing them on the table, you begin to fan them out in a wide arc.

“These are lovely, Simon,” you murmur, captivated by how creative his mind is.

“You don’t need to select one today. Take a look and pick what you’re leaning toward.”

Quickly, you sift through them, spreading them out across the table, dividing them up to make the process easier. It’s almost overwhelming. Some of the pieces are similar, but most of them are entirely different. Completely unique.

As you start through your first organized stack, Simon is already in the kitchen, a large pot of water on the range. Before him on the countertop is a small pile of flour. He makes a well, cracks three eggs into the center, and the smallest splash of water. Taking a fork, he starts to whisk.

Is he—no.

You hold a paper in each hand but you’re not even looking at the artwork. You’re watching Simon make pasta. Fucking pasta. From scratch. And he’s not breaking a sweat. He looks so goddamn casual it’s almost maddening.

Bravo sits at your side, but all of his attention is on Simon. He licks his chops periodically but is otherwise statuesque. Your wraith wraps up the dough and sets it aside, quickly cleaning up his mess before retrieving a large frying pan, cutting board, and sauce pot.

Glancing between the artwork you pick up and Simon’s movement in the kitchen, you start to see a different side of him. Garlic, onion, fresh basil, and grape tomatoes are tossed into the sauce pot. Oil is drizzled into the large pan. Chicken breasts are pounded out, made thin, and then coated in breadcrumbs.

You at the table. Him in the kitchen, cooking you dinner. Nothing planned. Just present and existing, content with each other’s company.

By the time you’ve sorted through all the sketches and selected ten you’re leaning toward, Simon is rolling out the dough, cutting it into long strands, depositing the homemade spaghetti into the salted boiling water. The chicken cutlets are finishing under the broiler, topped with chunky tomato sauce and cheese.

Bravo’s no longer sitting but laying down. He’s still alert to everything happening in the kitchen, but Simon is meticulous, dropping nothing for Bravo to vacuum up.

“Simon?”

“Hm?” He briefly glances at you over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pot of cooking pasta.

You lick your lips, pausing before asking the question. “How did you get the tattoo shop?”

The tongs Simon holds hesitate before dipping into the water. “Part of my retirement,” he answers. Cooked pasta and leftover sauce are tossed together.

“Military retirement?” He nods but says nothing. You’re not sure if this will be too sensitive to ask, but you’re curious, and Amelia’s words from earlier in the week keep grating on your mind. “What did you do to earn you an entire tattoo shop at retirement?”

Simon divides the pasta up between two plates. “Early retirement from an injury. Got me this flat, too.”

Early retirement? An injury? What the fuck happened to him that the government would give him enough money to afford all this? That is unheard of, at least by American standards. You couldn’t say for certain what it’s like here, but it couldn’t be much different.

You sip on your whiskey, the amber liquid burning smoothly on the way down. “So you didn’t plan on becoming a tattoo artist originally?”

Simon shuts off the broiler and removes the breaded chicken cutlets. Placing them on a fresh cutting board, Simon slices them quickly, transferring one cutlet to each plate. “I was military.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But—did you ever think about after?”

Opening a nearby drawer, Simon grabs two knives and two forks. “Sometimes.”

Why is he being so evasive? Was the injury that bad? Thinking on it, you do recall several scars. There is the one running along the edge of his jaw. That one is clear to the eye. The other scars you noticed were hidden under the ink.

Simon picks up the plates and you hastily clear away the sketches, piling up the ones you didn’t select.

“Find anything?”

“These.” You gently push a small stack toward him.

Simon doesn’t even look at them until your plate is in front of you and you’re holding the silverware. Social norms and general social expectations might say to be dainty when with a new romantic partner, but the food in front of you is begging to be devoured. Simon made this for you to enjoy, and you’re going to do just that.

And Simon doesn’t appear to give a shit anyway. With one hand, he’s cutting through his chicken. The other is spreading out the sketches you selected, his gaze entirely fixed on the paper. He takes a bite of his food. Chews. Lifts a sketch up to study it.

You tuck in, eating but silent, observing every twitch and change in Simon’s expression. There are few of note. You have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he conjuring up new sketches already? Is he itching to pick up his pencil or charcoal or whatever he enjoys working with and starting immediately? Is Simon surprised by your choices?

The strongest reaction you pick up on is the arch of a singular eyebrow.

Eventually, he nods, seeming satisfied. With one hand, Simon neatly situates your selections into a stack, setting it aside. Your plate is nearly empty at this point, inhaling the meal like an addict.

Simon settles into his chair, his gaze fixating on you. “Why’d you go to Cambridge?”

Does Simon mean to make it feel like an accusation?

“I went for Evie,” you answer.

“Your friend.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“In London? Yes. I am.”

You don’t know how far you can take this conversation before crossing into territory you don’t want to discuss. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it with him, you simply fear the idea that you might unload on him. You are fully aware how stressing the entire situation with Evie is, but Simon doesn’t need to hear all of it at once. There are some things that are private. There are some things that if spoken to another, might break Evie’s trust in you.

Simon twirls his fork in his hand. “She’s pregnant.”

“Very pregnant,” you add.

“Married?”

How the fuck do you answer that?

“Widow,” you decide, because it’s the truth, and there isn’t any reason to hide it.

“How recent?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“She buried him a week ago.”

Simon stops twirling his fork. “A week?” You hear the surprise in his tone.

“Dead two. Buried one.” Saying it like that makes it sound so final. Archie is gone, and Evie is alone in that regard. She’s lost a piece of herself. A pillar of support.

This whole time, Simon’s gaze has been locked on you. But it drops down toward the floor for a brief few seconds before returning. Sometimes you really wish he’d take that balaclava off so you can get a full picture of what might be happening behind it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Simon doesn’t press for more, and you nearly sigh with relief.

“I’m helping her for a bit. Easy for me since I work remote.”

“What do you do?”

Oh shit. Simon doesn’t know. All this time, and it's never come up in conversation.

“Freelance mostly. Technical writing and editing.”

Simon swallows and takes a sip of his whiskey. “And what is that?”

“User manuals, medical documents, press releases.” You list a few more things and as you do, Simon’s lips stretch into a smile. “What?” you ask.

“That sounds incredibly boring.”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you try not to choke. “Pays the bills. Wouldn’t call it exciting.”

This is easier conversation. This is what a normal back-and-forth is supposed to be between two people. Isn’t it?

But what is normal about this dynamic? The two of you met and hooked up in the basement of a club. You ran and he chased, kept chasing for three years, and when you finally appeared before him, you ran again, and he followed after you without hesitating.

“Can you stay?” asks Simon, and you hear the silent plea in his voice. It draws up every needy thought simmering beneath your skin.

“For a bit,” you reply, purposefully being non-specific.

He inclines his head toward your plate. “Finished?”

“Yes.” You start to pick it up, standing with the intention to take it to the sink. Simon is having none of it. He whisks it out of your hands before your legs have a chance to fully extend. You plop your ass back in the chair.

Simon rinses out pans and cleans knives. Sitting in a chair and doing nothing is not something you’re accustomed to.

“Would you like me to help?”

“I’d like you to relax.”

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, finishing off the last of your whiskey.

He washes his hands and dries them on a towel. As he strides toward the dining table, he snaps at Bravo. “Kennel.”

Bravo’s ears droop, but he complies to Simon’s command.

Simon watches the German Shepard disappear down the hallway. He turns toward you, offering his hand. When you place your hand in his, Simon’s fingers take hold, drawing you out of your chair, pulling you against his body. His other hand cradles the side of your neck and lower half of your jaw. His thumb traces over your bottom lip.

“Can I take you to bed?” he asks, voice slightly husky with need. His thumb returns to your bottom lip, lightly pressing on it. “I want to kiss you. To touch you.” Simon is still holding on to your hand.

Not sex then? Just kisses. Touches. Even the thought of that is sending you into overdrive, every nerve in your body firing at once until your heart thuds loudly in your ears.

“Take me to bed,” you whisper, hardly believing you managed to get the words out.

Slowly, Simon’s hand falls away from your face. It is a gentle release, one that speaks of desire but doesn’t feel so primal and raw as when the two of you first came together. Walking backwards, Simon leads, entering into the dark of his apartment, heading down the hall, and entering the bedroom you noticed earlier.

You don’t even glance at your surroundings. You’re too focused on Simon, and the way he guides you around, easing you onto your back upon the bed. He drapes himself over you like a protective cocoon. One knee slides between your legs, forcing them apart. The other digs into the bed just shy of your thigh.

Simon rests his forearm just above and to the side of your head. His other hand immediately goes to your waist. You are pinned in. You are under him, and it’s deliciously perfect. Better than what you’ve conjured up in your head. Beneath him, you feel protected. Safe.

Your fingers are already on the balaclava, pushing it up further, seeking him. You know not to go past the eyes, and while it pains you to not see Simon fully, you respect the boundary. That will fall away eventually. As will your uneasiness about being completely open and honest with him about Evie’s situation.

These things will happen. They have to. You want them to.

The moment you have full access to his lips, Simon is on you. Your hands fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. Simon lowers himself, his pelvis slotting perfectly with yours. Each kiss is slow. Measured. Every stroke of his hand along your waist, hips, and thighs sends a wave of rippling heat straight to your core.

It grows and grows, melting your resolve into mush. Your legs fall open wider, and Simon instinctually moves in. You clearly sense his needs. It’s fucking poking you. And fuck—what’s a few more hours? You can stay. You can.

Your hand slides between your bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his joggers, your fingers finding him, wrapping around his hardness.

Simon swallows down a groan as his hips reflexively press against your palm. He breaks the kiss, breathing heavy, his teeth finding your throat.

Simon gently bites your neck, his large hand squeezing your thigh in warning. “Keep touching me like that and you won’t leave this bed until morning.”

The intensity of his delivery zaps you right out of your haze. “Sorry,” you gasp, withdrawing your hand quickly.

Simon’s answering growl pins you to the spot. He snatches your retreating arm, encircling the wrist, only to draw your hand back to him.

“Never apologize for touching me. Never.” His lips and teeth trace over your skin. When he finds your lips again, there is nothing chaste about the way he tastes you.

“Simon—”

“Not tonight. I—Not like this.”

Your hand that still rests on his chest slides upward. One finger delicately traces that scar you know so well.

“Will you walk me home?”

“You never have to ask.”

Simon guides your hand away from his groin. In the next moment, he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting up and off the bed, and onto your feet.

He’s smiling down at you, and it’s full of joy. You don’t know how to receive it. It’s almost too much, and you slightly feel undeserving of it.

“I’ll grab my coat.” You start to move but Simon’s arms around your waist tighten.

“Wait.” You glance up, find an intensity in his stare. “Can I take you out?”

“On a date?” you blurt.

“Movies. Dinner.” He shrugs. “Normal things.”

Your lips part slightly in confusion. There is nothing normal about Simon. “You don’t want to take me out for normal dates,” you say slowly.

Simon’s jaw clenches. “No.”

You grin, knowing you’ve trapped him. “What kind of date would you actually like to take me on?” Leaning forward, you rest your chin on his chest.

“Take you for a ride for starters.”

“On a bicycle?” you ask with mock innocence.

Simon sharply lands a slap to your ass. “I’ll put you back on that bed.”

“Promise?”

His answer is a growl, and a firm squeeze. “I’d take you to the coast. Or the country. Maybe up to Manchester. Show you where I grew up. All my favorite spots.”

“Go on,” you entreat.

“I’d show you the Highlands. Stay in a little cottage on a friend’s family farm.”

“What else?”

Simon’s brow softens, and then he’s bending down, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. “I’d make new memories with you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Promise?”

“That’s a fucking guarantee, love.”

For several minutes, the two of you embrace just inside his bedroom door. For several minutes, the two of you almost return to the bed, to fall right back into each other’s arms. But Simon has far more control than you.

Coats are collected. Bravo’s leash is found and attached to the dog’s collar.

The two of you don’t hold hands on your walk to Amelia’s. Instead, the two of you loosely intertwine a few fingers. There is no rush. No need to arrive quickly. And while there is silence, it’s a contented, peaceful thing.

Reviving. You are reawakening with Simon.

At Amelia’s front door, your parting kiss is not a kiss at all. With both hands, Simon cradles your face, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against yours. You match him, closing your own eyes, placing your hands over his, simply breathing in his presence.

You’re practically skipping up the stairs to your shared bedroom with Evie. You expect to find her asleep. But when you open the door, you don’t find her tucked under the covers. She’s sitting up, resting against the headboard, wide awake, and crying quietly.

“What is it?” you ask, panicked, dropping your purse and coat onto the floor, crawling onto the bed to reach for her.

Evie wipes at her eyes, smirking through her tears. “Shouldn’t you be in your man’s bed right now?”

“Oh hush,” you mutter, waving her comment off. “What is it?”

Her smile falters. “Archie’s older brother called.”

The panic disappears. The contentment and peace that clings to you from your time with Simon evaporates instantly. All of it is gone. Poof. Like a popped balloon.

In its place is a seething anger.

“What the fuck does he want?”

“He wants to meet.”

Chapter Text

Simon leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, sighing heavily. The rolling chair groans a protest. The thing is so old it’s a miracle that it hasn’t collapsed under Simon’s weight. He’s been meaning to replace it—it’s not like he doesn’t have the money—but there are so many other things going on in Simon’s life that he keeps putting it off.

His work laptop is open on the desk in front of him, the bright glow of the screen showing him the thousands of emails sitting in his inbox. Being on the cover of UK Ink is a tremendous honor, but it’s also becoming its own sort of creeping horror. Figuring out which inquiries are genuine, and which are just people seeking attention, is taking a tremendous toll on his personal time.

Every day, more and more emails clog his inbox. It’s likely that as he starts deleting them, more will suddenly appear, popping forth from the hidden depths of whatever server it’s connected to. Plenty of the emails are straight spam with a few consisting of people sending unsolicited nudes. Those go straight into the trash folder. The only naked body Simon wants to see is yours.

Many of the emails are people seeking to book appointments with him for tattoos and piercings. While a good chunk of the emails come from citizens of England, plenty more are from people all over the world. International inquires are a good thing, but those appointments have to be booked around flights and trips. There is also no guarantee that those people will actually show, which is why Simon has started to double-book in some places, or set forth a non-refundable fee for securing a time and date.

He's only one person, and the pressure of that is starting to creep up on him. Simon is going to have to hire more people. At least one additional person at minimum. Even if all they do is answer emails all day and book appointments, Simon will take it. Sitting on this fucking chair in between clients is exhausting.

Through all of that, there are also publications (both large and small) seeking their own interviews with the masked tattoo artist knows as ‘Ghost.’ Some are local to the region while others are international, reaching an even wider audience. For each inquiry, Simon is grateful. To see his work—his art—be appreciated to such a large degree is a great point of accomplishment for him.

It's not like Simon’s work during his time with the military. That is different. That was work. That was blood and metal and dirt. Tattooing doesn’t feel like work to Simon. It is freeing. It is creative. It is the release of a muscle after a long tension.

Tattooing is a distinctive sort of freedom. A place for Simon to lose himself in, to enjoy life again, to find comfort in a craft that doesn’t involve destruction.

But Simon is also distracted. Not because he’s stressed or anxious or concerned or even from the number of emails piling in. Simon is distracted because you were in his arms last night. You were sitting at his kitchen table. You ate the food he made. He distinctly remembers your soft smile as you gazed at his sketches.

Sure, Simon was making dinner, but he was keeping an eye on you the whole time. He noticed every expression on your face as your gaze admired each sketch. He noticed the way you held every piece of paper with tenderness, as if all of them were sacred and special to you. It was after, when the two of you talked, that Simon sensed hesitation.

He questioned you about Cambridge and Evie. You were not entirely honest, not that Simon believes that you lied, but he knows there is more you haven’t told him. Whether you don’t want to tell him or are hesitant to do so is still uncertain. What Simon wants, more than anything, is for you to feel safe enough with him to tell him everything. Simon desires your sharp edges. He wants to know how he can help smooth them, to ease all the worries in your head, to remove some of those burdens.

Which is why he asked you to come to bed with him. He thought that maybe if he kissed you for a bit, you might soften, and that is all he wanted. But then he had you under him, opening for him, and Simon’s control was close to shattering like thin glass under pressure. Your fingers found him, and Simon would have given anything to stay in that bed and make you understand just how much he desires you.

The glowing screen of the laptop and the sight of you sighing in pleasure beneath him keeps colliding with each other. It keeps melding, melting together only to break apart before meeting again.

The current email opened on the laptop screen is gibberish. No matter how many times Simon attempts to read it, your face appears there instead. Then, Simon’s mind drifts off to dream of your seeking fingers, and how perfectly they wrapped around him.

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. He needs to fucking focus. He will see you again, and when he does, he is going to fucking enjoy it. The two of you are taking that date. The two of you are going to get away for a while. When that happens, Simon will make you his in all ways.

Exhaling loudly, Simon drops his hand from his face to rub at the back of his neck. He rolls it slightly, popping some of the tension out of the joints. He leans forward a bit and manages to focus on the email.

Spam. Fucking spam.

Simon hits the little rubbish icon and watches the email blink out of existence. His gaze returns to the little blue number next to ‘Inbox’ and immediately shudders.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wanting nothing more than to shut the laptop and pretend they don’t exist for a while.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon spies the front door of the shop opening. He turns his head to the left to see if it’s his final customer. Instead, he’s greeted by an annoyingly overenthusiastic Scotsman.

“Lt!”

“Gotta stop calling me that, Johnny,” sighs Simon loudly, as if getting out of his chair is a major hassle. Simon comes to his full height, hands on his hips as John MacTavish bursts through the door.

On his heels are Captain John Price and Kyle Garrick.

“Simon,” nods Price in greeting.

Kyle gives Simon a little playful salute before immediately heading for Bravo. The German Shepard goes up on his back legs. Kyle seizes the dog’s front paws in his hands, the two of them doing a little dance in the middle of the shop.

The moment Simon steps away from the chair, MacTavish is on him, throwing his massive arms around Simon’s middle in a hug.

“You’re bloody crushing me, Johnny.”

MacTavish squeezes him a bit tighter in response. When he let’s go, he grabs hold of Simon’s shoulders, shaking them slightly. “Fucking look at this place.” MacTavish glances around like he’s never seen it before.

“You’ve been here,” deadpans Simon. “Hasn’t changed.”

“But it has, Lt. You’re on the cover of a magazine.” MacTavish smirks and drops his hands from Simon’s shoulders. He then promptly punches Simon lightly in his upper arm. “We’re in the presence of a celebrity.”

“Hardly,” mutters Simon, but he’s smiling behind the balaclava.

Price presents his hand, and he and Simon grasp forearms. “Good to see you, Simon. Been a while.”

“It has,” replies Simon.

Johnny leans toward Simon and cups the side of his mouth like he’s an old hen about to drop a piece of juicy gossip. When he speaks, it’s just a projected whisper that everyone can hear clearly. “Captain bought up a bunch of magazines and handed them out to everyone on base.”

“Soap,” barks Price.

MacTavish holds up his hands, and then points at Price with one finger, jabbing it in the captain’s direction. “Just proud of you,” whispers MacTavish.

Simon simply nods but he’s grinning like an idiot behind the balaclava. Price glances in Simon’s direction and shrugs apathetically, not denying or confirming.

Glancing over Price’s shoulder, Simon frowns slightly. Bravo has his front paws on Kyle’s shoulders as he aggressively scratches the dog’s sides. Bravo’s tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth, hanging down toward the floor as the dog pants happily.

“Get down, Bravo,” sighs Simon, indicating with a quick nod of his head.

Bravo sucks his tongue back into his mouth, ears drooping slightly with disappointment. Kyle pats Bravo’s side and removes the dog’s massive paws from his shoulders, gently guiding the German Shepard back down to all fours.

On the phone, Johnny said they’d stop by on Saturday. It’s Saturday. Fairly late on a Saturday, with a final customer still expected to walk through the door, but they are here, just as promised.

Kyle strides up and clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Place looks good.”

“Hasn’t changed,” remarks Simon for a second time.

“Saw you on the cover of UK Ink,” continues Kyle. “Didn’t know until this guy started handing them out on base.” He tips his head in Price’s direction.

Price sighs heavily but says nothing.

“Big deal,” finishes Kyle.

“Congrats, Lt.” MacTavish grins and Simon cannot help but feed into their praise.

It is a big deal. This one interview, this one award, is pushing him beyond the scope of his vision. In forced retirement, Simon expected to fly under the radar, to enjoy himself while he created art. He never expected his work to be recognized internationally.

“Sign my copy yet?” asks Johnny.

Simon backtracks to his desk, picking up the copy MacTavish sent him in the post. Lifting it up, Simon brings it over to Soap, smacking him in the chest with it. Johnny whistles and holds it with both hands in reverence.

“She’s a fucking beauty, Simon.” Johnny places one hand over his heart. “You’ve honored me.”

“Piss off,” mutters Simon as Kyle expertly snatches the magazine from Johnny’s hand. He opens it up, flipping through the pages, side-stepping every attempt by Johnny to seize it back.

“Did we come at a good time?” asks Price as he and Simon watch the two idiots playfully bicker over the magazine.

Simon shrugs. “I have one more customer. Free after that.”

Price nods and grips Simon’s shoulder. “We have lots to talk about.”

There is a slight twitch in Price’s clenched jaw that puts Simon on edge. He isn’t sure if he should press Price and try to wrangle an answer out of him, or let it go and see what happens.

“Shit,” says MacTavish, drawing Price and Simon’s attention to him. “Nearly forgot.” He extends an arm to Kyle, making a “give it to me” gesture with his hand. Kyle, with a sly smirk, unzips the front of his windbreaker. Reaching inside, he presents a manila envelope.

Johnny takes it and then offers it to Simon. “Thought I’d give this to you in person. You know, instead of over the phone. Or email.”

Simon takes it, instantly feeling the heft and thickness to it. Opening the tab, Simon slides his hand inside, removing the thick stack of papers.

“It’s everything I could find on her,” continues Johnny. “Where she went to school. Social medias. Every person she’s possibly dated.”

Tucking the manila envelope under his arm, Simon starts sorting through the information. A copy of your birth certificate, school records from elementary to high school, recent phone records. There is even a list of every restaurant or fast-food place you ordered from over the last five years with a credit card.

Simon flips past another page and freezes. His head snaps up, a growl sitting in the back of his throat. “You included her fucking banking information, Johnny.”

MacTavish shrugs dismissively. “I was thorough.”

“Thorough?” mimics Simon. “Fucking hell.” Simon returns everything to the envelope and places it on his desk next to his laptop.

Simon will have to shred it all after he looks through it. But only after he takes a look. He did ask Johnny to find what out what he could. While it is a major invasion of privacy, a more primal part of Simon reassures him that he’s doing the right thing. He needs to be able to protect you, and these are just tools in his arsenal to maintain your safety.

“She’s pretty, Simon,” says Price.

“You told them?” asks Simon, turning his attention to Johnny.

The Scotsman’s cheeks redden slightly. “He bullied the information out of me.”

Kyle leans in and drapes his arm over Soap’s shoulders. “Price told him he’d put him on inventory for a month if he didn’t spill.”

“Wanted to see this beauty for myself,” grumbles Price, glancing at Simon. “Give you a hard time.” He winks. “She yours yet?”

She yours yet?

There is a double-meaning there. While Simon’s instinct is to say “yes,” he also knows that that isn’t entirely true. The two of you haven’t verbally confirmed what this thing is. Simon has only just now asked you on a proper date.

Can Simon call you his?

The possessive, protective part of him shakes its ownership of you in its fist. But Simon isn’t impulsive, at least not all the time. With you, the need to react is strong, but Simon also understands that Price is asking in a more traditional way.

Licking his lips, Simon forms an answer. “She will be.”

Price nods. “Good man.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Johnny before returning his gaze to Simon. “Mind if we stick around?”

Simon shakes his head.

“We’ll help you clean,” adds Johnny.

“Will we?” asks Kyle slowly, eyebrows rising slightly as he turns on Soap.

Johnny blatantly ignores him and keeps his gaze locked on Simon. “You call the shots. Isn’t that right, Lt?”

That’s when Simon’s final client of the evening finally walks through the door. Simon doesn’t have a chance to answer. The customer is a bit bewildered by the small crowd, but the guys know to make themselves scarce. They head over to the couch, lingering in the waiting area with Bravo, chatting quietly as Simon escorts the newcomer into the tattoo chair.

Bravo moves from Johnny to Kyle to Price to Johnny again, seeking attention as Simon sets to work. The tattoo isn’t complicated, and Simon completes in about forty-five minutes. The guy is in and out in an hour.

When the four of them are standing outside in front of the shop, Simon pushes up his balaclava and lights a cigarette. It’s warm for autumn, the leather jacket he wears already making him run a little hot.

“We’ve got an upcoming mission we want your thoughts on,” says Price. “Need somewhere quiet we can go and talk.”

An upcoming mission? That’s not entirely unusual. Price has reached out to Simon on multiple occasions post-retirement to ask him for advice or to dig around in his head. But never—never—has Price and the rest of the team showed up to talk to him a group or in person.

There’s something else going on.

Clutching the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Simon opens his mouth, exhaling smoke, intending to suggest a few places.

But before anything comes out of his mouth, Price shots him a look. “Not that fucking pub with the old folks.”

“No one will bother us,” replies Simon dryly. It’s true. It’s why he goes to Dancing Faun every Sunday. And Ben will close up for the public but stay open for just the four them. They won’t be bothered, and they will have as much time as they need.

“You might be an old man at heart, Simon, but I’m not getting harassed by older women whose husbands have been dead for years.”

Kyle bursts out laughing before promptly covering his mouth.

“Don’t like the attention, Captain?” teases Johnny.

Price points at each of them individually. “Fuck off. All of you.”

There are only a few places they could go on a Saturday night where they won’t be disturbed. Sighing, Simon rattles off a couple within walking distance. The four of them debate until Price becomes so annoyed with their continuous back-and-forth that he abruptly selects for all of them.

The walk over is quick, and the four of them enter the dimly lit pub. It’s one of only a handful of places that serves food late. It’s also on a side street away from the main road. Traffic is light, and the interior isn’t crowded. Simon is starving, and he’d appreciate a full belly with a whiskey or two before he starts talking about things he’d rather forget.

Finding a dark corner, they settle in at a four top. Kyle and Simon settle in the booth, facing the pub while Price and Johnny take the seats across from them. Simon settles into the cushioned seat, contentment sliding into his bones. He’s at peace, even if the coming conversation might be messy. He’s with people he cares about, and tomorrow, he’s off.

Tomorrow, he can go see you. Maybe. If you’re not busy. The two of you can talk about that date, maybe go for a walk and then lunch? Simon just wants to spend time with you, and tomorrow is the perfect day to do it.

Simon shifts in his seat, leaning his crossed arms on the edge of the table, glancing out across the pub. His gaze travels over every person, his old habits from the military coming to the surface. Recognizing exits and looking for suspicious behavior is as natural as breathing. But everyone around them is minding their own business. They’re either sitting by themselves or with others, not glancing Simon’s way at all.

He does one finally sweep, and that is when his gaze falls upon two people sitting at a high top together near the very back of the pub. Of the two, Simon notices the man first. He has dark hair, possibly brown but it’s difficult to say with the low light. Slightly older than Simon by a few years, and the bloke is wearing an impeccably made suit. It’s odd for a place like this. It stands out.

Simon doesn’t like the man’s demeanor either. It’s…smarmy. Pretentious. Like he not only believes that he’s better than everyone else in this establishment, but that they should all know it. The way he sits in the high-backed stool is off too. It’s relaxed and yet completely on edge.

Simon frowns, gaze panning to the woman the man is talking to.

Everything suddenly goes cold within him. Arctic. The room has become a meat freezer and Simon is just a piece of dangling meat.

Because that is you, and you’re sitting next to a man Simon doesn’t recognize.

You are here, alone with a man Simon doesn’t know.

A bright, blindingly hot sensation roars to life in Simon’s chest. It wraps around and between his ribs, seizing him in a vice-grip. Against this heat, the iciness melts off of him, dripping to the ground to pool under his boots.

“Simon?” asks Soap, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “What are you—fuck. Is that her?”

It doesn’t fucking matter who this guy might be or what he might mean to you. Simon is going to crack his fucking skull open.

“That’s her,” murmurs Simon, the low growl previously lodged in his throat coming up suddenly.

Price leans back in his chair, one arm draped over the top, glancing to where everyone else is looking. “Want me to take him out to the alley? Give him some fresh bruises?”

Simon’s hands form into fists. He starts to stand but Kyle and Soap grab onto him, shoving him back down into the booth. “Relax, Lt,” soothes Johnny. “Might be nothing.”

You haven’t noticed Simon yet. You’re too busy looking at this man—this stranger. Turned slightly to the side, your gaze wouldn’t fall across Simon unless you purposefully scanned the room. The worst part is that Simon has no idea if you’re enjoying yourself or not. There is a blankness on your face that Simon loathes.

Do want to be here? Do want to be talking to this man that Simon doesn’t know? And why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t you say anything? Is there someone else Simon needs to worry about? Does he have competition?

Silently, Simon begs for you to turn in his direction, even if it’s only a bit.

This unknown variable, this stain of a man, reaches out. With red-drenched horror, Simon watches as he places that very hand on the top of your thigh.

All Simon sees is blood.

This bastard is going to lose that fucking hand. And then he’ll lose his goddamn head.

Simon bolts up out of his seat again but Kyle and Johnny are right there, grabbing onto him, wrangling him back down into his seat.

“Let me go,” snarls Simon through clenched teeth.

“You’re gonna cause a fucking scene if we do that,” hisses Kyle, shoving downward on Simon’s shoulders.

Why are you letting him touch you? Why, when just yesterday you were beneath Simon, seeking him with your fingers, begging for him, are you allowing this?

But you’re not allowing it. You didn’t give this man permission.

Within seconds of the man’s hand connecting with your thigh, your gaze turns downward, lips curling back into a disgusted snarl. You twist your body enough for his hand to fall away, and a flare of pride swells in Simon’s chest.

You didn’t want this man’s touch. Which makes Simon momentarily happy before it all comes crashing down. This man touched you. Without your consent. And that makes Simon angrier than if you had wanted it.

Simon craves blood. He needs his knuckles drenched with it. For it to sit between his teeth. To taste it on his tongue.

“Who the fuck is that?” asks Kyle.

“I don’t know,” growls Simon, wanting to take off and punch the guy right out of his fucking chair.

With the removal of his hand, the guy’s smug smile drops. He bares his teeth, starts speaking to you in a way that Simon immediately dislikes. Sure, Simon cannot hear what the man is saying to you, but from the look on his face and body language, it’s nothing nice. He is angry, and you’re clearly upset. Simon wants this to end, to go up to the guy and throttle him, to whisk you off and make you forget all this unpleasantness.

But Kyle and Johnny keep him seated. They won’t let go, which means Simon will have to literally fight them to get to you.

Small pieces of the conversation start to make its way over to the table.

“Archie.”

“Estate.”

Simon frowns, hears something that sounds like “pregnancy” and immediately rethinks everything. Does this have something to do with your friend? The husband is dead, but is this someone the husband knew? Is it a relative?

And does that matter to Simon?

No. He still plans on knocking the man’s teeth out.

Simon only catches a few additional words here and there, but then he hears three that make his blood boil.

“You fucking whore.”

Simon knows that Johnny, Kyle, and Price all hear it too because their gazes move away from Simon and to the man at the table. Soap and Kyle’s hands fall away from Simon’s arms, giving him permission.

Pushing up from his seat, Simon steps around Johnny and strides toward the high-top table. Your back is to Simon from this position, but that doesn’t matter. Simon has his sights set on this wanker who needs to learn some proper fucking manners.

The man notices Simon first, his angered expression turning away from you and switching to Simon. It slips slightly, the faintest bit of fear sliding across the man’s features as he realizes Simon is aiming for him. Simon inhales, falling effortlessly into Ghost, allowing the phantom inside himself to seek out its need for blood.

But with his removed attention comes your own turning. A wanting to know what it is he’s looking at. When your gaze falls upon Simon, Ghost deflates, softens, giving way to confusion. All the emotions passing over your face nearly stop Simon’s forward momentum.

Your own anger gives way to sudden panic, then switches quickly to irritation, further compounded by confusion. It’s likely that you didn’t expect Simon to be at the same place. And while Simon wants to turn to you and give you reassurance, he’s too fucking focused on this asshole you’re sitting with.

Simon decides not to address you. Instead, Simon turns on this thickheaded prat. “What did you fucking call her?”

The man’s lip curls. “Mind your own business.” Immediately, Simon notes the man’s accent. It speaks to social status and aristocracy.

Simon steps closer. “Repeat what you said. Out loud. Want to make sure I heard you right.”

“Simon,” you hiss, desperation leaking into your tone.

Your guest turns on you, anger flaring anew in his gaze. “You know this…man?” He says man like he wants to say animal.

“He’s—” you begin, but Simon interrupts.

“Direct your questions to me,” growls Simon, placing himself between you and this stranger.

“Simon. Please.” You tug on Simon’s leather jacket but he shrugs you off. His attention is completely on this asshole.

“Are you with him?” The man’s gaze flicks from Simon to you.

“Adam—”

“I thought we could have a civil conversation—”

“What’s civil about calling her a whore.” Simon’s voice rises slightly as the raging tide of fury boils within him like a thunderstorm.

Adam’s face grows bright red. He turns on Simon. “Do you know who I am?”

Simon could give a fuck. He could be the fucking King and Simon would still punch the piss out of him for speaking to you that way.

Price shoves himself between Simon and Adam, keeping his back to Simon, creating a barrier. “Let me help you to your car.”

Price isn’t doing this to be nice. He’s doing this so the police aren’t called.

Adam stands but isn’t nearly as tall as Price. “If you put your hands on me—”

“Deal with me or him. Your choice.”

Adam straightens his shoulders and tugs on the front of his suit, smoothing out the wrinkles.

Fucking prick.

He glances over Price’s shoulder at you. “This isn’t over. You’ll hear from the family solicitor.”

“Let’s go,” mutters Soap, caging the guy in, forcing him to move away from Simon. Kyle trails after them.

Price turns around, facing Simon directly. “We’ll stop by another day. You deal with your woman.” He squeezes Simon’s shoulder before following out after them.

Simon watches Price leave, and then he’s seeking you out, expecting you to be thankful.

But you’re not. Your anger is palpable.

Simon needs to fucking fix this. “You’re coming home with me,” is the first thing out of his mouth. It’s a command. Not an ask. And his tone is rough, nearly raspy.

Your eyes widen slightly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper.

Simon draws back, startled. “You okay with him speaking to you like that?”

You huff, and get up from your chair, collecting your coat and purse. “You don’t know anything, Simon. You have no idea who that is and why we were even talking in the first place.” Shoving past him, you start for the door.

“Fuck,” mutters Simon, following after you.

His legs are longer, and he catches up to you easily. Before you make it to the pub’s exit, Simon inserts himself in your path, blocking your attempt to flee.

“Move.”

“No.”

“You’re making a scene, Simon.”

He glances up, notices everyone looking on with varying degrees of interest. Some confused. Others concerned. Sighing, Simon reaches back and pushes open the door, stepping aside for you to exit.

Once the two of you are outside on the street, Simom grabs you by the forearm, pulling you in the opposite direction.

“Let me go,” you snap.

“We’re going to talk.”

“Fuck off, Simon.” You yank your arm out of his grip. Something is forming on the tip of your tongue. Simon sees it in the way your lip quivers. But you don’t. Instead, you sigh heavily and wave him off like you’re tired of it all.

Turning, you try to cross the street, but Simon is already snagging your arm again, yanking you away as a car zooms by.

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Then give me some fucking space.”

“No.”

You release an exasperated breath and try to circumvent him. Again, Simon steps into your path. The two of you keep moving like this down the street. Every attempt you make only puts you closer to him.

Simon is herding you on purpose, pushing you closer and closer to his flat. He wants some goddamn answers, no matter how mad you are with him. And he doesn’t understand why you’re upset in the first place.

When the two of you are outside his shop, Simon indicates the exterior door that leads to his flat.

“Get inside,” he demands.

“Don’t order me around.”

“Inside,” repeats Simon, shoving the key into the lock, opening the door, revealing the hallway that connects the shop to his flat.

You stare between him and the open doorway. Your chest is heaving, and fuck—you look so beautiful right now even though Simon can tell you’d really love to hit him.

The tips of his fingers itch to just push you inside and shut the door, but he doesn’t need to. You make the decision for him, heading inside. Simon follows, and as the door shuts, you’re already moving like a bolt of lightning, walking fast enough to create a significant amount of distance.

No. Fuck that.

With a few massive steps, Simon is on you. He grabs the front of your throat, yanks you back against his chest, pushing your face toward his. The balaclava is already up, already in place, and his lips connect with yours.

At first, Simon can sense the tension but then you melt into him as his other hand slides to your front, pressing low on your belly, pushing your ass into his groin. Your own arm slides up, drapes over his neck in such a loving way that Simon momentarily forgets all his anger.

The two of you hang like this, suspending, but you come back to reality, yanking yourself out of his grip, almost violently.

“You can’t distract me with kisses, Simon.”

“Want to test that?” asks Simon, reflexively reaching for your waist.

You allow him to touch you, to draw you back into him, but your arms are crossed over your chest defensively. “You don’t know,” you murmur. “It’s—it’s too much and you don’t know. You don’t understand, Simon.”

“Then help me understand,” he says softly.

You shake your head and there are real tears there in your eyes. Simon hates it. He wants to take them all away.

“You’re not my husband, Simon. You’re not even my boyfriend. I shouldn’t burden you with any of this.”

You will not push him away. Simon won’t allow it. The two of you are in this together, and he needs to know.

“I care about you.” Now Simon is the one shaking his head. “Don’t tell me what I can’t handle.” His hands draw upward, cradling the sides of your face. “We’re going up to my flat. You’re going to talk. I’m going to listen. Okay?”

One tear rolls off the corner of your eye, trailing downward to kiss his palm.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Okay,” you reply.

Chapter Text

“Tell me why your hands are shaking.”

Are they? Is that what you’re feeling? You didn’t notice.

Bringing them up to waist level, you observe their gentle tremble. Elbows pressing lightly into your sides, arms angled inward, you curl your fingers toward your palms in an attempt to cease the shaking. They continue to quiver as if the signals from your brain to your hands fall off the trail, losing themselves amongst the millions of constantly firing neurons.

What stops the trembling are Simon’s hands.

Your palms face the ceiling, and the tops of your hands are aimed toward the wood floor. Simon slides underneath, fingers delicately encasing the stuttering shake. Tattooed and large. Rough, but dry and warm. Like a light switch being flipped, you are suddenly calm. Peaceful.

Simon said he wants to talk. He wants to know. He is asking you for understanding, to allow him in even if what’s inside isn’t all that pretty. There is no obligation you’re holding him to. No standard. Simon draws up his own, presents them, lays them out flat in fan before you like a deck of cards.

It’s your move. Your opportunity to select one.

But the quiet is shattered as Adam’s voice returns, bashing against your brain like waves crashing against rock.

Whore.

Fucking whore.

The trembling begins again and Simon’s hold on your hands tightens, his large frame shifting forward into your space, creating a protective cocoon that you desperately wish to lean against but don’t.

“I’m sorry,” you stammer. The inhale you take is fractured, splitting like an atom, the energy inside you roaring into an explosion that rings loudly in your ears.

Everything is fucked. Everything is torn apart. Ripped to bloody ribbons.

Wrong and twisted and broken and just wrong.

Evie’s in-laws do not forgive easily, and Adam is the worst of the bunch. On the surface, he is ever the gentleman, but underneath is the serpent hiding in the leaves.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I shouldn’t have let him touch me. I didn’t want him to. Simon—I promise. I—”

One of his large hands releases you only to grasp the side of your face. He forces you to look at him. Forces you to gaze into those dark eyes that you could drown in.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But—”

“Don’t apologize for someone else’s poor behavior,” interjects Simon. Your wraith’s thumb brushes away the tears staining your cheeks. “He had no right.” Simon’s voice is nearly a growl, as if the memory of Adam placing his hand on your thigh personally hurts him.

Simon doesn’t understand. He has no context to why you were even there to begin with. Seeing you and Adam together wounded him. While sitting in your chair, watching your wraith as he confronted Evie’s brother-in-law with such fury, you knew you made a mistake.

But how do begin to explain everything? How do you start to detail Evie and Archie’s lives together? How do you slot the pieces into a picture that Simon will understand? How do you tell Simon that Archie’s entire family is fucking awful?

How? How?

All Simon witnessed was you and Adam sitting together in a dark pub. All Simon saw was Adam placing his hand upon your thigh. All he heard was that one little sentence at the end. That’s it. Simon knows nothing else.

“Yet he did it anyway,” you exclaim. “And you’re angry.”

“With him,” growls Simon. “Not with you.”

Yet that fails to explain Simon’s behavior after his friends escorted Adam out of the building. As far as you know, they could have taken Adam down a side street and broken his nose. Perhaps punched out a few teeth. You hope that isn’t the case. You hope they only took him to his car.

And you’re still seething about the way Simon treated you after. The shaking in your hands isn’t simply a reaction to Adam’s inappropriate behavior. It is also a response to Simon’s rough protectiveness.

“You’re not angry with me yet you drag me around by my arm. Herd me like a fucking farm animal.” You attempt to remove your hands from his grip, but Simon is having none of it. His fingers only squeeze a bit tighter. “Is that why you were so rough with me? Because you weren’t angry?”

Your voice is rising. The need to defend yourself is insistent. Pulsing. A driving force.

Yes, Adam had no right to touch you. But Simon also had no right to handle you like he did. That too is wrong.

Simon’s shoulders heave, every muscle in his body tensing. He abruptly drops your hands. Withdrawing. Pulling away. Stepping back.

“That was,” he begins, but pauses, gaze dropping in subtle shame. At his sides, his hands form fists. “Wrong of me.” Simon glances up, and the fire returns, your wraith a burning inferno that might combust. “I saw him touch you. Heard what he said. I snapped. And I shouldn’t have.”

The apology is genuine, and while half of you eagerly accepts it, the other isn’t nearly as pleased. Maybe it’s because you’re protective of Evie, and Simon’s interference with your conversation with Adam might have ruined so much for her.

“Yet you did it anyway.”

It’s one last bite. A final sting. You try to keep it in, but you’re so goddamn frustrated.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. Even defeated, Simon is large, a looming figure you’re force to look up at.

While you’re frustrated, you know this isn’t really Simon’s fault. Sure, his behavior after the fact was fucking garbage, but he stood up for you. He defended you, was ready to toss Adam right out of the pub if you had told him to do it.

The grievance isn’t with Simon. It’s with Adam.

“It’s fine,” you sigh. It’s—”

You rub your lips together, running your hands over your face. Breathing is best. Breathing is good. The swirling pit inside your stomach is quickly rising to squeeze your chest. You need to calm down.

“It’s complicated,” you finish, not knowing what else to say.

Simon’s fists unclench. He hangs there, gaze pinned to your face, shifting slightly like he’s studying your features. “I told you to talk. I’ll listen.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

Simon takes a step forward, breaching your personal space. One black boot lands between your feet, forcing you to open slightly. You attempt to back up, but Simon is insistent, moving with you.

“Simon—”

His hand goes to the back of your neck, halting your escape. Your own hands go up to push against his chest, using his solidness as a point of support to create space. As if knowing your intention, his other hand quickly snags one wrist and then the other, trapping them in the very spot you intended to place them.

Simon’s voice drops, almost to a whisper. Yet there is heat and a blooded blade beneath it that lends itself to innate instinct. “Does he mean something to you?”

“What?” you gasp, disbelieving.

Is Simon serious? Does he truly believe that?

“Are the two of you—”

“Stop,” you say, flattening both hands against Simon’s chest. “Just stop.” Simon begins to speak again but you’re putting an end to this like tearing out a thorn from your thumb.

“Adam isn’t anything to me,” you snap. “He’s Evie’s brother-in-law.”

Simon goes quiet. The silence stretches and you aren’t sure if you should fill it with more talking or just keep your mouth shut and wait for Simon to say something.

His brow hardens, the middle of it scrunching together. “He’s not—”

“Fuck, Simon. No,” you mutter, leaning forward to rest your forehead above the spot where your hands are joined.

Simon’s hand slides away from your neck and drops to your lower back, his fingers splaying wide, pressing against the slight curve. He releases your wrists too, only to run his fingers down your arm and to your waist. You do not drop your hands nor do you draw back from him.

Simon is warm. He smells of black tea and mint with the faintest hint of smoke. You breathe deep, burrowing closer. It sends you right back into memory. This is how he smelled when you first met him at Riot Room. You liked it then, and you love it now.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs.

It’s not a question. Simon isn’t asking. And it feels right, like a good pair of jeans or perfectly brewed coffee.

You’re mine.

Sounds nice, even if you are still a bit mad at him.

“I met him at the pub instead of Evie going,” you mutter against his chest. “He wanted to talk. I knew it wouldn’t be anything pleasant.”

Simon’s hand at your waist lightly squeezes, urging you to continue talking.

“I lied. Told him that Evie’s supposed to be on bedrest for the reminder of her pregnancy. He believed it.”

“What did he want?” You hear the restraint in Simon’s voice. He’s still upset, still angry.

“That’s the part that’s complicated.”

“Tell me what you can.”

What can you tell him? How do you formulate this in a way for Simon to understand but keeps Evie’s privacy intact?

You’re silent for far too long. Simon arms around you squeeze and then release, his large chest drawing back enough that you’re forced to look up at him.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, and you comply so easily.

It is nothing but your hand in his as he leads you to the couch. Simon removes your coat and gently sets it aside out of the way. Then, he’s guiding the two of you down onto the sofa. He reclines, leaning against the arm, pulling you into his lap. You drape yourself over him on your side, facing the blank television. Resting your head on Simon’s shoulder, you place your hand on his chest. His hand is quick to follow, encasing it, clinging to it. His other arm drapes over waist, creating a bit of support so you don’t sink into the cushions.

The two of you stay like this with Simon not saying anything and you simply thinking. Bravo is in the hallway near the bedroom, head resting on his paws, alert but still at rest. When Simon breathes in, your own chest rises slightly. You close your eyes, sink into the slow expansion and retreat of his lungs, imagining yourself weightless and floating. Fingers slightly digging into the front of his t-shirt, you snuggle into the crook of his neck, leaning into his embrace.

Simon remains neutral like a rock resting in a garden bed. He is simply there, propping you up, awaiting the moment you finally decide to crack open like an egg. In these brief moments, you drift off, the stress of the evening wearing you down like a nail file.

“Evie’s in-laws don’t like her,” you mumble, voice slightly strained with sleepiness. “They’ve never liked her. They’re old money and she isn’t.” You shrug but it’s more a shifting of your shoulders. “Now that her husband is gone, it’s worsened their relationship.”

Your eyelids open slowly. Leaning your head back, you seek out Simon’s eyes. He’s staring ahead, but when you shift, he immediately turns his head as if knowing what you need.

“Her due date is coming up quick. Less than two weeks.” You sigh and rest your chin right below his collarbone. “She’s always crying. Worrying even when she’s happy. I didn’t want them talking.”

This is what you give him. It isn’t nearly enough, but you can’t detail the threats or their constant push of trying to seize Archie’s assets. They want to leave Evie with nothing. They want her out of their life. It’s like they don’t care that she’s carrying Archie’s child. It’s a waste. But it’ll only make it easier for Evie to completely cut them off.

Simon delicately rotates your wrist, presents your palm to the ceiling like an offering. He brings it up to his mouth, tenderly pressing his lips against it through the balaclava. Gently, he guides it away, runs his thumb over the expanse of your palm.

His gaze tracks over every line and dip before flicking over to your face. “You’re smiling,” he observes, voice slightly husky.

“Am I?” and you hear the lightness in it, like fluffy white clouds on a summer day.

Simon brings your hand back to his chest. Releasing it, he guides those fingers to your chin, lightly pressing with intention, drawing your gaze to his. “Call me next time.”

“You don’t—”

“I want to.” Simon nods toward the now snoozing German Shepard. “I’ll even bring Bravo.”

“Bravo is too good a boy to make anyone scared.”

You know Simon is grinning because the balaclava stretches backward, pulling toward his ears. “He’s got bite.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Simon’s fingers still linger on the underside of your chin. They sit there, then slide along the jawbone, trailing up to the ear, and back down again. It’s a gentle caress, a soothing song that causes your eyelids to flutter.

“Simon.”

“Hm?”

Your fingers reach, toying with the edge of the balaclava. The arm he originally draped over your waist curves to your hip, squeezing, grabbing more ass than actual hip. Those fingers of his that so delicately touched you are hungry creatures, creating a necklace around your throat.

“What do you need?” he asks.

“You,” you breathe, the desperation burning like starving embers in your lungs. “I need you.”

Underneath the balaclava your fingers slip. They move in tandem with your body. Together they shift. Legs straddling hips. Chest pressed against chest. Lips finding lips the moment they’re able.

You and Simon are hunger personified, meeting and meeting, melting. Grasping the sides of Simon’s exposed cheeks, you use the leverage to push him against the couch, trapping him beneath you in a perfectly pleasurable illusion. Simon is much stronger than you. With only a quick shift of his muscles, Simon could easily pin you beneath him.

But you’re the one on top. You’re the one whose hips roll against him. His fingers dig and drag up and down your thighs, over the curve of your ass, and to the very top of your hips before he repeats it all.

There isn’t any sweetness to it. It’s not tart like lemon candies or sticky like toffee. This is overindulgence. Decedent. You and Simon are teeth and tongue and lips and endless endless gasps of air between it all.

It is the spaces between, the pause beneath where the two of you linger before coming together again. That’s the perfect part. The brief flash of separation. It is then that your wraith gazes on you with lust and something dipped in ancient longing.

Atoms calling to atoms.

Plants in orbit. A small object giving way to the larger mass.

Simon sucks on your bottom lip, lightly biting. “Mine,” he murmurs, drawing you back into a fierce kiss. “You’re mine.”

His.

Yes.

You like it. You want it.

You want him.

Your wraith.

Ghost.

Simon. Always Simon.

He grabs hold of your thighs, guides your legs further out and up to his waist. In seconds you’re on your back, Simon’s large frame pressing you into the cushions, his mouth on you in moments, tasting lips and tongue, traveling over and down, tracing the line of your jaw and the curve of your ear.

And Simon’s hands never stop. They never stop consuming.

Until they do. Until you’re whimpering for him to return his hands to your body. But Simon resists, keeping you trapped beneath him but not willing to bring your bodies together.

His head dips, lips brushing lightly over yours. “Pick a number between one and ten.”

“What?” you laugh, confused.

“Do it. One to ten. Pick.”

You nibble on the inside of your cheek, thinking. “Three?”

Simon only stares.

“Four?”

Again, he remains impassive.

Is Simon trying to herd you to a specific number?

“Five?” you reply hesitantly.

One eyebrow rises slightly. Finally, a reaction.

“Fine,” you laugh. “Seven.”

“Sure about that, love?”

You cock your head and playfully smack his chest. “Eight. Happy?”

“Final answer?”

“Yes, Simon. That’s my final answer.”

Simon nods, gaze quietly assessing. In the next moment, he’s dragging you up against him, bringing both of you to standing.

“What are you doing?”

Simon starts to back away, placing roughly an arm’s length of space between the two of you.

“Bedroom,” he purrs, the word a singular command.

Reaching down with one hand, Simon grasps the front of his belt. With expert quickness, he unbuckles it and then removes the belt from the loops with a fluid tug.

“No clothes,” he continues. “And on your back.”

“Simon—”

“Now.”

You’re being herded again, but this time you like it. This time it is from a place of desire, or a desperate yearning for another. This isn’t anger driving Simon, and it’s certainly not driving you.

Simon glances over his left shoulder at Bravo. The dog immediately gets up, trudging off somewhere. Stepping to the side, Simon makes space for you to slip through. He is right there, on your heel, entering the dark bedroom with you.

Once inside, Simon shuts the door behind him, cutting of the light from the living room and kitchen. The only source of illumination comes from the windows. The blinds are down, and only slightly cracked. It allows for lines of fractured moonlight.

Simon is mostly in shadow. Just an outline in the dark.

“What are the numbers for?” you ask, your eyes adjusting to the dimness.

“Get those clothes off, love. Then I’ll tell you.”

He moves closer, your wraith one with the darkness, silently slinking into your radius. Simon is near enough to touch you, to assist in the undressing, but he doesn’t. He only watches, his chest rising and falling, an imperceptible change in the shadows.

The outer layers are easy. It’s when you’re down to your underwear, bra, and top that you hesitate.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“What do the numbers mean?”

Again, Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands rise, hovering just shy of your upper arms. They pause there before shifting down to slide underneath your top, to seek out the back of your bra. With ease, Simon unhooks it. Now he helps. Now he guides your top over your head, tossing it to the side. Straps loose against your shoulders, it takes Simon no effort to guide them down your arms.

You don’t resist. His touch is gentle but purposeful.

What do those numbers mean? What does he have planned. Is the number the amount of times he’s about to fuck you? The very thought of submitting to him like that makes your pussy clench.

You’re standing in just your underwear. Simon is fully clothed.

It doesn’t seem fair.

One large hand lightly brushes over your stomach, lingers right above the delicate, thin cotton. It’s nothing fancy. Nothing flashy. Simple and comfortable. And yet you’re not embarrassed by it because Simon clearly doesn’t seem to care either.

“These can stay,” he murmurs, fingertips lightly brushing against the cotton before withdrawing.

With his other hand, Simon reaches up and grasps the top of his balaclava. He tugs. Pulls. Removing it from his head.

But your wraith is in the shadows. You do not see his features. What you can see it just the soft sweep of his hair, and a brief flash of bone structure.

“The numbers,” he says. “They’re the orgasms I’m giving you.”

“You—what?”

“You’re going to count each one, love.” Simon stands so close your bodies are nearly touching. “Mess up. I start over.”

“Simon—”

“Are you mine?” Simon is gripping your throat against, pulling you taut against him, faces close, lips closer, but not touching.

Are you his?

Yes. Always yes.

“I’m yours.”

That hungry mouth of his lightly caress the corner of your mouth. “I want to mark my territory. I want to relearn your taste. Hear those gorgeous moans I’ve been missing.”

Greedy. Simon is greedy.

The possessively primal tone sends a delicious tingle through your limbs. It remembers him. It is your body crying out again, wanting to call him back home.

“On your back, love.”

You promptly fall, butt landing on the edge of the bed.

Your wraith still stands. Is still a looming shadow.

As he takes one step closer, you lean back onto your elbows. Simon’s fingers brush against the tops of knees before sliding between, easing your legs apart, guiding them wide for him to move between.

His rough hands are soft brands against your inner thighs. They slide further toward your sex, only to purposefully pass over it instead to grasp waist and stomach, seeking other tender spots that ache for his touch.

Simon places his knee on the bed, forcing you to scoot back a bit. It also forces your legs to stay open as Simon’s hands fall to either side of you. He adjusts, leaning onto one elbow, his other hand roaming across your skin.

He studies the curve of your hip, the softness of your belly, the places where you think there is too much and not enough. Simon worships it all, leaving nothing untouched. This room is a church. You are the alter. And Simon is one of the starving flock seeking salvation.

Hovering at your breasts, his tongue passes over a nipple. It promptly hardens, reaching toward him. Simon meets it, nipping lightly, teasing the bud until it’s aching. Moving to the other, he gives it the same attention. Your fingers dig into the bedding beneath you, and your head falls back as Simon’s lips press a kiss to the valley between.

One hand returns to your hips, slides over inner thigh, hooks a finger at the edge of your underwear, pulling it to the side. The air feels oddly cold against the warmth. A shiver passes through you and Simon’s sharp inhale is enough to draw forth a bit of danger.

“First one. Ready?”

The moment your mouth forms the agreement, Simon’s thumb hovers at your entrance where your slickness pools. He draws it up to your clit, presses, swirls. It’s a sharp tug. A sudden burst. You gasp, back arching slightly as Simon continues to play with that sensitive bump. His fingers aren’t even inside you. It’s just his thumb teasing. But you’re wired, strung out from the conversation with Adam, the argument and subsequent discussion with Simon, and now this.

You are Orpheus seeing the Sun again, giving into the joy, turning back to rejoice with Eurydice. And this time there is no punishment. Eurydice doesn’t disappear. Simon, your wraith, is still here.

And you are falling apart, fingers clawing at his shoulders, hips flexing into his touch as your body clenches. The moan is choked, suppressed. Simon knows, and grins against your throat.

“Count.”

“One,” you croak, knowing you’re not going to make it seven more times.

“Good,” he purrs, wrist rotating, his middle finger sliding through your new slickness.

Simon adds a finger, begins fucking you with it while he shifts up to press his lips to yours. You open for him, and Simon slides his tongue inside the moment he inserts a second finger. Using the knee already resting on the bed between your legs, Simon guides your legs wider to completely settle between them.

Spread wide, all you can do is cling to him. You have little control, but it’s good. It’s nice. It’s fucking perfect.

Simon releases your mouth and roughly kisses down the length of your neck only to run his tongue over your left nipple. Your hips buck, and Simon meets with a thrust of his hand. His thumb on your clit is relentless and it isn’t long before you’re clenching again, this time mewling softly, trying hard to relax but failing completely.

“Two,” you gasp as Simon’s teeth lightly trap your nipple between them.

He tugs softly. Releases the nipple. Kisses it.

Fingers slipping from your body, the loss comes instantly. It is momentary. A length of a breath. Simon is already moving down your body leaving nothing untasted. The knee between your legs disappears as Simon moves onto his knees in front of the bed. His arms slide under your thighs and curve up to lock onto them. With a sharp tug, you’re dragged to the very edge of the bed.

Simon turns his head and nips his way down the inside of your thigh. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your legs to the tips of your toes. You float in coiled anticipation. Fingers drag up and down your thighs. Simon’s mouth hovers close, but not enough to make actual contact.

You don’t dare break any of it. You don’t dare make the first move.

You are the frozen mouse staring down the cat.

Simon sighs heavily, but as it tapers out, it becomes a growl. Drawing back, Simon’s fingers curl around the edges of your underwear, bringing it into his fist. It takes only two quick tugs for Simon to tug them down your legs. They disappear into the dark as Simon guides one leg over his shoulder while the other is pushed even wider.

You’re presented to him. A gift.

Communion offered by a holy hand.

Starved like a sinner seeking confession, Simon descends, parting your pussy with a slow swipe of his tongue. With the afterglow of two orgasms in your system, your body responds to Simon’s tongue like a gunshot. Like the crack of a whip, Simon swirls up, teasing your clit with just the tip, and that is enough to make your shake, for your back to come off the bed.

Without thought, your hands seek him. One slides through his hair, tangling, twisting, anchoring yourself as your hips roll against his mouth, riding his face. The other claws, gripping his shirt, snarling the fabric in your fist.

Simon sucks your clit into his mouth and it’s over. The leg not over Simon’s shoulder snaps up, wanting to trap his head between your thighs. But Simon is strong and insistent, pushing it back down, forcing you wide again to take his tongue without resistance.

“What number is that?” asks Simon.

Your lips part to answer, but Simon returns his tongue to your clit, swirling just the tip against it. It steals your clarity.

Crying out, the hoarse noise becomes a whimper as he continues.

“Number,” he growls.

“Three!” you gasp.

His smile is brief and so is your moment of peace. Simon returns, tasting and tasting until you come off the bed, your own strength and Simon’s arms keeping you in place. Everything in wiggling, itching to escape and yet desiring more.

You won’t make it to eight.

Simon places a kiss against your pussy before he guides your leg off his shoulder. It is not for rest or to give you a break. Instead, Simon’s hands begin at your knees, sliding down to your inner thighs. He finds a solid grip, guides them wide, and returns to eating you out.

That tongue of his is a viper, and you are unable to avoid its bite.

Your thighs quiver, and your legs jerk, attempting to close yet again. Meeting resting, the muscles quiver, unable to do anything else. Like your legs, your arms are at your sides, palms pressing into the bedding, fingers digging into the bedding as if you’re trying to crush fruit.

“Fuck,” you groan. “Oh—fuck. Simon. Si—”

Small death. A burst of light. So cliché and yet so true.

“How many is that, love?” purrs Simon.

Though your eyes have adjusted to the dark, it is not enough to glimpse his features in any detail. Frustrated, you focus on what you can see in the dark: his eyes.

Moonlight cuts through the room like silver steel. Sometimes when Simon moves, you see the faintest hint of brown. Fleeting. But important.

Simon is staring you down, mouth poised just shy of the curve of your pelvis.

“F—four.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Simon nods. “That’s my good girl.” His mouth returns. “My good fucking girl.”

No return. No reversal. You are forever Simon’s.

This is not a simple exchange. This is a claiming. A “marking of territory” as he put it.

Your wraith isn’t fucking you. He’s not asked anything for himself. This is about you, and his control over you. In this, you will submit. In this, you will allow him to take the lead. Because, with everything going on in your life, letting go for a bit is a cleansing.

“Five” eventually leaves your mouth but it is fractured and shaky. Simon has to prompt you three times before it falls from your lips.

When his mouth returns for another round, Simon brings his fingers with him. You remember saying “seven” but “six” is lost like a rock thrown into a lake. Simon doesn’t correct you, but keeps going, returning to his task with just as much enthusiasm as all the rest.

On this one, Simon gently eases your thighs toward your chest, keeping them close but not touching. Using some of his body weight, Simon keeps you locked into position. His tongue runs lazy trails up and down your pussy, dipping inside before trailing upward again. You cannot reach him and you opt to hold onto the backs of your legs, your fingers layering over his own that hold you in place.

Overstimulation has been your companion since number three. You don’t know where you are. You are beyond that. Lost. Gone. Adrift.

The eighth and final orgasm brings tears to your eyes. They are clawed from your sockets, ripped from you in wet lines that leave you trembling and sensitive. Simon does not ask for the count right away. He guides your legs away from your chest, bringing them to rest against the bed.

Around you, the bed sinks as Simon shifts forward, pushing off his knees, crawling over you until the two of you are face to face. Your chest heaves and Simon’s lips are slightly parted. In the small slashes of moonlight, you glimpse the glossy shine on his lips.

Without speaking, without signaling to the other, the two of you meet. You taste yourself on him, and you hardly care. Your hands might be shaking but you reach out for him, touching him like he did you. One large hand comes to rest next to your head. The other slides up the bed.

Your hands go lower, pushing open the front of his pants.

Simon has to be aching. You want to give him some relief. You want to please him. It’s not a feeling of obligation but a deep desire to show him how much you crave him too.

“What are you doing?” he asks, breaking the kiss. As your fingers reach for him, Simon’s hips flex backward, retreating from your touch. “You can’t handle that, love. Not right now.”

“Simon,” you beg. “I want to.”

He shakes his head, lips returning to yours momentarily before leaving again. “When I fuck you, it won’t be like this. I can fucking promise you that.”

Simon’s forehead presses against your temple, and you slightly turn into him, noses brushing. “Can I touch you. Just touch. That’s all.” With extreme care, your fingers find him, wrapping lightly in case he says no.

His breathing hitches, and you see that as sign to keep going. Your grip on him isn’t great, but Simon helps, easing his pants down enough that there isn’t any clothing creating an obstacle. Simon is hot and hard in your hand. It’s clear that he needs release, and though everything in you fucking aches, you want to give him this.

It’s not pretty, but you start to pump him in short strokes. Simon groans, leans into the movement, his hips thrusting shallowly to meet your hand. Softly smiling in victory, you shift your legs a little wider, sliding them up to hook over the backs of his knees. The sound Simon makes is feral and deep.

His thrusts lengthen, and you keep your hand in place, allowing him to use it as he needs. Somehow, this is so much more intimate than if he were inside you. Simon is draped over you, trapping you against the bed, and yet your legs are locked over his, keeping him in your own web. His forehead is still pressed against your temple.

You know he’s near because his grunts are slowly tapering off at the end into short moans. It’s your turn to talk to him, to guide him toward that finish line.

“Where do you want to finish?” you ask softly.

“My hand?” You lightly squeeze his cock as he thrusts, and this snaps a guttural groan from out his throat.

“My tummy?” you offer.

“My thighs?”

You lick your lips. “Do you want to finish in my mouth?”

Simon’s hips stutter.

“Or inside me?” You emphasize your meaning by pressing your heels into the back of his calves, urging him closer to your pussy.

The move is so sudden, it startles you. Simon’s hand around your throat is a vice but he doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t cut off your air.

He still thrusts into your hand as he speaks. “I want your cunt dripping with me.” He shakes his head. “Not there. Not yet.” Simon keeps his hand around your throat but his hold eases.

Every thrust is stuttering and slightly off.

“Fuck,” he growls. “Your thighs.”

Though your muscles cry out in protest, you release him, dropping your legs back to the bed. Simon shifts into position, his hand falling away from your neck to draw your legs closer together. Watching is the most pleasurable part, seeing his release coat the tops and insides of your thighs. You imagine it inside you, filling you up, marking you as his.

That thought lingers, even as Simon retreats, going to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar, and the light inside only gives you a brief glimpse. There isn’t skin or a face reveal. You glimpse Simon’s hair, and seeing it almost feels wrong, like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t.

It’s…blond.

No.

Brown?

That’s not right. Maybe it’s both or just a trick of the light. It’s hard to tell.

But the light shuts off, and Simon returns with a warm, damp cloth to clean you up. He is so careful, so delicate and gentle with the way he takes care of you. There isn’t conversation and you’re deeply thankful for that. You probably couldn’t talk even if you wanted to. The exhaustion is setting in, and with Simon’s return to the bathroom, you start to drift.

When he returns, Simon reaches up with one arm, pulling off his shirt in one go. His pants go next, and it isn’t until he’s dragging you into his arms and tossing the top sheet and comforter over your bodies that you realize Simon’s nakedness.

The two of you are on equal ground here.

Yes, there is the dark. But Simon is just as bare as you, and there is no balaclava.

Leaning forward, Simon kisses the curve of your shoulder once…twice…three times. You curl into his touch and Simon drags you even closer.

You hear it, even though it’s so quiet that you don’t think Simon intended you to hear it.

“Mine.”

Mine.

Chapter Text

Tea.

Eggs—large, at least two dozen.

Bread.

Bulk butter.

Milk—full fat.

Flour.

Batteries.

Postal stamps.

Chi—

The electric kettle shuts off and Simon sets into routine, brewing his morning tea without a second thought. The hour is early, and the sun hardly breaks the horizon. Simon’s flat is almost completely dark except for the faintest bits of light that creeps in as the sun’s rays skim over the tops of nearby buildings.

Simon disposes of the tea bag and holds the steaming mug in both hands. Yes, it’s hot, but the warmth is comforting. It grounds him. Keeps his resolve from snapping and returning to a different warmth.

He starts over, listing all the things he’s growing low on.

Tea. Eggs. Bread.

You’re in his flat. In his bedroom. In his bed.

Naked. Flour. Asleep. Batteries.

Soft. Postage stamps. Bare beneath the sheets. Still slick between the thighs.

Fuck.

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. He needs to get a fucking grip. Every instinct within him commands Simon to go crawl into bed, to wake you up, and to slide between your legs. To greet the day with you beneath him.

That can’t happen.

Not because Simon doesn’t want to but because he wants to do this right. You deserve more than a dirty couch in a club’s green room. You deserve more than a quick moment of passion. You deserve patience and attention, to have someone focus on you and only you.

You may already be his, but not entirely. Not completely.

Not yet.

But, when Simon makes it happen, when the two of you finally bind this into something solid and real, you’ll never want to him leave. Simon will make sure of it.

Lingering in the kitchen, Simon drinks his tea, allowing the vestiges of sleep to seep out of his muscles and bones. His fucking jaw hurts, but that hardly matters to him. Not after what he did last night, or how you bloomed like a flower.

Spread wide. Perfect. Open.

Just for him.

Only for him.

Bravo nudges Simon’s thigh with the tip of his wet nose. Absently, Simon reaches down and scratches between the dog’s ears. The German Shepard leans into it, his eyes closing slightly with contentment.

Sighing, Simon pats the top of Bravo’s head. Sauntering toward the bedroom door, Simon leans against the frame, arms crossed, one hand clutching his tea mug. He watches you snooze for a few minutes. Most of you is covered by the bedding, but Simon glimpses just a hint of bare arm and shoulder. You’re completely submerged under there, and if Simon listens hard enough, he can hear a gentle snore.

To him, it’s cute. You might not find it so.

Simon rubs the back of his neck as Bravo pads into the room, gently jumping up into the bed. He doesn’t disturb you. Instead, the black-furred dog circles three times before settling.

You’ll wake eventually and Simon isn’t wearing his mask.

Simon hasn’t put it on since he took it off last night. There, in the dark, he removed it, only wanting to taste you. Simon isn’t ashamed of his face or his scars. He doesn’t consider himself ugly. It’s just…habit to put the mask on. He was Ghost in the field. Now, he’s Ghost in his shop.

Mysterious. Different. Detached.

He was Ghost when he met you at Riot Room, and now he’s Simon. Just…Simon.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Simon turns around and heads back into the kitchen. While Simon is a tea drinker, he keeps coffee on hand. Simon isn’t one for smashing energy drinks or soda even though his sweet tooth can be a fucking fiend, but sometimes he needs an extra kick.

Taking his time, Simon measures out and drops the ground coffee into the filter. From there, he closes the machine lid, filling the carafe, turning the ancient machine on. It hums and it’s almost too loud. A little green light comes on, and Simon steps away, checking the fridge. There are still a few eggs and bacon. Flour is low but he might be able to scrape up enough to whip up pancakes.

His stomach growls softly and Simon shuts the fridge.

Back in the bedroom, you still snooze softly, and Simon takes this time to clean up. He can still taste you on him, but it is faint, nearly a foreign sensation. Grabbing a towel, Simon hops into the shower. He scrubs down, brushes his teeth, even dries his hair.

Simon tugs on the balaclava, wearing nothing else except black boxer briefs. Stepping back into the bedroom, Simon pauses, noticing tussled hair and sleepy eyes.

“Morning,” says Simon.

You stretch, the grey sheet covering your breasts slipping a bit, nearly revealing nipple. You catch it just in time, stifling a yawn.

“Good morning,” you reply, the raspiness of sleep still clinging to your vocal cords.

Bravo rolls over onto his side, oblivious to the two of you.

“Shower’s available.” Simon gestures with a shrug of his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom.

Your gaze follows and then promptly returns to Simon. At first, your face is blank, and then, slowly, it drifts into a sultry mischievousness that sends blood straight to his groin. Any more of this and Simon will come undone.

“I don’t want to shower,” you murmur, some of the bedding slipping from your fingers. It’s dangerously close to revealing all of you. Last night you were bare for him, but the two of you were in the dark, and Simon only saw pieces of you. It wasn’t nearly enough, and now it’s almost too much.

The thought of your naked body within reach, wanting him, saying so with words alone is enough to start to crack at his resolve.

Fuck. Fucking hell.

“What do you want?” Simon almost doesn’t recognize himself. What comes out of him is a needy groan.

The slow blink before your response sends signals to his feet to start moving. “I want you to come to bed,” you reply.

Simon stops right at the edge of the bed, every muscle in his body coiled with tension. All he has to do is tug and the bedding will fall away.

“And do what?” prompts Simon, the restraint within him oozing off him to slip between the cracks in the wood floor.

Bravo’s ears perk up and then his head. He glances between the two of you and immediately slinks out of the bed, hurrying away. Simon listens for the dog door and then places one knee on the edge of the bed. Some of his joints resist the movement, those old wounds making themselves known. But Simon ignores them all, his full attention fixed on the woman asking him to join her.

“Whatever you want, Simon.”

Whatever he wants? There are so many things he wants. Simon wants to make you his, to keep you here, to never let you go. None of those are options right now. No. Not yet. But he can still play.

Simon’s fingers curl around the topmost sheet. He tugs, ripping them out of your grasp and away from your body. You immediately cover yourself, legs crossing in front of you and your arms resting across your chest.

The moment the bedding is out of his way, Simon wraps his fingers around your left ankle to drag you closer.

“Simon!” you gasp, but it is all teasing.

“Come here,” he growls, using the natural weight of his body to propel him fully onto the bed and push you down on your back. Your arms and legs fall away then, opening for him, and Simon slots himself between, his mouth already seeking yours.

Simon kisses and touches until your soft giggles become moans. His mouth seeks lower ground. Lower still, and then those moans become shaky and limp legs with gasping breath. You reach for him, and Simon leans into your touch, allowing you to stroke and caress until his haughty, smug smile becomes something else entirely.

With his balaclava-covered face pressed against your neck, Simon inhales, wrapping his large arms around you. He helps your limp-limbed form slide out of bed, and somehow guides you into the shower. While you’re scrubbing away at your skin and scalp, Simon is in the kitchen, managing to prepare breakfast with the little he has.

It’s Sunday, and Simon has absolutely fucking nothing to do. It’s always been Dancing Faun, drinks, and then finding someone on his roster to have it off with. But Simon doesn’t need to do that. He doesn’t need anyone or anything but you. If you want it, he’ll spend his entire Sunday in your presence, partaking in whatever it is you’re interested in doing.

When you emerge wearing nothing but one of his shirts, Simon has to squash the urge to bend you over the table.

“Breakfast,” rasps Simon, grabbing a plate to distract himself.

“Please,” you sigh, approaching him and placing a hand on his lower back.

“Little of everything?”

You nod, giving Simon’s shoulder a quick kiss before walking over to the dining table. Simon’s body vibrates with happiness. He overloads your plate and his, bringing the coffee and a newly made kettle to the table.

“Plans for the day?”

You shake your head, yawning. “No. But I do need to check on Evie.”

Simon checks the time on his phone. It’s nearly the afternoon. “After breakfast I’ll walk you.”

When you go to change back into your clothes, Simon is handsy, grabbing at bare thigh and waist just because he can. You giggle through the whole thing, the two of you ending up on the floor with your limbs intertwined and your mouths meeting.

It takes forever for the two of you to make it out the door. The walk is short but slow. Simon drags it out, keeping you close to his body as the cool autumn air kicks up. His hand delves, teasing, keeping you playful the whole walk to Amelia’s.

You’re still fumbling with the key to the front door when Evie yanks it open. Simon promptly hides the view of his hand under your sweater. Simon isn’t fast enough because Evie’s grin is downright feral.

“Good afternoon.” She pointedly emphasizes “afternoon” by glancing in Simon’s direction. Her dark hair is piled up on the top of her head in a messy bun, and the robe she’s wearing is untied, revealing pink pajamas and a massive belly.

“Sorry, Evie,” you laugh, awkwardly shifting away from Simon to dislodge his hand.

Still glancing at Simon, Evie snags your upper arm, hauling you inside. Simon steps in after you. Bravo shoves his way in, navigating the cramped entry space and aiming for the kitchen. The German Shepard rounds a corner, and Simon hears Amelia greet the dog.

“Go change,” urges Evie, shoving you toward the stairs. “Take a shower too.”

“I did,” you snap with a laugh.

“Take another one. I can smell you.”

You flip Evie the bird and she gives one right back. Glancing over your shoulder at Simon, he gives you the slightest of shrugs. He doesn’t want to be left alone with Evie and Amelia, but he’ll deal with it.

The moment you disappear to the top level, Evie is turning that feral grin on Simon, her hands on her hips. Amelia appears like a phantom in the doorway where the entryway and living room meet.

“Made tea,” says Amelia. She’s wearing her gardening clothes. There are dirty patches on the knees.

“No thank you,” replies Simon.

“You’re having tea.” One of Amelia’s eyebrows arches like she’s begging him to question her.

Simon nods instead of refusing again.

Right. He’s having tea.

In the kitchen, Bravo is munching away on a small pile of dog treats. Simon sighs, watching the German Shepard happily chew them up one by one. He takes a seat at the table, the two women joining him.

At the center of the table are chicken salad sandwiches on plain white bread, an open bag of crips, and a bowl of mixed fruit. Evie starts piling her plate while Amelia distributes the tea.

“Hungry?” Amelia asks Simon, offering him a plate.

He’s fucking full from breakfast, but he’s not refusing this like he did with the tea. “Yes, thank you.”

Amelia plops a sandwich on Simon’s plate, scoops out a heaping portion of fruit, and shakes a mountain of crips out.

“Weather is expected to cool off in the next few weeks.” Amelia shrugs. “That’s what the forecaster says anyway.”

Evie places her hand on her belly. “Hopefully she’ll be out by then.”

Simon glances at the spot where Evie’s hand rests. “You’re due soon?”

“Yes. Very soon. Due date is technically a week out but could happen any day.”

Simon nods, his tattooed fingers playing with the handle of the tea mug. He stares at the pile of food in front of him and frowns. Simon is so absorbed with his own thoughts, that it takes him a few moments to recognize the absolute silence.

He glances up only to find Amelia and Evie leaning back in their chairs, bemused expressions on their faces as they observe him.

“What?” he blurts, suddenly nervous.

Amelia and Evie exchange a look.

“You remember our conversation?” asks Amelia softly.

Simon crosses his arm, shifting in his seat. His phone digs into his thigh and he adjusts again. “I do,” he replies slowly.

Amelia nods. She glances down at Simon’s plate. “Haven’t touched your food. Something wrong?”

Fuck.

Simon pushes up the balaclava enough to shove a few crisps into his mouth. They’re cheese and onion flavored. It’s the wrong choice. The only sound in the room are the crunching crisps in Simon’s mouth. Amelia and Evie still stare at him.

He swallows, the half-chewed food nearly sticking in his throat. Simon hastily drinks his tea.

“How’s business?” asks Amelia once Simon sets the tea back onto the table.

“Busy.”

“I would hope so. Saw you on the cover of a magazine while shopping. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” says Simon, bit of heat warming the tops of his cheeks.

Evie’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s wonderful. What magazine?”

“UK Ink,” he answers. “Best tattoo artist.”

“Very deserved,” says Amelia, lifting her tea.

“You’ve never been in my shop,” chuckles Simon.

Amelia shrugs. “But I see you almost every Sunday, and Ben is always bragging about you.”

Simon shifts again in his chair from embarrassment. His phone digs into his ass this time. Frowning, Simon removes it from his pocket and places it on the table facedown.

“You’re being polite,” says Simon, attempting to push the praise off him.

Evie chews quietly, her gaze darting between Amelia and Simon. Over her shoulder, Simon glimpses a series of photographs. One of them is a wedding photo, a recent one. The woman he recognizes as Evie, and the man she leans against must be her dead husband.

Simon’s phone buzzes, but he ignores it. He really needs you to finish showering and changing your clothes. The phone ceases and Simon goes for some fruit this time.

Amelia opens her mouth to reply but Simon’s phone kicks up again. She promptly shuts her mouth and glances at the device.

“They’ll leave a message,” says Simon dismissively. Sometimes business calls are rerouted to his personal phone. During the week, it’s not an issue, but on a day like today, it’s annoying.

Amelia inclines her head, but Simon’s fucking phone won’t stop. It starts buzzing again.

“You should answer that.” Amelia nods toward it.

Simon stares down at the phone, all the food in his stomach suddenly solidifying. There are only a few people who would relentlessly call Simon like this. The cellphone stops, begins again, and Simon’s frown deepens.

He picks it up, turning the screen over to face him.

Price.

Fuck.

Simon lets it go to voicemail.

When the buzzing begins again, Amelia tuts. “Answer it or I’m chucking it into the garden.”

“Excuse me,” murmurs Simon, pushing his chair back and standing, heading for the living room. When Simon nears the entryway, he answers the phone, bringing it up to his ear.

“Price,” he says flatly.

“Simon.” Price’s greeting is polite but reserved. “Were you sleeping?”

“No.”

Price grunts on the other end. “Have you handled your business?”

He means you. Last night floods into Simon’s mind, bringing up Adam and the whole fucking mess of an evening.

“Yes,” answers Simon, though he hears the slight shake in the way he says it.

“Is tonight good?”

Simon silently swears. He wants to spend the day with you, not talk to the boys about their upcoming mission. But Simon made a promise to them, and he intends to see it through.

Simon licks his lips and sighs. “Meet me outside the shop.”

Price rattles off a time and Simon agrees, knowing that he won’t have much time with you between now and then.

Simon ends the call right as you come down the stairs. You’re already moving toward him and Simon instantly reaches out, seeking you. When your hand slides into his, Simon pulls you close. Placing your other hand on his chest, Simon leans down and seeks your lips for a kiss.

“You taste like onion,” you murmur.

Simon chuckles before drawing back a bit. “Amelia fed me.”

“She tends to do that.”

He adjusts his grip, drawing you into his side so Simon can wrap his arm around your waist. Over your shoulder, he notices Amelia and Evie dangerously leaning around the corner in the chairs, trying to watch from a distance. Even Bravo is poking his head around the corner.

“I have to go,” murmurs Simon, brushing a few damp strands from your face to tuck behind your ear.

Your smile faulters slightly and Simon immediately regrets saying anything at all.

“Right now?” you ask.

Simon shakes his head. “Not right now. In an hour.”

“Did something happen?”

No. Yes. Maybe? Simon has no clue what the boys want to talk to him about. They’ve never been shy about asking him for advice or looking something over for them. But rarely have they ever asked to come in person to discuss something confidential.

“You remember the men who escorted Adam out the pub last night?”

The middle of your brow scrunches. “Yes?”

“Our evening was…interrupted. Just need to finishing up with them.”

“I see.” You glance down and then back to Simon’s face. “My fault?”

“No,” he says, drawing you closer against him. “Don’t think that.” Simon kisses you for good measure. “Can we make plans for later this week?”

Your fingers tangle with the fabric of his shirt. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Simon checks over your head to find Amelia and Evie still watching from their chairs. “They’re nosy, aren’t they?”

You laugh. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Simon inclines his head, knowing that’s true. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Need some help finishing the plate Amelia made me.”

In front of Simon is an empty whiskey glass.

It’s the first one, and Simon expects to have plenty more as the evening progresses. Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun strides over, removing the glass and placing down a fresh one.

“Might need this,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice like thunder. Ben places a half-full whiskey bottle down next to Simon’s glass.

Simon nods in thanks as Ben turns his back and disappears behind the bar.

This isn’t the evening for beer. Simon needs something strong if the three grim faces staring back at him are any indication. Johnny has a Scotch, Price has whiskey like Simon, and Gaz has tequila.

All hard edges here. Nothing soft.

Ben closed up Dancing Faun early to give them some space and privacy. The sun isn’t down yet but the light hardly makes it into the front window. The four of them sit around a square table, one to each side. Inside the pub, the lights above the bar and the one directly above their table are on.

Simon’s gaze darts to each of the men he knows as brothers. Price, who is always tired and complaining of heartburn, appears exhausted like he’s been awake for days. Gaz is subdued, his mouth turned downward into a slight frown. Johnny, who is always upbeat, is quiet and calm.

It’s fucking weird seeing them like this. It doesn’t sit right with Simon. Whatever is on their minds is eating away at them. Either something is completely fucked, or he’s about to hear something unpleasant.

Ben stays behind the bar cleaning glassware, taking inventory, and occasionally disappearing into the back. The man is discreet when he needs to be, and if he overhears anything, Ben won’t snitch or turn around to spread it to others.

Simon isn’t worried about that, but he is worried about Price, Gaz, and Soap.

“Why the long faces?” asks Simon, attempting to joke but failing completely.

Price sighs heavily. “He’s back, Simon.”

It’s such a vague way of putting it. He could mean anyone. Task Force 141 made plenty of enemies while Simon was part of it. Hell—Simon made plenty of enemies just from working in SAS. He’s executed so many missions they’re almost a blur to him.

“Who?” prompts Simon. “Makarov?”

That would be a fucking joke if that wanker got out. Simon would certainly need to be on alert but not overly concerned. It’s not like Simon is in the way anymore.

Price shakes his head while Johnny and Kyle exchange a look. “Makarov is still in prison. Securely. Last time I checked.”

“And when was that?”

“A week ago,” replies Price.

“A week is a long time.”

“It’s not Makarov,” interjects Kyle, his fingers tapping the side of his glass.

Simon glances in Kyle’s direction. The frown is still there but his eyes tell him enough. It’s a sad sort of pleading. An apology but not because Gaz has done anything wrong. Simon has seen this look before.

Pity. It’s pity that Simon sees in Kyle’s gaze.

Price clears his throat, shoots his whiskey back, and then pours himself another from the bottle Ben set down on the table. “Kyle is right. It’s not Makarov, Simon.” Price lifts his glass and stares into the amber liquid. “When I say he’s back, I mean him.”

Simon’s stomach is toxic slime. It bubbles there, brewing, waiting to eat away at flesh and bone and blood.

Him. Him.

From the nightmares. From the scars. From the wounds that never healed properly.

No. No no no. Fucking no.

“You’re lying,” growls Simon, his hands forming fists under the table.

“Simon—”

Simon slams his fist against the tabletop. Everything rattles. “He’s fucking dead, Price.” Simon points at himself. “I put a knife in his chest. Watched him fall.” He gestures to everyone at the table with a sweep of his hand. “We all saw his burnt corpse.”

Johnny is the one to speak, not Price. “A corpse so burnt it couldn’t be identified.”

There is pity in Johnny’s gaze too, and Simon fucking hates it. He hates how they’re all looking at him right now. If he’s back, that means all the therapy, retirement, and all the pain is absolutely bloody pointless.

Nothing. Just air. Dead confetti wasting away on concrete.

“I didn’t earn these injuries or have retirement shoved on me just for you to come back here and tell me he still lives.” Simon’s tone is cold. Broken.

Price sighs again, crossing his arms and resting them on the edge of the table. “You think I wanted to come and tell you this, Simon?” Simon removes his fist from the table, dropping it into his lap. “I didn’t want to say anything at all. But I’m out of options. And things are going to shit fast.”

Simon understands. He doesn’t need to ask because he knows why Price, Soap, and Gaz have all come. This man they’re hunting, the one that Simon believed he killed, the one who gave Simon the burn scars along his upper arms, back, and shoulders, is walking around somewhere, returning to what he does best.

“You were the one who got close to him. You know him better than any of us,” continues Price. “And we need your help.”

Simon does know him better than they do. He got close enough to get into his head.

Kit Walsh.

Simple, isn’t it. Unsuspecting.

Evil people aren’t born with evil names.

Kit Walsh who grew up in Manchester just like Simon. Attended school there and even lived in a nearby neighborhood from the one Simon grew up in.

Kit Walsh who radicalized himself by talking to likeminded individuals in private chatrooms on the internet.

Kit Walsh who, as he got older, decided he wanted the rest of the world to look and think just like him.

Evil people always start somewhere, and sometimes they’re not rooted out until it’s far too late for everyone else.

Simon flexes his fingers, stretching the joints before forming a fist again. “Help how?”

“You don’t have to do this, Simon.”

Slamming back his whiskey, Simon reaches across the table to snag the whiskey bottle.

The worst kind of evil is always domestic. It always starts at home.

Of course, Simon has to help. The whole reason they got as close as they did was from the work Simon put in during his time with SAS.

“Where is he, Price?”

Price sucks his teeth and then rubs his temple. “It’s complicated. Messy.”

“Then explain.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Price removes a stack of photos. Sorting through them, Price removes two, tossing them across the table toward Simon. Picking them up, Simon examines them. Both photos are of Walsh in a mega church. He’s posing with men in nicely tailored suits, but it’s not like Simon knows who these men are. Walsh, Simon recognizes, but he’s changed his hair and put on a few pounds.

“Those were taken a week ago in Texas.”

Simon glances up from the photos. “He’s in the States?” Price opens his mouth but Simon laughs. It’s short and clipped, but high. “You’ve fucking lost him.”

Price frowns but Simon continues. “Last time he bounced between here and the Continent. If he’s gone to America, you won’t fucking find him.”

“Laswell already knows.”

“I’m sure she does.”

Kyle leans forward. “Are you hearing what they’re saying over there? The idiotic shit coming out of people’s mouths?”

“They say shit like that here, Gaz,” snaps Simon, anger lacing his tone. “They say it in Germany. In France. In Russia. Everywhere. It’s just wearing different faces for the same thing.”

Kyle’s frown deepens and his stare could slice glass. Simon immediately swallows down some of that irritation. His anger isn’t with any of them. It’s the fact that everything Simon went through meant nothing. All these scars now covered up by ink are just reminders of his failure.

“You know how he works, Simon. Everything we have on him we have because of you. I know it’ll be difficult now that he’s jumped the ocean, but I’m desperate, Simon. Give me anything.”

Simon stares down at the tabletop. The dark wood stares back. His priorities have changed during retirement. He’s no longer active military. He doesn’t have to help them at all. Simon has his shop, his new career, and Bravo.

Now, there is an addition to the mix. You. You are a priority now.

“He’s killed someone. Or had someone do it for him.”

Simon glances up from the table to stare into Price’s stern expression. “Walsh has killed a lot of people. Directly and indirectly.”

“Someone important,” interrupts Johnny, swirling his Scotch around in his glass.

“Someone important to certain people,” amends Price.

Simon adjusts in his seat, the chair suddenly becoming uncomfortable. “Who?”

Price fans out the pictures in front of him. A few seconds pass and then Price selects several, slowly pushing them across the table.

“Archibald Williams,” begins Price. “Also lovingly referred to as ‘Archie’ by friends and family.” The face staring back at him is a face he knows. He saw it just this morning in a wedding photo behind Evie’s left shoulder.

Simon’s tattooed fingers slip under the photograph, bringing it closer to him. There is zero doubt in Simon’s mind that this is the same man.

Price taps one finger against the table before selecting another photo and setting it closer to Simon. “On his great grandfather’s side, our boy here has a bit of Windsor in him.”

Simon’s head snaps up. “You’re bloody joking.”

Price shrugs. “Distant relation. At least a hundred would have to die before he’d even be considered for the throne.”

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, organizing the photos so he can see them all at once.

One is a photo of him with his football mates, all of them sweaty and smiling and dirty. Another is a massive family portrait. It’s the kind that the Royal Family or any aristocratic family enjoy taking with the immediate and extended family. Simon locates Archie amongst what seems like a hundred faces. Next to Archie is Adam, and Simon immediately frowns.

Moving those to the side, Simon picks up the next photograph. In this one, Archie poses next to three well-dressed young men. They’re all lined up in a row with Archie on one end and a stranger on the other. The two in the middle are no strangers. They’re much younger in this photo but the heir to the Throne and his brother are faces any Brit should know.

“You can see why it’s messy,” says Price after Simon sets the last photo down.

“Shambles,” mumbles Gaz before tossing back his tequila.

Johnny grunts but says nothing. Simon glances at him briefly but returns his attention to Price.

“Why him?”

Price leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Rumor is that Archie here planned on relinquishing his titles. Running for public office. Wanted to make a difference.”

“That’s enough to kill him?” probes Simon, knowing there has to be more.

“Having political opinions is frowned upon for people like him. He’s supposed to stay neutral. Not take sides. He was being vocal. Donated tons of his wealth to different charities. Made lots of people uncomfortable.”

“Like Walsh?” Simon shakes his head. “That’s not like him. He prefers the long game. He’s not like Makarov. Makarov will look you in the face. Walsh will hide behind a wall of politicians.”

“I know,” says Price sadly. He rubs his temple again, sighing. “Williams left a wife behind.”

I know, Price. Sat at the table with her just this afternoon.

Simon says nothing. There is no reason to involve Evie or you in this. Price is only asking for advice. He needs some input into a vastly complicated situation.

“You looking for her?”

Price shakes his head. “No. Hadn’t been married long. Sad, is all.”

“It is,” agrees Simon.

“So, you’ll help us?” asks Johnny, drawing Simon’s attention away from Price. “Take a look at the files?”

At Johnny’s question, Price presents Simon with a small stack of file folders.

They’re just asking him to look. They’re just asking him for some advice.

That’s it.

That’s all.

Price holds them out and Simon reaches forward.

Chapter Text

“Please give me some good news, Mister Grant.”

Leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter, you cross your arms over your chest as Ewan Grant, Archie’s personal solicitor, comes to a stop just inside the entryway. Jennifer Hopkins, the estate agent for Evie and Archie’s house, sits on the couch with her assistant Mollie. The two of them talk in hushed voices, their gazes focused on the stack of paperwork and open laptop computer resting on the coffee table.

Ewan Grant sighs, more from exhaustion than annoyance, as he sets his dark brown briefcase on the counter and removes his tweed coat. The whole situation with Archie’s family has been a hassle for everyone, but Grant speaks with the family directly, and that is an entirely different beast.

“Will Lady Evelyn be joining us?” asks Mr. Grant, adjusting his rain-spattered spectacles.

Evie is upstairs resting. The two of you have been in Cambridge dealing with more house business over the last few days. She’s so close to her due date, and any burst of energy is starting to wear her down. While you’ve taken much of the mental and physical load onto yourself, it doesn’t seem nearly enough to do anything substantial. You’re floating in stasis. Directionless. Unsure of where you’ll float off to.

“Don’t let her hear you call her that,” you chastise, a smile spreading across your face.

Evie might have gained a title when she married Archie, but she rarely enjoys hearing it used. To her, she’s simply Evelyn Green from Southern Missouri, and Archie is—was—Archie. Just Archie. That is how you see them, and it how they’ve always wanted to be seen.

Those are—were—their wishes, and you’ve always respected that.

“Old habits,” he chuckles, removing his glasses and inspecting the lenses.

“You’re forgiven,” you smile. “But really, how are things?”

Mr. Grant reaches into the front pocket of his suit jacket and extracts a small cleaning cloth. “You want to know if the Williams plan on seizing everything?”

You shrug. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

This has been an ongoing issue since Archie’s death. He wasn’t even dead a week before Evie started receiving communications from the family about “cutting off family money,” as if Archie and Evie only lived off what the family was kind enough to give them. It’s a farce. Everything given was promptly donated, and everything Archie and Evie earned on their own belongs to them.

At the end of the day, that is what needs protecting.

Mr. Grant rubs the cloth against one the lenses. “The Williams wish to contest everything. Unfortunately for them, they have little ground to stand on.”

“That’s a good thing then?” you ask hopefully, pushing off from the counter.

“Oh, yes,” nods Mr. Grant, moving the cloth to the other lens. “The family money is the only footing they have, but even that isn’t guaranteed.” He holds out his spectacles for examination. Nodding, he returns them to his face.

“Now,” he continues, opening the briefcase and removing two leather-bound folders. The topmost one he holds up in front of him. It’s thin. “This is everything they could easily lay claim to. In actual court, these assets could be transferred to the family.”

Mr. Grant sets it down on the counter. Reaching for it, you open it up, scanning through the few documents inside.

“There isn’t much here,” you muse, finding the last page blank.

“No, and it’s not anything significant. The family allowance is there but anything gifted cannot be returned. They can only shut the tap off.”

“They’ve already done that,” you mutter, closing the portfolio.

Mr. Grant presents the other portfolio. This one is larger. Thicker. “Everything in here will be much more difficult for them to seize.” He sets this one on top of the other folder. “These are all of Lord and Lady Williams’ assets. Personal investments. Property. Private income.” Mr. Grant adjusts his glasses. “Since there is also a legitimate child and heir, that will also curb much in Lady Evelyn’s favor.”

Your head snaps up. “Are they saying the baby isn’t Archie’s?”

“Goodness, no,” says Mr. Grant quickly, waving his hand in the air. “Not that I have heard. Even if they try, paternity tests are easy to acquire, and contesting the fact without proof will only put them in a bad light.”

You shut the portfolio. “But will they actually do it?”

Mr. Grant frowns. “Challenge the paternity?”

“Try to seize all of Archie’s assets,” you correct.

He nods, lips pursing slightly as he considers his next words. “You want my personal or professional opinion?”

“Both?” you ask with hesitation, wanting to know but also not.

Mr. Grant taps the edge of the counter a few times before speaking. “Professionally, they might. However, it will be an uphill battle. The Williams might be aristocracy, and their titles, land, and money seem infinite at times, but Lady Evelyn is the widow, and she is about to give birth to Lord Archibald’s child. That is far more important in the court’s eyes.”

“How so?” you ask, genuinely curious. As an American, these rules and regulations are entirely foreign to you. Yes, there is vast wealth in the States, but there are no Lords or Dukes or Baronesses.

“No child means most of his assets would revert to the family and Lady Evelyn would likely receive a comfortable settlement. But a child means the assets can move forward so to speak. That’s important to the courts. It shows a continuation. If the family tries to seize everything, it’ll place a shadow over the proceedings. The judge will want to know why when there is an heir for the inheritance.”

“And personally?”

Mr. Grant laughs. “They’re peacocking.”

You grin, covering your mouth as you stifle a snort. “So, I can start moving some of this?” You gesture behind you, indicating the house.

“The Williams Estate hasn’t officially filed anything. However, they are also immediate family, so they can contest the will. Have it picked apart for inconsistencies to make the process unbearable.” He shrugs. “Might tie up some of his assets. Make it more difficult for Lady Evelyn to use them. Assets directly tied to her should be fine.”

“Evie wants to sell the house. Can we do that?”

“The house is under Lord Archibald’s name, not the family’s estate. When I helped draw up the paperwork, I don’t recall a cosigner, but I will go through the records again to make sure.” Mr. Grant glances into the living room before his gaze returns to you. “Everything inside the home is…fair game, as you Americans put it.”

It’s a relief to hear. Evie doesn’t want to look at this place anymore. She wants it gone. If the solicitor is giving the go ahead, you can start selling, donating, or trashing items in the home before the estate agent prepares for showings.

“Thank you, Mister Grant. I’ll make sure Evie sees these and that the information is passed on.” Lifting the portfolios, you tuck them against your chest.

“How is she?” he asks, genuine concern in his tone.

Happy with a fake smile. Crying when she thinks no one is looking.

“Tired,” you answer, because it’s the truth. “She’s tired.”

Mr. Grant nods, sighing softly, his shoulders heaving. “I came here directly from the Williams estate. Usually, I don’t wait long before someone greets me but…”

“But what?” you probe.

He shifts on his feet, clearly agitated. “I don’t know if it’s even my place, but I think it should be said.” Mr. Grant glances over your shoulder at Mollie and Jennifer, the middle of his brow creasing with concern.

“Speak quietly,” you instruct, leaning in a bit.

His gaze lingers on the two women before returning to you. “When I arrived at the Williams estate this morning, I spent almost an hour waiting in the drawing room before anyone came to speak with me. That is highly unusual. Many would consider that not only improper but horrible manners. While I object to their treatment of Lady Evelyn, the family has always been traditional when it comes to hospitality.” He shakes his head. “Tis most strange.”

“Did something happen?”

“Well,” he begins. “Someone came but it was one of the household staff. Brought me tea and some finger sandwiches. Said it would be a bit longer. So, I waited. Waited a bit more. Eventually, I decided to wonder off.” Mr. Grant’s smile is like that of a child who just pulled off a deliciously perfect prank. “The estate itself is one of those old manors. The whole ‘upstairs downstairs’ business. Found a few new hires that don’t know it’s not good to talk.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Apparently, I was kept waiting because someone from British Intelligence was there asking questions about Lord Archibald’s death.”

“He was killed in the States,” you say, even though Mr. Grant already knows this information.

“‘Looking into his death’ is what they said. Sent his body back home without a proper investigation. Lord Archibald is from an important family. Covering all possibilities, I suppose.”

“Should we expect someone?”

Mr. Grant inclines his head. “That would be my guess. Unless Lady Evelyn has already spoken to someone previously.”

You weren’t here for the week of Archie’s death. Evie was completely alone. Someone might have talked to her then.

“I’ll check with her,” you nod. “Thank you for saying something.”

“We certainly don’t need any more unpleasant surprises. Given everything that’s happened.”

You rub at your temples, a headache starting to form there. “You’re talking about Adam.”

Mr. Grant snorts. “Nasty business and a deeply unpleasant man. I’m not surprised by his behavior toward you in the slightest.”

“It’s fine,” you mutter. “It’s over.”

Adam is the last person you want to think about. That entire conversation in the restaurant is just another thing you want to forget. Simon’s fury toward the man sent Adam into a spiral. All the chest-beating silliness between the two men only made things worse. At least, potentially. But you don’t blame Simon for any of it. He was only trying to protect you.

Mr. Grant picks up his coat and begins putting it on. “If the family contacts you directly, refuse. Make sure I’m present for any future interactions.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I can’t see them wanting to visit us.”

Mr. Grant retrieves his briefcase and the two of you head for the front door. “Though their behavior says otherwise, I suspect they’ll want to see the child.”

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately. “After everything they’ve done?”

He shrugs as he turns the handle. “Like I said. If they make an appearance, call me.”

You watch until his car disappears down the drive. When you reenter the kitchen, Jennifer and Mollie are up and alert, their faces eager.

“Good news?” asks Jennifer, her hands clasped in front of her.

“We can start selling things.” You place one hand on your hip and gesture at the large living room. “But I’m concerned about sticking to a schedule once the baby arrives. If most of this stuff needs to go, I’m not sure how often Evie or I can be here.”

Jennifer nods. “I can bring someone in to do appraisals and estimate the value of everything in the home. Perhaps even host an estate sale to help push it out quickly? You won’t have to lift a finger.”

 “Great,” you reply, throwing up your hands. “Do it.”

Jennifer and Mollie say their goodbyes, exiting quietly, but leaving a mountain of paperwork behind. It’s just more shit piled on top of more shit. It’s a never-ending river of garbage that you’re floating on. One thing can shift, and you’ll slip right down into the swamp.

Outside the patio doors, the sky is gray, and rain falls gently from the low clouds. Autumn is in full swing, nearing Halloween if you have the date right. Once the baby arrives, everything will be different. Evie will need a different kind of support, one you’re absolutely willing to give, but aren’t entirely sure how yet.

And then there is Simon. Your wraith. The man you think about nearly every waking moment.

Stress is eating away at you like termites embedded in wood. It’s dissolving the good memories you’ve recently formed with him. It’s hard to forget what he did in the dark and how he made you feel. Difficult to ignore the sensation of his mouth and tongue between your thighs, or how his fingers slipped inside and curled so sweetly.

It is odd to you that he hasn’t tried for more. Men are pushy creatures. They’re prone to acting in selfishness. At Riot Room, you and Simon were like colliding atoms, exploding and meeting in frenzied repetition. Simon is moving slowly this time. He’s being careful. Maybe he thinks you don’t see it, but that isn’t true.

Your wraith is learning your habits and curiosities. He listens, but he also talks, sometimes pushing to the point that you want to slam your fists against his chest. Simon is gentle. Rough. Sometimes all at once. There is so much comfort in the way he treats you, the way he turns to you when you’re in the same room. It is haunting. Clinging. Occupying your mind and emotions where there is already little to spare.

Every touch and kiss are laced with possession. Every glance and gesture are a mark. A statement of ownership. Yet there is nothing about Simon that feels like a cage. He’s saying mine without barricading you from the world.

And you miss him. All the time.

The moment you’re no longer with Simon, his absence is like an open wound. It cuts deep, leaving hollow spaces behind.

“Did they all leave already?”

You turn at the sound of Evie’s voice. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, dark hair a mess from the pillow.

“Jennifer and Mollie left a bit ago. They’re going to bring in someone to appraise everything. Maybe do an estate sale. If that works for you.”

Evie wraps her cardigan around her tightly, approaching the patio door, coming to a stop beside you. “That seems like a lot of work.”

“You want do it while you’re taking care of a newborn?”

Evie smiles softly. “Not really.”

“Ewan Grant stopped by as well.”

“Archie’s solicitor?” You nod. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“You need the sleep,” you counter. “Plus, if I woke you up, it would take nearly half the day for you to roll out of bed.”

Evie snorts and rubs the top of her belly.

“He left some information about Archie’s assets. We talked about—well…” you trail off, unsure of how to broach such a sensitive topic.

“It’s fine.” Evie lightly squeezes your upper arm. “I can take a look.”

Sucking on your bottom lip, you recall Ewan Grant’s mentioning of the British Intelligence officer coming for a visit. Is this the right time to ask? Should you say anything?

But when will it actually be a good time?

“Evie?”

“Hm?”

“After Archie died, did anyone come visit you?”

Evie frowns. “Many people did. Even his family though I could tell they hated it. Why?”

“I don’t mean family or close friends. People outside of that sphere. Anyone you didn’t expect?”

You’re trying to say it without saying it. The whole thing was a mess. Evie was told that Archie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that came from the American mouth, not the British one.

Her frown only deepens. “Well, yes. I received plenty of visitors that Archie worked with or went to school with. Mostly people I didn’t know but wanted to give their condolences.”

She’s not picking up on your line of questioning which means you’ll need to be more direct.

“What about police?”

She shrugs. “When his…body came home.” Evie glances out into the rain as her eyes begin to water.

You fear pushing too much, but a surprise visit from British Intelligence sounds mighty inconvenient at the moment.

“Mister Grant brought up a few things during our conversation that I just need some clarity on.”

Evie simply nods, still staring out into the rain.

You’ll ask later. You’ll ask another time. It’s clear that this isn’t the place to do it.

Glancing down at your watch, you groan. “Oh hell. We’re running behind. We need to go, Evie.”

Bags are packed quickly, the two of you returning to London by train.

It’s late, the sun just below the horizon by the time you walk into Amelia’s house. Dinner is reheated, wine is had (only by you and Amelia), and a romantic comedy is watched with a massive bowl of buttery popcorn.

Evie is asleep twenty minutes in, and Amelia follows after thirty. You remain up, watching the rest before waking Evie and sending her off to bed. Amelia eventually finds her way as well. With the quiet, you catch up on a few work emails and finalize several things before sending them off for approval.

When your head hits your pillow, sleep hits you like a fist to the face. There are no dreams to be had, just a dark endlessness you’ll forget upon waking.

But it’s not the alarm or the morning light that wakes you.

It’s a small, warm hand on your shoulder that startles you into consciousness.

“What?” you mutter, turning over onto your back, one hand reaching out in the dark for Evie. You don’t find her, but your palm crosses over dampness. It’s not a cold wet. It’s warm like room temperature bathwater.

You blink a few times, the dark of the room still sitting heavy on your eyelids.

“Evie?” you call out, the dredges of sleep clawing at your vocal cords.

The reply is a whimper, and then a sharp inhalation.

There is fear in that breath, one that startles your senses into action. Reaching for the bedside lamp, you tug on the small chain. The lightbulb illuminates, and with it comes a brightness that makes you flinch.

“Evie?” You twist toward the rest of the room, searching for her.

She’s standing next to the bed, one hand cradling the bottom of her belly, the other resting against the edge of the mattress. Her eyes are wide and there is a dark stain down the insides of her pajama pants.

“Oh God,” you whisper. “It’s happening.”

Evie nods frantically. “It’s happening.”

The air kicks in, blowing gentle heat into the room.

Machines beep. Voices chat beyond the open door. Evie quietly rests in her hospital bed. Her eyes are closed but you’re not entirely sure if she’s sleeping or not. Using your elbow as a support, you rest your chin in your palm, staring down at the adorable little bundle in the hospital-provided bassinet.

The tiny newborn is all pink cheeks and soft coos. Lillian is a precious thing, and named after Archie’s little sister who died young. She’s wrapped up like a human burrito in a white blanket embroidered with yellow ducks. On her head is a pale pink cap.

Lillian wiggles in her wrap, her cooing becoming a disgruntled gurgle like she’s angry at the world but is too tired to voice her frustration.

A soft knock draws your attention away from Lillian and to the open door.

Amelia stands there in a yellow rain coat and black rain boots, both speckled with raindrops. In her arms is a large, flat takeout container. From this distance, you can’t see what’s inside, but you can hazard a few guesses. She’s grinning, her smile stretching toward her ears.

“Hello, Amelia,” sighs Evie, her eyes blinking slowly as she sits up to greet the woman.

“Brought you something,” giggles Amelia like she’s entirely too pleased with herself. She nearly skips over to the bed, presenting the container to Evie.

Pushing off from the ledge you’re leaning on, you go to the side of Evie’s hospital bed, extending the small tray that emerges from the side. Swinging it over Evie’s lap, you secure the safety lock to make sure it doesn’t slip away and spill whatever Amelia has brought.

Amelia sets the massive container down. It nearly dwarfs the tray it sits on. She removes the lid and sets it aside.

“You brought me sushi,” gushes Evie, immediately opening the chopsticks and lining up the packets of soy sauce.

Of everything Evie’s been craving, it’s sushi.

“Oh, yes,” replies Amelia. She glances over at you with a knowing smile, one that immediately puts you on alert. “Brought that, and a few other things.” She nods toward the door.

You immediately turn the moment a large shadow steps into view.

It’s Simon.

He looms like a dark beast in the doorway, not coming in but not leaving either. His gaze is darting everywhere like he’s checking the place out. Simon carries two backpacks. One is draped over his right shoulder and the other over his left. In his right hand, Simon grips a large, black duffle bag. In his other hand, he holds Amelia’s pink purse with white flowers on the strap.

Behind him are two nurses, their faces stricken by his sudden appearance.

Bravo is not with him.

Amelia shrugs. “Needed an escort.”

“In a hospital?” asks Evie, amused.

“It’s like having a scary dog with you,” jokes Amelia, gesturing over her shoulder at Simon. “No one stopped us.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Evie cackles as she tears open a soy sauce packet with her teeth.

Simon enters the room slowly, placing all the bags on the ledge under the window. He pauses there like a phantom, surveying the three of you before heading in your direction. Lillian coos and Simon freezes.

His balaclava-covered head turns to the bassinet. Simon shifts, leaning to the side, staring down at the small bundle. You can’t read his expression. The only thing you can gauge is his gaze. It’s intense, focused, but impassive.

“You should go home and rest, dear.” Amelia’s gentle voice tugs you away from your wraith. You turn back to them just as Evie shoves a piece of sushi into her mouth.

“I’m fine,” you reply, but even you hear the exhaustion. You’ve been at the hospital for nearly a full day, and the time between going to bed and the time that Evie woke you up was only a couple of hours.

You haven’t slept at all.

Amelia tuts. “I knew you’d say that,” she says. “It’s why I brought Simon.” She nods in his direction, but you don’t have to seek him out.

Simon is already beside you, one large hand resting on your lower back. Instinct triggers, and you lean into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Warmth floods in from where his hand makes contact, invading your system like a virus.

“That’s thoughtful, Amelia.” You lift your hand to gesture toward Evie. “But—”

“Shut up and go,” interrupts Evie as she talks around the sushi in her mouth. “We can manage.”

You open your mouth, another protest forming on your tongue, but Evie is having none of it.

“Go,” she repeats, shaking her head, eyebrows rising toward her hairline as she picks up more food.

You’re not about to argue with a woman who just gave birth.

“Okay,” you agree. “Fine. But call me if anything happens.”

Simon’s hand remains at your back while you retrieve your coat and purse. The two of you take public transit back to Clapton. It is then that the exhaustion truly sets in. The gentle lull of public transit causes you to drift off a few times, but Simon wakes you when it’s time to depart.

He does not take you to his flat. Instead, he takes you to Amelia’s. On the stairs, your feet are lead. They drag, and it’s a wonder how you even make it into the bedroom. Simon does not disturb you, giving you privacy as you shower and change into comfortable clothing.

You never make it back downstairs.

Collapsing face first into the bed, sleep comes suddenly. It is the dipping of the bed beneath you that rouses you briefly from sleep. Reaching out, you find Simon. Your arms wrap around something large and hard. It’s not his arm. Likely his thigh.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s warm and perfect and so goddamn close. You snuggle up to him and return to that blissfully dreamless state.

When you wake again, it is with the sun’s rays on your face.

Simon is not in the bed.

Pushing up, you glance around the room. There is no sign of Evie or that anyone has stopped by to grab anything. Stretching your arms over your head, you ease out of bed, surrendering the warm covers for the chilled air in the room.

Downstairs, you find Simon.

He’s in Amelia’s kitchen. There is breakfast on the table and the morning news is on. It plays from the little, boxy television on the counter. It’s muted but closed captioning is on.

“Morning.”

Simon glances over his shoulder. The balaclava is pushed up to his nose, the rim of a tea mug hanging before his mouth.

“Morning,” replies Simon, setting the tea on the counter and striding toward you.

He always does this. The moment he can be near you, Simon takes it, seizing it like he would a prize.

There isn’t a chance to ask a question or reply to Simon’s greeting. His arm snakes around your waist, hauling you against his muscled chest, mouth meeting yours for a kiss that sucks the air from your lungs.

It is fire. It is light. It is a beating heart. Lifeblood.

Simon’s hand cups your cheek, and the possessive, nearly primal way he kisses you softens to a delicateness that sends a tingling sensation down to your toes. His thumb traces over your chin, and then presses against your bottom lip when Simon pulls away.

“Hungry?” he asks, and your stomach answers for you.

There are waffles, scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, several types of juice, buttered toast with two kinds of jam, and fried sausage.

“We feeding an army?” you ask, unsure of where to begin.

Simon shrugs. “Idleness makes me nervous.”

“So you made everything in Amelia’s kitchen?” The soft song of the dryer decides to go off immediately following your question. “Are you doing laundry?”

“That a problem?”

You pause. “No.”

Simon smirks behind his mug and takes a sip of tea. Placing the cup back on the table, Simon piles his plate high with extra sausage and eggs.

Leaning forward in your chair, you decide to poke.

“Did you take the trash out?” Simon glances up, the same smirk still plastered on his face. “Vacuum?”

He remains silent.

“Clean the bathrooms?”

“Mop the floors?”

“Remove the weeds from Amelia’s garden?”

“Are you done?” replies Simon blandly, his gaze unwavering.

You shove some toast in your mouth as answer.

Simon leans back in his chair, all casual sensualness. “You’re much better like this,” he says, voice dropping slightly.

“Much better how?” you ask, taking another bite of your toast.

“With your mouth full,” he purrs.

You nearly choke on the bread, cheeks flaming. Simon’s chuckle is soft but victorious. He got you back, and he’s enjoying it.

You cough, dislodging a bit of toast. “Has anyone called?”

Simon nods. “Amelia did. Said she’s being released today.”

“When was this?”

“An hour ago.”

You sigh. “I’m not sure how it is here, but it might be a while yet before they come home.” Simon makes a sound in his throat but says nothing.

The window above the sink is cracked, and from it comes the sounds of traffic and songbirds. Resting an elbow on the table, the last two days come flooding back, infiltrating your head. Ewan Grant’s conversation whispers in your ear, insisting.

British Intelligence.

That’s what he said, and you have no idea if they’ll come to Amelia’s door. But Simon is former military, and he might know something.

“Can I ask you something?”

Simon glances up from his plate. “If it’s to ask about what else I’ve cleaned I don’t want to hear it.”

“No,” you laugh. “No. I—” You pause. “I want to ask about your military service.”

The gentle playfulness melts away replaced by a neutral expression. It’s not unnerving but it does make you cautious about how you’ll approach the subject.

“Is it something specific?” asks Simon.

You shake your head. “Not exactly.”

Simon sets his fork down on his plate. Leaning back in his chair, Simon’s gaze becomes pointed. “You’re worried about something.”

“Is it that obvious?” you mutter.

“What’s wrong? Is it that prick from the pub?”

“No, Simon,” you say quickly, the stress of the last few days coming back like a hammer to the finger.

“Talk to me.” Simon’s voice is so soft, so full of concern that you blurt out the question without second guessing the decision.

“Did you ever work with British Intelligence?”

You glance up and find a blank expression on Simon’s face. He’s no longer leaning in his chair but sitting up, completely stiff and alert.

“I worked with a lot of different agencies. Why?”

You look away, staring at the clock on the wall. “So, you weren’t part of it?”

“No,” replies Simon automatically. “I was part of Special Air Service. Some of my missions happened because of intelligence information but I never directly worked with them.”

It’s helpful, but not. If they come knocking, you don’t know what to expect.

“Why are you asking me this, love? What’s on your mind?”

Sighing, you decide to spit out. You have no reason to hide anything from Simon.

“Archie’s solicitor came by. He mentioned that someone from British Intelligence was at the Williams’ estate. Following up about Archie’s death.”

“Did they come here? To Amelia’s?”

You shake your head. “No, but they might.”

Simon is tense. Not only can you sense it, but you see the tightness in the way he holds himself.

Your voice cracks. “Should I be worried?”

Simon’s shoulders heave as he inhales.

“No,” he says after a long moment. “It’s probably nothing.

“Probably,” you repeat softly, pushing the cold eggs around on your plate.

Probably, as if saying so will somehow make it true.

Chapter Text

Repetition.

Fingers counting bottles. Counting colors. Counting labels.

White paper. Blank spaces. Pencil. Graphite tip.

Breaking. Breaking. Over. Over. Over, again.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

Simon counts the little rows, falling deeper into distraction. It’s a way to quiet his mind, to turn off the fucking noise that’s buzzing there in the back like an annoyingly curious bee. But all this inventory counting isn’t working. Nothing is keeping his thoughts at bay.

A week has passed. An entire fucking week and your absence is a festering wound. Simon isn’t taking it personally. Really. He isn’t. But fuck he misses you. Part of him blames himself, insisting that your distance has to do with something he did. It’s not entirely far from the truth. While Simon hasn’t exactly lied to you, he has omitted crucial information.

British Intelligence may very well be coming to call, but Simon doesn’t know that information explicitly. The situation is precarious. Delicate. The information Simon shifted through with Price, Kyle, and Johnny unnerved him.

Kit Walsh is not your local nationalist prick who spouts shit off in chatrooms or on social media for influencers to stitch. Kit Walsh moved beyond that. Beyond walking in to corner stores or a school or a church for innocent people to understand his lead-drenched wrath. Beyond a week or two of media frenzy. Beyond mugshots and a jury sentence.

This man moves between. One minute he’s supplying arms to opposing sides in another country to destabilize a region, and then turns around to whisper in some politician’s ear to convince them to “intercede” on the behalf of “global peace.”

He pushes weapons, pushes people, pushes drugs.

But he’s not a businessman. That’s just a front for his true intentions. Kit Walsh thinks on global levels and how he intends to make the world into his image. He takes his time. He observes and then moves.

It makes the man more dangerous because he also understands that acts at the local level are just as or even more powerful than the global ones. Nothing is more terrifying than when your own neighbor turns their words of hate into hateful actions.

Kit Walsh knows this.

Which is why Simon didn’t give a fuck when he received all those injuries. He thought he took the fucker out for good. That Walsh was a burnt-up corpse. Simon rarely considers any of his scars to be marks of pride. Yet the ones he received when he shoved his knife into Walsh’s chest were ones he didn’t mind having.

But none of that matters now.

Walsh is alive. And he might have fucking blown the back of Lord Archibald Williams’ head off. For what? Simon doesn’t fucking know. Price didn’t know either which means that British Intelligence likely doesn’t.

And you don’t need to know any of that. Why burden you? Why put any of these worries and issues on your plate when they might not land there at all? Why exhaust you further?

When you brought up Archie, Simon panicked, knowing you were already tired—already stressed. It’s not right that this happened to your friend, but Simon truly believes there isn’t anything to particularly worry about at the moment. That is reason enough not to dump this on you.

Simon’s fingers hover above the lid of an ink bottle. He pauses there, thinking, forgetting the number he just uttered.

Lost count. Starts over.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

“Fuck!” shouts Simon, his tatted knuckles turning white as the pencil clenched in his fist snaps in half.

Simon stares at the broken pencil. At the fractured graphite.

Sighing heavily, Simon drops the clipboard and steps away from the storage cabinets. He’s fucking distracted, and it’s not only because of the shit he read in Price’s file. Simon hasn’t seen you—hasn’t touched you in almost a week. Somehow, the separation is difficult, more frustrating than Simon previously thought.

He went three years without knowing your touch. But a week is now too much?

Simon clenches his fists. Releases them. Inhales deeply through his nostrils and exhales slowly through his mouth. He repeats until there isn’t any tension in his limbs and his mind quiets. Using the silence, Simon takes notes of the aches and pains. The leg that always gives him trouble isn’t hurting much today, but that might be a different story tomorrow. Everything else is dull and fine, better than it has been.

Checking his scheduling book, Simon pulls up the name of the next client, retrieving the sketches and preparing the stencil. This is work he knows. This is work that’s natural to him. Safe and secure. When the client arrives, Simon shifts into work mode, slipping into his professional mask, dipping into his creativity.

For these few hours, Simon doesn’t think about you at all and he certainly doesn’t think about Walsh. He’s only thinking about the tattoo and the client and the goddamn inventory sheet that looks ready to slip right off the desk.

But when Simon’s client leaves, and he is left in an empty shop with a snoozing Bravo, thoughts of you come roaring back to the forefront of his mind. There really is no reason to worry. It’s not like Simon is only receiving radio silence from you. You just haven’t been with him. That’s all.

The two of you have talked. Well—not extensively. It’s only been flashes of conversation, brief texts and even shorter phone calls. It is the tiredness and exhaustion that Simon hears in your voice every time he speaks with you that worries him. He knows why you’re staying away, and it’s not because of him. At least, that is what you tell him.

Yet Simon cannot help but linger in those spaces, questioning whether or not he somehow messed up. That he didn’t do enough. Worse, it’s not fair to you to think this way. You have been clear about why you’re not around, but it still chews at him. Simon stills wants to see you, to hold you close even if it’s for a fleeting moment.

He knows there is a baby. He knows you have responsibilities to your friend. He knows and yet Simon is fucking selfish because he wants—no. Needs to breathe you in even if it is just the sweet scent of your skin.

But evening comes as Simon closes up shop for the night, and there is not a text or call from you.

There are none the next day or the day after that.

By Sunday morning, Simon is boiling from the inside out, gripping his phone like a goddamn lunatic.

He hasn’t heard from you, and the few calls and texts he’s sent have gone unanswered. If he were his old self, he’d have already gone to your place demanding to see you. But things have changed for him in some respects. Simon is trying hard not to fall into old habits and behaviors when it comes to you.

Simon has failed on several occasions, but he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to be better for you.

The decision he makes is like pulled teeth. Necessary sometimes but fucking painful without the proper numbing. Simon does not go to your place. Every step he takes in the opposite direction of Amelia’s home are dull razors against the skin. He forces himself to leash Bravo, to go to Dancing Faun, to sit down on his usual fucking stool and pretend that everything is fine.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon is going to leave it—leave you—and give you some needed space. There is a newborn in Amelia’s house, and the last thing Simon needs to do is to barge in and step all over that dynamic just because he hasn’t seen you in a few days.

“Look who it is,” chuckles Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun. He sets down a newly polished pint glass. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Simon grins behind the balaclava, the familiar face a much-needed welcome. “You’re forgettable. But your wife?” Simon whistles and settles on his usual stool.

Ben guffaws and wags a finger in Simon’s direction. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’d leave me in an instant if you asked.”

“Better ask her then,” replies Simon, pretending to get up.

“Oi. Sit down,” mumbles Ben, shaking his polishing rag in Simon’s direction. “Cheeky bastard.”

Ben leaves and returns with Simon’s usual full English and tea. The two of them chat, Ben forgetting not to talk politics on Sunday while Simon listens and shakes his head, knowing the big guy does it on purpose to mess with him. After breakfast, Simon starts with a pint of dark amber ale, moving on to a second as the first customers begin to trickle in.

For a few hours, Simon forgets about the outside world. He watches a rugby match. Drinks a third beer. Considers whether he should switch over to whiskey. It’s just like all his other Sundays since retirement.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon lifts the pint glass to his mouth, downing the last of his third drink. He sets it down on the bar top, unsuspecting of the coming intrusion.

Reality is such a fickle thing. Sometimes it is a clawing, creeping blob that lurks in the corner of a dark room. Sometimes, it is an abrupt shaking, as if hands are on you, imploring you to look.

“Amelia!”

Simon’s stomach flips at the sound of Ben’s voice calling out to the older woman. Glancing away from the television, Simon turns, seeking you. Hope expands in his chest like an inflating balloon. Sparks pop off in his head with the belief that you will enter in behind Amelia. That you will walk through the door and Simon can finally see you again.

But you’re not here.

You’re not with her.

It’s just Amelia.

Her cheeks are rosy from the November cold, and her coat swallows her up.

“I have photos of the grandbaby,” she says, voice cheery as she removes her leather gloves and stuffs them in her coat pockets.

Ben’s smile widens. “Congratulations.”

Several patrons around the pub hold up their drinks in salute, echoing Ben’s initial statement. Without taking off her coat, Amelia travels from person to person, her wire rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of her nose as she scrolls through photos on her phone. She lingers with each person, telling the same story, showing the same pictures.

Simon patiently waits because that’s all he can do. Inside, he’s boiling in an agonizing twisting of alertness that pulls every muscle in his body taut with tension.

Is she doing this on purpose to mess with him? Did he really fuck up and this is her version of punishment?

When Amelia finally approaches Simon, some of that tension evaporates. Her smile is genuine. Soothing. She’s not upset with him. If anything, Amelia is relieved to see him.

“Morning, Simon,” she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly.

“Morning,” he replies, not recognizing the gruffness in his voice. Simon swallows, tapping the side of his empty glass with a single finger.

Amelia holds up her phone. “Interested in seeing pictures of my grandbaby?”

Fucking hell, he can’t say no to her.

Simon only nods because he cannot trust his voice. Is he fracturing? What the bloody hell is wrong with him? Is it this distance? Does Simon truly miss you so much that it’s causing him to slip?

Amelia settles herself on the stool next to Simon. Bravo’s head doesn’t even lift in greeting. The German Shepard is out, completely relaxed and dozing on the floor. With phone clutched in one hand, Amelia begins to scroll through multiple pictures. Most of them are just of the baby asleep or cradled in someone’s arms.

“Her name is Lillian,” says Amelia, smiling fondly. “Named after Archie’s younger sister. Poor thing didn’t even get to see the age of three.”

The mention of Archie’s name twists Simon’s stomach. The file, its contents, and the conversation he had with Price, Johnny, and Kyle comes creeping back, wanting to sink its claws in.

“This,” and Amelia brings her phone a bit closer. “Is the day we brought her back.” Amelia hums softly. “So rosy cheeked.”

Simon grunts in agreement. It’s not the kindest response but it’s not because he doesn’t agree. Lillian is cute. She is rosy cheeked. Simon is good with kids and he likes them. But he just wants to know what is happening with you.

Amelia slides her finger across the phone’s screen only to reveal a glimpse of a possible answer to all of his questions.

This picture is one of you. In your arms, you are holding Lillian. This wasn’t taken at the hospital. This is at Amelia’s home on the sofa. Simon recognizes the fucking fabric. You’re smiling down at the girl as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.

At first, Simon’s mind is steady. Resolute.

But then, it drifts. Keeps floating. Floating further away until Simon is imagining that you are not holding Amelia’s grandchild at all. You are holding your child. The one you might have with him.

The thought—this image of you—is sudden and fierce. Simon cannot shake it. His mind fixates on this future as if it’s a completely plausible thing. It sticks to him like honey. Like tar. No fingers can dig in and scrape it away. No cleaning solution could scrub it off. There is no box or hole or wasteland that Simon can hurdle this idea into in the hope that he might forget it.

It has bloomed. Flowered. Roots sinking between the soft folds of his brain.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“She needs a break,” says Amelia, her tone drifting to a far-off place, pulling Simon from his wayward dreaming.

She is looking down at her phone. She is looking at the photo of you. Amelia glances up at Simon, her features softening into gentle sadness. “That’s really why I came. Hoped you’d be here.” She shrugs.

“Here I am,” replies Simon.

Amelia nods. “Here you are,” she echoes.

Locking her phone, Amelia exchanges it for the gloves in her pockets. Simon glances over at Ben and lightly moves his empty glass in the man’s direction. He comes over and retrieves the glass.

“She’s working herself to the bone. Doing everything for Evie and I when it’s not necessary.” Amelia taps her gloves against her open palm. “And she’s too stubborn to hand the reigns over to me. The woman needs a break. Away from all of us.”

Simon understands. You’re too selfless to step aside. You need to be forced or prompted. Amelia knows this too which is why she came searching for him. Hearing that you’re overworking yourself displeases him, but he’s also bloody fucking happy that he can have you to himself for a bit.

“For how long?” asks Simon, smothering the hopefulness that wants to burst forth.

Amelia frowns in thought. “A few days. Maybe a week. If she accepts that.”

Oh, you’ll accept. Simon will see to it.

“Another drink?” Ben meanders over from the other side of the bar.

Simon shakes his head. “Paying out, Ben.”

Amelia smirks and slips on her gloves as Simon hands off what’s owed. The tension and confusion from earlier are now raw energy, pumping through his loins like electricity. The entire walk to Amelia’s is easy, all the aches and pains in his body suddenly silent as if they too are excited to see you.

When Simon enters Amelia’s home, he finds you sitting on the floor in the living room. You’re surrounded by piles of laundry. Closest to Simon are small stacks of papers. They’re scattered off to the side in some sort of organized chaos that he can’t figure out. Your laptop is open in front of you resting on an ottoman. You’re reading emails while folding laundry.

Bravo stands to the right of Simon but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for Simon’s command but even he can feel the dog’s excitement to greet you.

You haven’t noticed Simon yet but he certainly notices you. While he’d love to stop and just bask in your beauty, there are so many other things catching his attention that give life to what Amelia was telling him.

Tiredness covers you like a weighted blanket. You’re slouched forward, each movement accompanied by a sigh and a delay that Simon doesn’t like. His gaze focuses and it is then that he sees the slight tremble in your hands as you smooth the top of a folded towel.

Behind Simon, Amelia shuts the front door. The sound of it closing jostles you. Your head snaps in his direction.

“Simon.”

It is a relief. A surprise.

The exhaustion in your voice is cold and palpable like butter right out of the fridge. You’re ready to fall over. Simon doesn’t need to guess because when you attempt to stand, you wobble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself on the sofa.

Amelia is right. You are overworking yourself.

It takes Simon three strides to get to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he lightly presses, indicating that you should sit back down. Without protest, you follow his silent command, and Simon sinks to your level.

“What is all this?” he asks, keeping his tone calm.

Beneath the mask, Simon is furious. Not with you but with himself. He should have listened to his instinct. He should have given in to those old impulses. If he had, he could be helping you right now and perhaps you wouldn’t be so goddamn tired.

The sigh you release if heavy like a boulder. It presses on Simon’s chest. His hand on your shoulder shifts, cradling the side of your throat, his thumb brushing against your jawline. You don’t say anything. You’re too defeated—too exhausted.

Bravo cannot reach you with Simon in the way. The German Shepard opts for the ottoman, resting his head on it, ears drooping slightly.

“Simon is going to take you for a bit.” Amelia’s voice drifts over Simon’s shoulder and your eyes widen as you glance at the woman.

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” snaps Amelia. “You’re doing far too much. Let us help.”

That’s a fucking understatement.

Simon presents his other hand and you take it. His hand on your neck slips away to reach behind you to help you guide you to your feet.

 “Go pack a bag,” murmurs Simon, his palm splaying wide across your lower back. “You’re staying with me.”

Your lips part as if to form a protest but Simon isn’t having that. He arches a single eyebrow, daring you to question what he’s told you to do.

Your mouth snaps shut.

Simon leans in. “Good girl,” he whispers.

This time when your lips part, it is with surprise. You blink, a bit stunned, and then a flood of warmth rushes up your neck and cheeks, your gaze dropping to the floor, face turning away in embarrassment.

Your reaction is something. It is something other than tiredness. Other than exhaustion and weakness. This is a piece of you he’s seen before and wants to see again. You shouldn’t be shoving it away to take care of others.

Against his chest is your flattened palm. Your fingers curl inward as your embarrassed demeanor turns into observance. You’re staring at the laundry, upper body twisting back and forth as you look for something.

“What is it?” prompts Simon, following your movements as if he can read your mind and know what it is you’re searching for.

Reaching down, you toss a few unfolded pieces of laundry aside to reveal your phone. Retrieving it, you glance down at the screen.

“Shit,” you mutter. It doesn’t light up. Your phone is dead. No wonder you haven’t been answering him.

“We’ll worry about that later.” Simon nods toward the stairs. “Go.”

Back at his flat, Simon takes your packed bag and drops it off in the bedroom. You stand in the space between the living room and kitchen, lingering with your hands clasped in front of you.

“Sit. I’ll make us something.” Simon gestures toward the couch and you slowly unfurl, nearly falling into the sofa once you get there.

Simon rummages around in his pantry and fridge, knowing that it’s best to find a snack for you to munch on while he cooks dinner. When is the last time you ate a real meal or fucking slept? Would you even admit the truth to him?

He eventually brings you tea and a variety of crisps. Your “thank you” is slightly slurred like you’re close to falling into the lands of Morpheus. Bravo curls up next to you, one paw touching your thigh while the rest of his body reclines away.

Simon stays in the kitchen. When he emerges to bring you food, he finds you asleep, grasping one of the bags of crisps against your chest. The opened end is facing Bravo and the poor dog is having an existential crisis on whether or not he should stick his face in or leave the bag be.

He should let you sleep, but Simon also knows you need to fucking eat something.

Gently, Simon places your plates on the coffee table. He removes the bag of crisps from your arms before rousing you. The meal is devoured. Tea is had. Simon throws on a movie, and you snuggle up to him, sinking into his warmth.

 This is how it should be. With you in his arms.

Twenty minutes in and you’re asleep again. Simon doesn’t care at all. You are here. You are close. You are safe. Like this, Simon can protect you. He can take care of you. Simon finishes the movie by himself, deciding that only after he’ll carry you to bed.

As he shifts to lift you, you awaken slightly, arms sliding around his neck to snuggle closer. Simon turns his face into you, breathes you in, allowing your scent to fill his lungs. You’re drifting off again as he adjusts his grip and stands. His bad leg wants to give out but Simon bites back the quick flare of pain.

Fuck that. Simon is stronger than that.

In the bedroom, Simon bends at the knees, thighs straining as he tosses back the covers on one side of the bed. Sliding you underneath, he tucks you in. You turn over to face the opposite direction, arms curling around his pillow like it’s him. He watches as you bring it closer, nostrils flaring as if you’re inhaling him too.

Simon changes into more comfortable clothing before sliding in next to you.

For him, his sleep is absent of dreams.

There are no shadows or fire. No memory. Just blankness. Nothing.

He wakes early, well before the time he actually needs to open up the shop for customers. Simon doesn’t want to. He’d like to stay in bed all day with you, but he also knows that trying to rearrange today’s schedule just for a bit of personal gratification is a fucking rude thing to do.

Simon stretches, all the joints in his body popping as Bravo’s head appears above the end of the bed. The dog tilts his head and Simon gestures toward the door. Bravo takes off, heading outside to go guard the place from squirrels.

Shifting to the edge of the bed, Simon rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. More popping but the stiffness quickly recedes.  Glancing behind him, Simon finds you still asleep. Things have changed though. The bedding is twisted around your body and you’ve removed some clothes in the night.

He cannot help himself. Simon’s gaze glides over all the exposed skin. The itch to reach out and run just his fingertips across the curve of your hip is unbearable. Simon has to clench his hands into fists just to stop himself from touching you.

Pushing off from the bed, Simon enters the bathroom, seeking a hot shower. All his clothes including his mask go on the floor. He is aching between his legs, all the blood in his body rushing happily to his quickly swelling cock.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping under the water.

Wrapping his hand around the base, Simon begins to stroke. The small bit of underwear he kept as a token is still tucked away in his dresser, but he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. He now has the memory of you, and the fact that you are currently in his bed. It’s enough to drive that pulsing desire higher.

Simon rests his forearm against the shower wall. He leans forward, his forehead coming into contact with that arm. He’s so fucking busy stroking his cock, that he doesn’t hear the opening of the bathroom door.

He doesn’t hear it close.

Nor does he hear the shower door.

It isn’t until your hand slides over his that Simon realizes what’s happening.

Your other hand rests against his back, splaying wide, moving up and down in gentle passes.

“Let me,” you murmur and Simon releases himself, only for you take his place, stroking him perfectly in utter pleasure.

A shiver rattles up his spine. You’re not looking at his face. You stand off to his right, face lightly pressed against the right side of his upper back near his shoulder. Lips move against skin, leaving kisses behind. You give Simon these small gifts with each stroke of your hand along his shaft.

Do you know that your mouth and hand on his back are caressing his scars? Do you know? Because Simon does, and it make him feel unworthy. Those are no longer earned marks but ones of failure.

But it’s not like you know that.

Over the scars is ink. Black ink. Perhaps you feel their lines and ridges under the tattoos. Perhaps you don’t. Yet Simon knows, and he doesn’t hate the touch. Other people he’s fucked have touched them, commented on them, tried to even sexualize them.

You’re not touching the scars. You are but you aren’t. You’re touching him. Touching Simon.

With a gentle twist of your wrist, you glide down his cock and circle the head with your thumb. Simon groans, leaning into your hold. He imagines you sinking to your knees and taking him into your mouth. He imagines you spreading your legs wide in open invitation. Of him sliding into you, watching himself disappear into your welcoming body.

Your pace increases slightly, just enough to drag Simon toward his end.

He bursts, his release marking the wall, but Simon is already grabbing your wrist, twisting around to face you.

You’re fast. Already, you have one hand thrown over your eyes, a playful smile plastered on your face.

Simon doesn’t care. Not really. The mask is just habit.

Gently, Simon guides your hand away from your face and yet you still keep your eyes closed.

“Don’t want to look at me?” he asks teasingly.

You giggle. “Feels a bit wrong.”

Simon smirks and then grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the shower wall. He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear. “Your turn.”

Your hands go out to steady yourself as Simon slides his hand between your legs. He moans softly at the contact. You’re already wet for him, and it’s not because of the water. You’re fucking aroused. Needy. All Simon can think about is fucking you with his fingers before he fucks you with his tongue.

Simon wants to give you more but that has to wait. When he takes you like that, he needs to have all of you. Without interruptions. Without distractions. That’s how he wanted it to be three years ago at Riot Room. He wanted to take you home and fuck you on and over every surface in his flat. He wanted to make you scream his name until your voice went hoarse.

He circles your clit with his thumb a few times before testing with a finger. It slides right in and Simon feels the gentle flutter of your pussy adjusting to him. With his other hand, Simon slides it up your body to grab the front of your throat, holding you still. He presses his lips to the top of your head, not caring that the water is close to running into his eyes.

Simon begins to thrust and swirl, inserting a second finger quickly, wanting to feel how you’ll stretch for him. You whimper when his thumb makes another pass over your clit. It is sweet and Simon grins against your scalp, drinking in your little sounds.

But you are also reaching for him, left hand dropping from the wall to move behind you, palming his cock back to hardness even as Simon’s fingers fuck your pussy. You rock back, indicating what you want.

Simon nearly loses it right then.

He nearly snaps.

All he has to do is arch your hips a bit, maybe bend slightly at the knee. He’d fucking slide right in. He could fuck you right here against the shower wall, watch you whimper and beg, pinned between two hard surfaces.

You arch your back. Rub against him. His cock slides against the spot where your cunt and his fingers meet.

A vision of you clawing at the shower wall as he fucks you senseless clouds his mind. It infiltrates. Digs its feet in.

Simon nearly gives in right then as you orgasm, squeezing around his fingers. He nearly breaks the promise to himself.

But he somehow controls himself. Instead of giving in, Simon removes his hand from between your legs and twists his fingers in your hair, tugging to arch your back and bend you enough so he can reach that gorgeous fucking mouth.

His lips come down on yours and you moan against him. Simon’s hand at your throat eases, slips away, trailing over breast and waist and hip before stabilizing on your lower stomach. With this support, Simon slides his cock between your legs.

He does not penetrate, just rocks back and forth. With your thighs pressed together, and the slickness of your orgasm freshly coating your sex, he can pretend he’s inside you. Simon knows it isn’t enough but it’ll have to do for now.

The hand on your stomach sinks lower, shifting to your pelvis. His fingers find your clit. You’re already so sensitive from the previous orgasm that the second takes moments to come to life. Simon savors it, allows it to feed his own movements until he cannot contain his own. Pressing on your pelvis, Simon keeps you in place as finishes, his cock soaking in your juices.

The water is growing cold and Simon is fucking smug.

Slowly, he eases his cock from between your thighs, perfectly content with what just transpired. But his cum is fucking everywhere. It’s literally dripping from your sex.

“Fuck,” murmurs Simon, gently wiping some of that away with water.

That’s something the two of you need to fucking discuss. The first time the two of you had sex, there was a condom. This time, Simon doesn’t want there to be any barriers, but that cannot fucking happen without birth control. You might not be on it, and if that’s the case, the two of you will have to figure something else out.

You press into him. “Simon,” you groan, lips parting in wanton need.

A growl leaves his throat as he gives you what he wants. He nips and sucks on your bottom lip before drawing away, leaving you to face the shower wall. Simon shuts off the water and lightly tugs on your hand.

“Come on.”

He tugs on your hand again but you don’t move. Frowning, Simon grabs your shoulders and forces you to turn.

He blinks and then bursts out laughing. “What are you doing?” Your eyes are closed and your mouth is a thin line. “You can look at me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Simon chuckles, releasing your shoulders. He places one hand flat against the shower wall. Leaning in, Simon drops his voice to low purr. “Think I’m monstrous?”

With his words come the pebbling of your skin. He watches in real time as it fans out across your body. He grins in triumph.

“The very worst,” you reply softly.

Pushing off from the wall, Simon stands tall, shoulders squared, chest forward. “Look at me,” he says, and this time it’s a command.

You suck in a breath before one eye opens. It’s more of a squint but then you open the other, blinking a few times.

For some stupid fucking reason, Simon is a bit nervous. He’s never been nervous like this. Not when it comes to his face.

At first, your eyes widen, and Simon’s chest clenches tight as if a ribbon is twisted around his ribcage. Then, your brow softens, and your mouth forms the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen. Your hands instantly reach toward his face in eagerness only to pause just before making contact.

The retreat is shallow. You’re asking permission.

“It’s okay,” murmurs Simon, because it is.

You close this distance and Simon turns his face into your soft hands. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks. Your fingers trace his brow and nose. Every touch is exploratory and gentle, but fucking bliss.

“Hiding all this from me?” you tease. “You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.”

He chuckles, happiness vibrating in his chest. Clasping your hands with his own, Simon brings them down to his chest. In one motion, the two of you are coming together, lips meeting. This is all softness. All tenderness.

Simon draws back, licks his lips. “Will you go away with me?”

“On a trip?”

He nods, stealing one more kiss before continuing. “Next weekend? I can move a few things around.”

“I’m not sure,” you say slowly.

“If you say no I’m telling Amelia.”

You laugh, almost snort, and shake your head. “Fine. Where to?”

“It’s a surprise,” whispers Simon.

You pull back slightly, an amused expression on your face. Simon grins and steps out of the shower, bringing you with him. With towel in hand, Simon soaks up the droplets on his skin. He never takes his eyes off you as you dry yourself. The moment you’re done, Simon snags the towel from you and tosses it to the side.

“Come here,” he growls, needing you all over again.

You playfully bat at his hands but it’s all for show. You easily give in to him, allowing Simon to drag you onto the bed. He sighs as he pushes your legs wide, settling between them to drape one over each of his shoulders.

Dragging you to his mouth, Simon forgoes all teasing and closes the distance. Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his head as his tongue penetrates your pussy.

It is morning.

He’s simply enjoying his breakfast.

And Simon won’t leave the table until he’s finished his meal.

Chapter Text

It takes Simon a week to move his schedule around.

He wanted things to be smoothed out sooner, but sometimes rescheduling takes patience and careful planning. This is why he needs a second person just to keep the scheduling fucking handled. Simon is an organized person, especially when it comes to his work, but even he is beginning to slip.

Simon makes a mental note.

Create a fucking job listing for a goddamn personal assistant.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and then sighs. Simon is only lying to himself. He likes to handle things on his own which is why he was so effective during his military career. Not that he can’t work with a team, just that his skill set lends itself to independence.

Turning off the main lights and securing the deadbolts, Simon activates the alarm system and does a once over to make sure everything is in its place. For the next five days, 141 Ink will be closed to the public.

He’ll be with you. In Scotland.

Simon takes the stairs to his flat two at a time with Bravo on his heels. From his pocket, Simon withdraws his lighter and a cigarette, stepping out onto the sorry excuse of a balcony. The wood is starting to rot in places. Really, he should just tear it down and start fresh, but London has fucking rules about construction.

And Simon is too damn stubborn to deal with bureaucratic nonsense just to replace some wood.

In the dark, he ignites the end of the cigarette, the orange-red glow flaring before receding. He inhales deeply and savors the comforting burn in his lungs.

While Simon dislikes changing around his work schedules, this isn’t really about him. This is about you and what you need. Simon only managed to keep you with him for a few days. You’re too headstrong sometimes, especially when you care about something. While Simon admires that about you, it’s only going to drive you toward burnout.

Those few days were not enough. You were soft and present with him, but you need a proper break away from London and the life you’re building here. Simon escorted you home afterward and all he wanted was to draw you back to him, to keep you even for a few more seconds.

That is, you need a break from the temporary life you’re building here in London.

Simon has to keep telling himself that. You’re not a citizen. Eventually you’ll have to leave or attempt to extend your visa but that isn’t guaranteed. What then? Is Simon willing to let you go?

The answer comes immediately.

No.

He’d rather relive every second of physical therapy, all the fucking medical appointments, and his forced retirement then let you slip away again.

You’re his now. You’re his woman. There is nothing that will keep him from you from this point on.

Simon takes a long drag of his cigarette as the November air slips in to cool his skin beneath his leather jacket.

Johnny keeps badgering Simon about Christmas and if he plans on joining. He always does, but he wants to know if he can bring you along. This time when Simon called Johnny about his family’s cottage up in the Highlands, Johnny lent it to him without question.

But when Johnny asked about him coming to see the family for holiday, Simon shrugged it off. Johnny didn’t seem too worried but Simon also didn’t bring you up at all. Yet it doesn’t mean shit, and Simon just needs to get through these next few days before he even brings it up with Johnny.

Bringing you to the MacTavish farm to meet everyone makes this real.

Solid.

Like Redwood trees.

You will make a home in Simon’s branches. Relax beneath his canopy. Be protected under his shade.

Bravo whines, and Simon glances down at the dog, the domestic longing evaporating like the smoke from the end of his cigarette.

“Ready for a sleepover?” asks Simon, putting out his cigarette and heading back inside.

Bravo’s ears perk up and his tail starts to rotate like a helo’s blades. Simon snorts and reaches down to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

Simon loves Bravo but he is not taking the dog with him. He’s going to pick you up tonight and Simon is dropping Bravo off when he does. Originally, Simon planned on having Gaz watch him, but Amelia suggested that he leave Bravo with her.

Saves Simon a fucking trip.

Everything is coming together, and maybe—just maybe—the two of you can move this relationship into something stable. Because regardless of his obsession, Simon wants peace. He loves the tattoo parlor and his flat and Bravo. But it’s not enough.

Simon is not fulfilled. Not really.

He needs you.

As it stands, you’re not entirely his. Simon needs to claim everything. He might have your heart and your smile and your lips, but he is a possessive creature. Simon wants to ruin everyone else for you. That you will only ever beg for him, to desire him as much as he constantly craves you.

As Simon checks over the large duffle bag he packed for the tip, his mind drifts into the memories of the last few days.

That morning in the shower, Simon nearly lost his head. He knew what you wanted by the way you had arched your back and how your hand palmed him. He was ready to push you up against the shower wall and fuck the life out of you. But Simon fought off the urge even though it clawed at his ribcage.

He can still recall your lips against his skin, and the playful way you covered your eyes to not see his face. You’re always thinking of him. Not pushing. Allowing Simon to give pieces of himself to you when he’s ready.

Hiding all this from me? You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.

Simon stands in the middle of his bedroom grinning like a bloody idiot.

When it comes to you, he’s absolutely fucked.

Simon zips up the duffle bag before changing out of his work clothes. With it being November, it’ll be too fucking cold to take the bike. He’ll need to wait for a nicer day, but he also has no gear for you to wear. Just a helmet, and that isn’t enough to protect you.

He switches into joggers, trainers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a black sip-up hoodie with a fleece interior. If Simon is driving, he wants to be bloody comfortable.

Simon grabs the duffle and lifts it, hauling it over his shoulder.

“Let’s go, Bravo.”

The German Shepard rolls up and onto his feet, trotting happily beside Simon. Descending the rear staircase, Simon exits into the alleyway behind the building. Attached to the back of the building is a small garage but it’s not automatic. It’s manual.

Simon unlocks it and twists the handle lifting the door up enough that it ascends on its own. Popping the trunk, Simon tosses the duffle in and Bravo jumps inside.

Simon is in the driver’s seat of his SUV and to Amelia’s in less than a minute.

It’s after dinner but that was the plan. He wants to avoid traffic, and driving late at night has always calmed him.

You answer the door, and when your gaze falls on Simon his heart drops into his stomach. From there it explodes outward, every limb in his body tingling with pleasure. You’re grinning, nearly glowing.

Your gaze runs up and down his body before settling on his face. “You’re not wearing the balaclava.”

Simon blinks, his hand starting to rise to feel the balaclava’s absence.

“You’re right. I’m not,” he agrees, forcing his hand back to his side. He forgot to put it on, which is odd since he’s always remembered in the past. “You packed?”

“I am,” you reply, lifting the bag in your hand. Before you can drop it, Simon reaches out and snags it.

Your features change, morphing into indignation as if you’re going to protest. Simon smirks and shakes his head.

“Go on, Bravo,” instructs Simon, nodding his head in the direction of the house.

Bravo greets you with a tail wag before disappearing inside. Moments later, Simon hears Amelia’s delighted yell.

“I’ll take good care of him, Simon!” she calls from somewhere in the house.

You start to turn to call back but Simon shoves his way in. “We’ll be back on Wednesday!” he replies, before filling the entire space with his bulky frame.

You’re not able to move around him, and instead step out onto the front stoop. Simon did that on purpose. You’re acting tough like his actions annoyed you, but he notices the soft way you submit to him. If you were truly upset, you’d say something, but you’re walking toward the SUV with a little skip in your step.

At the car, Simon adds your bag to the trunk but he’s not fast enough to open the passenger door for you. You’re already sitting inside by the time he comes around to the driver’s side.

When Simon opens the door and hops in, starting the car, the reality of the situation sets in.

This is it. This is fucking happening.

Simon glances at you and you greet him with a lovely smile. He could bottle the way you look at him up and drink it down like his favorite whiskey.

“We’re driving?” you ask, briefly glancing around the interior.

“We are,” answers Simon as he checks for oncoming cars, before pulling out from his parking spot.

“Why aren’t we flying?” You’re not asking because you’re confused, you’re asking because you’re probing. Simon never said where he planned on taking you for this trip.

Simon makes a turn. “I hate planes.”

“You hate planes?” you reply, amusement in your tone.

Briefly, Simon’s brain draws forth a memory of when he was handed the controls of a helo and they nearly lost Kyle from Simon’s erratic steering. Gaz has never allowed Simon to forget it.

“Why are you smiling?” you laugh, your eyebrows slightly raised in question.

“Better to stay on the ground,” says Simon, remembering how Price also lost is cigar during that and how bloody pissed off he was about it.

“And what about a train?”

Again, you’re inquiring instead of outright asking.

Simon shrugs. “Not in control.”

Your lips purse but you settle back into your seat, gaze turning toward the passenger door window.

Getting out of London is the hardest part. Everything is packed together, and sometimes traffic doesn’t cease even in the evening which is why Simon wanted to leave after dinner. Once the two of you are out of London, it’ll be much easier to drive up to Edinburgh without having to constantly stop.

Simon spends most of his time muttering obscenities under his breath as he navigates traffic. You don’t interrupt his concentration. Instead, you watch on, clearly amused by Simon’s attitude to everyone around him.

It isn’t until the car exits the bounds of the London metropolitan area that Simon finally takes a fucking breath. Reaching into the center console, Simon snags his lighter and a cigarette.

“Care if I smoke?”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

With the filter end between his teeth, Simon clicks open the lighter. The little flame pops up but Simon doesn’t light the cigarette. “No fight?”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “Would you like an argument?”

Simon brings the flame to the end of the cigarette. Inhales. Clicks off the lighter and tosses it back into the console. The smoke disappears out the cracked car window.

“Maybe,” he replies, voice slightly husky.

You shift in the passenger seat, twisting to face him. “Simon.”

“Yes, love,” he purrs, enjoying the chastising sweetness in your tone.

“Smoking is harmful.”

“Is it?” He takes another drag of his cigarette.

You nod, leaning one forearm against the middle armrest. “Yes. What if you get lung cancer?”

“Who says that will happen?”

“Literally every doctor.”

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

Your mouth opens in feigned shocked. “Are you telling me how I should feel, Simon?”

He shifts slightly in his seat. This is fun. He likes this. “Not at all, love. But I think I know how to put that mouth to other uses.”

This time your mouth remains open, the shock genuine.

Simon keeps going. “Seems like you already know what to do.”

You promptly shut your mouth. Simon watches as the heat rushes to your face.

Sweet fucking victory.

He takes a final drag on the cigarette and rids himself of the extinguished stub. Returning that hand to the steering wheel, Simon removes the other one, resting it against his thigh. He slides that hand up and down before lightly tapping.

“Come here, sweetheart,” purrs Simon. “Show me what you do with that mouth.”

You immediately smack his arm and Simon bursts out laughing. You’re laughing too but he knows his words stirred something within you. You keep touching your cheek as if you’re feverish.

“You’re terrible, Simon Riley,” you say right before you reach for the water bottle in the cup holder.

He waits until you’re taking a drink. “You won’t think that when I have you on my cock.”

You splutter around the bottle and smack his arm again. Closing the lid, you return the bottle and clear your throat. “When are we supposed to arrive to this mystery place?”

You’re changing the subject again, likely probing for more information. It’s not like it’s some big secret. Simon just wanted it to be a surprise, but there really isn’t any reason to be allusive about it anymore.

Simon shrugs. “It’s about a seven-hour drive to where we’re headed.”

“Seven hours? Where the fuck are you taking me?” You appear genuinely concerned.

He knows why, and Simon quickly attempts to extinguish the rising anxiety. “Evie and Amelia will be fine without you for a few days.”

You sigh. “I know. I’m just—”

The worry lines are back and Simon hates that. You’re always so concerned for others. Always thinking of everyone but yourself.

Reaching out, Simon clasps your hand and squeezes. “We’re going to Scotland.”

“Really?” This time, he hears the pleasure in your voice, and Simon’s chest swells with pride.

“Edinburgh first for a day. Then we’re heading out into the Highlands. Johnny’s family has a small farm up there with a little cottage.”

“Johnny?”

Fuck. You don’t really know the guys. You briefly met them once when Simon nearly punched Adam in the face.

Simon swallows before he speaks. “He was at the pub with me when you were with…Adam.”

“I see,” you reply softly.

“They’ll be gone. Johnny’s family. And the cottage is on the edge of the property.”

Your thumb brushes over the back of Simon’s hand. “So, we’ll be alone?”

“We will,” answers Simon, every muscle in his body tensing.

You nod, still clutching his hand, as you lean further against your seat. “What kind of farm is it?”

Simon glances at you briefly before returning his attention to the road. “It’s not like what you’re used to in America. Johnny’s mother has a little greenhouse but they mostly raise animals.”

“Like what?”

“They have some pigs. Sheep.” Simon shrugs. “Fluffy coos.” He says “cow” the same way Johnny does.

A few Christmases ago when Gaz came, Simon and Kyle watched the fluffy beasts from a distance as Johnny tried to wrangle a few back toward one of the enclosures. They offered their assistance but Johnny was adamant he didn’t need their help. He was face down in the mud with bare ass up in the air after only a few minutes.

Your eyes go wide and you sit up a bit straighter. “Can I pet them?”

“With supervision,” says Simon knowing that while the animals are docile and gentle creatures, their horns can easily harm.

This appears acceptable because you snuggle into your seat.

Two hours in, and you’re asleep.

Simon smokes. Drives. Smokes again.

Occasionally, Simon glances in your direction just to make sure you’re still there. For some reason his brain keeps insisting that you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long. You’ll transform into smoke and drift out of the car just like the smoke he exhales from his lungs.

There are roughly three more hours left before arriving in Edinburgh. While most places don’t allow late check-ins, the little hotel Simon plans on taking you to for the night made an exception for him.

By the third hour, Simon is entirely focused on the road. You have not drifted into the air. You are solid and real and asleep in the passenger seat. A calmness settles over him. Everything is as it should be.

So, when Simon feels the weight of your hand against his thigh, he doesn’t think much of it. He drops one hand from the steering wheel intending to reach out to grasp your hand with his own. Yet you do no linger there. Your hand slides upward and Simon’s temporary calmness morphs into understanding.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

“What are you up to, love?” says Simon softly, returning his hand to the steering wheel.

There is a schedule, and while your hand resting on the outside of his joggers over his dick is a temptation he doesn’t want to resist, the two of you can’t stray far.

“Do you want me to stop?” There is a raspy quality to your voice like you’ve just woken from sleep. Perhaps you have, and in that state of wakefulness, your brain decided that this is a good idea.

But there is also lust in your tone. It drips like thick honey.

Now, that? Simon cannot resist that.

“No,” he says, matching your tone as your hand slips beneath the elastic band of his joggers.

Flexing his hips, Simon adjusts in his seat to give you a better angle. When your fingers find him, it’s difficult for Simon to keep his eyes on the road. The tips of your nails gently scratch against his skin before your fingers wrap around him completely.

Your hand is warm, and that first stroke is maddening.

His control is right on a knife’s edge. If Simon glances away from the road, he’ll fucking crash this car. In his peripheral, Simon sees you moving, and even that is hard to withstand. Simon knows that you’re leaning on the center armrest and that you’re looking at him.

Simon knows you are.

Your stare is a brand on his skin.

“This,” you murmur, gently squeezing him. “Is perfect.”

Fuck. He is fucking done for.

The middle of his chest burns as if he is a tree and his core is on fire. The need to be close to you is a lightning strike.

But Simon is fucking driving, and it’s not like he can just pull you into his lap.

“Careful, love,” growls Simon as you start a steady pace. “Might pull over and make you regret this.”

Because that is what Simon wants to do. Find an exit and a quiet parking lot or silent clump of trees.

“Is that a promise?” you breathe as the pad of your thumb brushes over the slit.

Oh, fuck you’re sweet.

So, this is where you’ve been hiding all along. You’ve always had a bit of fire, but this is what he remembers. In Riot Room, you weren’t shy at all. Your words and actions were bold. You opened like a flower in his hands. Bloomed and melted and reformed.

This is the woman who captured all his attention three years ago.

You haven’t changed at all.

“A fucking guarantee,” growls Simon in answer.

You make a little sound in your throat that goes straight to his dick. He is throbbing in your palm, and that only makes Simon’s control thin further. His grip on the steering wheel tightens. The knuckles of his turn white. Even the tattoos on his fingers pale.

You don’t let up. You just bring Simon closer to the edge. He’s not going to last. Not like this, but he sure as hell isn’t going to finish inside his joggers or on the fucking seat like some teenage boy getting his first handy.

No.

Fucking no.

If you’re going to be bold then you’ll take everything that comes with it.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Simon reaches out and grabs the back of your neck. The whimper you make, and the slight squeeze of your hand around his cock nearly causes him to bust right then and there.

“Use that gorgeous mouth and suck me off,” he growls, you tugging your head closer.

Simon isn’t fucking asking. It’s a demand.

Your answer is a playful smile and teasing tone. “You don’t tell me what to do, Simon.”

Simon shakes his head. “Oh, sweetheart, you love it when I tell you what do it.” He briefly glances in your direction before returning his gaze to the road. “Especially when my head is between your legs.”

By your sharp inhale, Simon knows you’re recalling the night when he made you count every orgasm.

“Now,” he says, his exhale stuttering slightly as it releases from him. “Be good. And swallow.”

You reach for him, and Simon lifts his hips a bit. It’s just enough for you to shove the band of his joggers down.

Even then, with his cock out, Simon does not glance away from the road.

Not when you lean forward completely.

Not when his hand fists your hair to keep you in place.

Not even when your mouth suctions around him and you throat him to the fucking root.

But his nostrils flare, and the muscles in his neck and jaw are fucking tight with tension. Every instinct is telling him to pull over, to fuck your luscious mouth, and then drag you into his lap so he can watch you ride his fingers.

That would be bloody perfect. That would be ideal.

Instead, he breathes in and out of his nose, attempting to stifle every groan as your head bobs. One of your hands cups him gently and Simon’s grip in your hair tightens.

“I’m—fuck,” groans Simon.

He feels the resistance of your throat from his instruction and hears the wet sound it makes when his length is entirely too much. You pull back a bit before trying again, and that is fucking it.

Your tongue lightly grazes against the underside of the head, and Simon’s lower half tenses, hips thrusting up slightly to meet you.

And you, like the good girl you are, take every drop.

Thank fuck he turned on the cruise control.

Simon’s fingers slowly unlace from your strands of hair. He’s careful not to tug, and then it’s just a gentle caress as you lift your head.

For a moment—a brief few seconds—Simon is fixated on your puffy, swollen lips. He wants to kiss those lips. To taste himself along with you.

“Eyes on the road, Simon.”

He quickly averts his gaze but still reaches out with his thumb to wipe away the bit of his cum that still slings to the corner of your mouth. Your grab his wrist and bring that thumb to your mouth.

Lips suctioning around it, you suck off that last little drop. When you release his thumb, Simon briefly presses it against your bottom lip.

Simon makes it only a kilometer before he pulls over, pushes his seat back, drags you into his lap, shoves your pants down to your ankles, and has you fucking yourself on his fingers. The hand not between your legs presses against your upper right thigh. His tattooed fingers are slightly curled inward to cling there.

He doesn’t want you moving.

“Come on, love. Grind down on me.”

There is sweat on your brow and it’s beautiful. Your mouth is open, head tilted backward in bliss to expose your throat. Your eyes are heavy-lidded, clearly lost in a lust-laced haze.

With one hand on Simon’s chest and the other on his thigh, you’re a goddess above him. Simon watches his index and middle finger appear and disappear as you use them for your pleasure, rolling your hips in fluid rhythm.

Sure, this is about you, but this is doing plenty for him. He’s fucking hard again just watching your pussy squeeze and stretch in time with your movements. Simon sits up a bit and gently bites your left breast through your shirt.

You whimper and grind down on him like he asks. It’s so sweet the way you come undone. The way your pussy tightens around his fingers. The way you say his name. It’s like you’re asking for more and yet chastising him.

And this is just his fingers inside you.

Soon, you’ll take his cock, and Simon cannot fucking wait to hear the sounds you’ll make then.

Tenderly, Simon eases his fingers from your pussy. They’re glossy. Shiny. And Simon brings them to his mouth to clean just as your head dips forward. Your gaze lands on his face the moment his fingers enter his mouth. Your eyes widen slightly, and Simon takes his time.

He wants you to see.

He wants you to know.

The little detour nearly adds an hour but Simon could give a fuck.

Simon sits smugly while you doze off in the passenger seat. He would have had you continue if he weren’t pressed for time. If Simon had another hour, he would have told you to continue until your legs shook. Even then, he’d simply do the work himself until your voice went hoarse.

By the time Edinburgh is in Simon’s sights, it’s late.

You still haven’t stirred. You’re curled up in the passenger seat and Simon has no idea how you’re comfortable.

When he pulls up to the hotel he booked, Simon decides not to wake you. Finding a parking spot in the little lot to the side of the building, Simon leaves you alone in the car. He’ll check in at the front desk, grab the room key, and then come back for you.

You deserve some sleep.

“Evening, mate,” says Simon to the clerk behind the desk.

It’s an older gentleman whose entire appearance reminds Simon of Ben.

“Evening. You’re,” he checks his little computer, “Mr. Riley?”

“That’s me,” nods Simon.

“Need to see some identification and I’ll square you away.”

Simon hands it over, and then it’s back in his wallet along with a set of keycards. The entire interaction takes less than three minutes.

As Simon exits the building and turns right to head into the little lot, he stops at the first row of cars.

At first, he’s not sure what the fuck he’s looking at.

The small lot is full and there was only one parking spot when Simon pulled up. He took it, not thinking much since the lot itself is well-lit.

But that isn’t the case now.

Several of the lights are out and is that—

No. It fucking can’t be.

Anyone else might mistake the odd lump as a trick of the shadows or even the back of another vehicle. But Simon isn’t mistaken. That is not just shadows playing games or a bad parking job.

That is a person. A man. Leaning against Simon’s SUV.

And he knows that stance, that casual lean that seems aloof but isn’t.

He knows who it belongs to.

Simon bolts, striding toward the SUV with purpose in every step. He loses sight of the back end of the SUV for the briefest second as he crosses over, another large vehicle in the way before it comes back into view.

But there is no one there.

All that training clicks back in like it never left.

Simon approaches slowly, walking around his care once to make sure. He’s completely on alert, his head on a swivel as he scans the area.

There is only you sleeping in the passenger seat.

There is no one else in the lot but Simon fucking checks anyway. He walks both lengths of the lot. Checks every car and corner. He even goes out to the street and back, canvasing further than he likely needs to but doing it anyway.

But he was so sure there was someone there.

He’s back, Simon.

No. What Simon saw was a fucking illusion. An old memory surfacing. That fucker—that waste of human—is in America. He isn’t here.

Unlocking the trunk, Simon removes both bags, tossing one over either shoulder. Then he’s at your door opening it, reaching out to gently shake you awake.

“We’re here.”

You groan softly and grab his hand. Simon keeps you closely tucked against him all the way to the room because it’s the only thing that keeps his hands from shaking.

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, Simon helps you out of your clothes.

“Want to shower?” he asks and you shake your head, rubbing at your eyes.

Simon offers you one of his shirts and you put it on. It’s all he can do for you before you plop onto the bed. You wiggle a bit and then finally dive under the covers, completely disappearing.

Once you’re settled, Simon checks the door and the two windows. Everything is locked and secure. There is no reason for him to panic like this.

Simon rubs at his face before sighing softly and stripping down to his boxer briefs. Sleep is what he needs. It’s what you both need.

And it is Simon who wakes first, the faintest bit of stress still lingering at his temples. But Simon isn’t one for sleeping in or even staying in bed once he’s awoken. You’re still snoozing, just a tangle of hair above the covers and nothing else.

Simon orders breakfast, and when you do wake up, it arrives.

“This all for us?” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“We’re exploring today,” replies Simon, bring the espresso cup to his lips. While tea is his usual beverage of choice, he needs some fucking caffeine.

You plop down onto your side and then slowly roll over until you bump into him. Simon arches an eyebrow as you sit up. Instead of reaching for the food, you reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair as you tug him down to meet you.

Your lips find his and the heat of that kiss goes straight to his toes.

“You need to fucking brush your teeth.”

“Simon, I fucking swear—”

“Kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You roll your eyes, pulling away, but Simon is moving with you, pressing you into the bed, slotting himself between your legs.

“Let’s stay here,” you murmur after a few more kisses.

“While I’d love to stay right here,” says Simon, emphasizing his words by pressing himself against your sex. “We have things to do today.”

“Do we?”

“Don’t want to explore the city with me?” counters Simon, wrapping you up in his arms only to haul you back up to a seated position.

“You know I do, Simon,” you reply softly, fingers brushing lightly against the line of his jaw. “That’s not even a question.”

Simon rubs your back before disentangling himself. “Then eat,” he says, pointing to the feast he ordered because he panicked and decided on one of everything.

He pushes off the bed, his bad knee aching slightly. Simon stretches into it, covering up the limp before he straightens up. You don’t notice, too busy buttering up some toast with lots of jam.

Five days.

He has five days with you.

Simon is about to savor every second.

Chapter Text

Green grass. Fall rain. Endless gray sky.

Funny how the simple things, the things you don’t expect, can bring you joy. They ground you in a singular moment, capturing the present like a snapshot. Simon’s head is quickly filling with these pictures. They are consuming. Perfect. A calmness that he often feels just before the first sip of tea.

It took twenty minutes—and all of Simon’s willpower—to pull himself from your arms and out of bed this morning. He would have stayed but this is so much better. This is freeing. A complete separation from the stresses of his life. Since waking, Simon hasn’t thought about a single fucking worry all day.

No 141 Ink. No British Intelligence. No Kit Walsh.

Nothing.

Simon even forgot to care that he didn’t pack or wear a balaclava for this trip.

There has only been you.

You—who is the bright light in the dark that is his life.

It’s raining in Edinburgh, but that doesn’t appear to dampen your mood one bit. If anything, it makes you wilder, and Simon loves watching your intense satisfaction in everything you see around you. Right now, you stand in the middle of a cobblestone street, staring up into the cloudy sky, smiling at the soft rain as it lands on your face.

Simon is on the pavement, grinning like an idiot as you make your way back to him. Before you reach him, Simon presents his hand. You take it without question, the two of you effortlessly coming together.

It is natural. It is instinct.

The connection between his actions and his brain are so seamless, Simon doesn’t realize what he’s doing until after it has already happened. Each movement flows into the next, and it keeps the worries at a distance.

You are right in front of him. You are here and whole and all his.

Nothing compares.

With the rain, Simon sticks to indoor activities. The two of you linger in little trinket shops and old bookstores, explore winding streets, and watch the rain from café windows. You are curious, and this curiosity forces Simon to see the world around him differently. Simon always stops in Edinburgh when he visits Johnny’s family farm, but it’s just another stop to him. Nothing more.

At this point, it is routine, but watching you explore the city with new eyes gives Simon pause. It tells him to slow down, to consider that he can enjoy what’s before him as it is. Because watching you is shifting something inside of him. Not like a knife to the gut that twists and turns, but a healing with thread and needle and a tenderness that he can’t place but feels in his marrow.

When the rain stops and the clouds clear out, you and Simon stop for a sandwich before trekking up Calton Hill. Simon has seen this view hundreds of times. He stays back, allowing you to take it all in. There are other people up here—mostly tourists—but unlike them, you do not pull out your phone to snap photos. You simply admire, and inhale deeply, just living in the moment.

Simon does not interrupt. He does something he hasn’t done in ages.

From his coat pocket, Simon removes a small sketch pad and pencil. Finding a comfortable spot in the wet grass, he starts to sketch, allowing the graphite to lead. Simon sketches, simply existing, until you turn your back to Edinburgh and extend your arm to him, fingers wiggling in invitation.

Simon is the one that moves, taking your hand instead of you taking his. Again, like all the other times today, you step into his space, molding to him as if you’ve always belonged there. Bending down, Simon brushes his lips against the crown of your head before departing.

The drive to Johnny’s family farm up in the Highlands is peaceful. You sleep most of the way, and Simon doesn’t wake you until he pulls into the drive. He parks off to the side next to the tarp-covered quad and shuts off the car. Simon promised Johnny he’d check on the place before heading out to the cottage at the edge of the property.

Simon gently places his hand on your shoulders and squeezes. “We’re here.”

You stir, eyelids blinking slowly before opening fully. Sitting up, you yawn and glance around, realization dawning. “This the place?”

“Cottage is elsewhere. Stopping here first. Promised Johnny I’d look in on the place.”

“You mentioned no one would be here.” You have the passenger door open before Simon can hop out and open it for you. He comes around the front of the vehicle as you shut the car door. “Are we checking on the animals?” you ask, hopefulness in your tone.

Simon chuckles. “Absolutely not. Think I know how?”

“No,” you reply automatically, laughing. Your grin is infectious, and Simon cannot help but match it.

“You have so little faith in me?” he teases, placing one hand above the passenger window, creating a barrier between you and the house.

Simon leans in and grins when he receives the reaction he wants. You’re flustered and sweet, your gaze darting from his face to his chest in embarrassment.

“Never,” you murmur, lips parting slightly.

Your pupils widen and Simon has to swallow down a growl. Just a few more minutes, and the two of you will be where you need to.

Simon pushes off from the car and nods toward the house, walking backward. You follow, clearly eager. The main house is single-level, rectangular, and made of gray stone. The cottage is similar but boxy, housing a single room instead of several.

Approaching the front door, Simon begins lifting the edges of rocks that make up the flower bed with the toe of his boot. Usually someone is always here when Simon comes for a visit and all that’s required is just a knock on the door. But whenever the farm sits empty, a key is placed under a rock, and it is a hunt in finding where it is. The key is never in the same place twice and Johnny always forgets to remind Simon where it might be located.

A flash of metal catches Simon’s attention. He overturns the rock and bends down, snagging the key, jostling the rock back into place with his boot. Simon slides the key into the lock, and the door gives. Simon enters and you follow on his heels.

Simon loves this house. It’s cozy and comfortable. A true home. He’s spent many Christmases here, sleeping on the lumpy sofa and stuffing his face at the large wooden dining table. Hesitantly, you step forward as Simon tosses the key on the kitchen counter.

“Is there anything I can help with?” you ask, turning in Simon’s direction.

Simon shakes his head. “Just checking that windows are locked. I’ll walk the exterior after.”

You nod, slipping your hands into your coat pockets, strolling further into the house. Simon starts in the interior room before moving on to the bedrooms and bathroom. Everything is secure. Nothing is out of place, but the lock in the main bedroom is loose.

“Simon,” you call out. He tenses slightly at your raised voice but you don’t sound nervous or afraid.

Cautiously, he reenters the main room. You’re standing in front of the fridge. When Simon appears, you glance at him, the corners of your mouth turning upward into a bemused expression.

“What is it?” he asks, suddenly apprehensive.

Your head slowly swivels back to the fridge and that is when he notices a small piece of paper attached to it by a magnet.

“Simon,” you begin, reading from the paper. “I’ve stocked the fridge with all your favorites. Harold is taking care of the animals. Heard you’re bringing a lady friend. Hope you bring her at Christmas.” You turn back to Simon, one eyebrow arched in question.

Bloody hell.

The next time Simon sees Johnny, he’s strangling him.

“It also says to strip the bed before we leave if we—” you glance back at the note, “make a mess.”

Johnny, you’re a dead man.

Simon nearly chokes at that last bit. “It doesn’t say that,” he grumbles, striding forward to snatch the note off the fridge. Simon turns the paper over, revealing a familiar sprawling cursive. That is Johnny’s mother’s handwriting. He reads over it and then crosses his arms over his chest, staring you down.

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as you giggle uncontrollably.

“You’re fucking done,” he says, pointing in your direction before folding the paper and stuffing it into his pocket. Simon tries to keep a serious demeanor but utterly fails. He’s grinning too as he rummages around for the toolbox under the sink.

After fixing the lock, Simon takes a lap around the perimeter of the house. Finding nothing, the two of you return to the car and head out to the cottage. It isn’t far and the dirt road that leads to it borders the pastures.

The cottage is a near replica of the main house. It too is made of stone with a small flower bed out front.

“Is this where we’re staying?” you ask as Simon opens the boot and removes the bags.

“You like it?”

“It’s lovely, Simon.” Your gaze softens. “Thank you.”

His heart stops and then melts, becoming liquid in his chest. “We both needed a break.”

You nod. “We did.” Your glance at the bags hanging off his shoulder. “I can take mine.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, pushing right past you and to the door.

You are not lifting a finger this entire trip. Simon won’t allow it. If you need anything, he will provide it.

Simon has the key in the door before you can form a protest. You’re grumbling behind him, but Simon ignores you, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Slowly, Simon slips the bags off his shoulder and places them at his feet.

Like the main house, the cottage is old. It’s seen two world wars, rebellions, and invasions. While the exterior hasn’t changed much, the interior has been updated to accommodate modern amenities. It consists of one large room and a small bathroom. Across from the entry door, on the other side of the room, is the hearth. It is the focal point of the room, and other than some general upkeep, it hasn’t changed since it was first built. Simon could comfortably crouch inside it and still have room to move.

Simon can build a fire in it, but he cannot fucking cook with it. Johnny’s mother certainly passed on her knowledge but it never stuck. Thankfully, there’s an actual fucking oven. The kitchen area itself is relatively small with limited counter space and a small fridge. Next to that is a tiny breakfast table that segways into a little sitting area with an armchair and sofa that seats two.

Directly inside the door to Simon’s left is the bathroom, and to his right is the bed. Its wood frame is weathered but sturdy.

“This is where we’re staying?” you ask softly, as if you don’t believe it to be true.

“Until Wednesday,” answers Simon, suddenly nervous.

Do you like it? Is it enough?

Simon cannot see your face. You’re turned away from him, walking further into the room. He stands awkwardly near the door, and the only thing in his head is how much he desires your approval. This trip isn’t much, but it’s something.

When you remove your coat and shiver, Simon’s response is immediate. “I’ll start the fire.” Grabbing the wool blanket off the bed, Simon unfolds it and holds it at your shoulders for you to accept.

This time, Simon finally sees your face, and the softness in your features dissolves any doubts. You are happy, and when your gaze meets his, Simon is momentarily lost, delving into your endlessness.

And yet again, Simon’s movements do not register until he is already reaching for you.

He drapes the wool blanket over your shoulders and then wraps you up in it, pulling you against his chest as he does so. Simon does not ask. He does not hesitate. There is no trepidation when he claims your lips. All Simon knows is that he wants this, wants you, and you are here with him.

No one can take you from him.

You open, and Simon advances. The second your taste finds his tongue Simon knows that he’ll slaughter anything and anyone who attempts to steal you away.

They will only know the shape of his fists.

They will only know the flavor of lead.

Suffering will be their sleep and their memory upon waking.

You are too good—too fucking sweet for Simon—and yet he’s never giving you up. Will never drop the addiction. If you leave, Simon can only follow.

The kiss deepens, your fingers finding the back of his neck. You’re smaller than him but you still try to show a bit of force. It’s cute how you’re pulling on him, telling Simon you crave more. Eagerness is pumping in your blood, and Simon is ready to explore that need. To understand and match it with his own.

He wants to fill his lungs with it.

Breathe you in so deep you’ll leave scars.

While Simon would love nothing more than to remove everything beneath the blanket, he needs to warm this place up and put some food in your belly.

Reluctantly, and with harrowing effort, Simon pries your fingers away from his neck. You whimper in response, and that sound goes straight to his dick. The sudden rush of blood is what snaps Simon out of his haze. When he draws back and notices your puffy, pouty lips and blown pupils, Simon nearly submits all over again.

But even that is not enough to completely shatter him.

“You’re distracting me,” he mumbles.

Your smile is gentle. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

Simon reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip. “Curl up on the sofa. I need to grab wood.”

“Let me help,” you say, tugging on his jacket.

“Rest. I’ve got this.”

Your palm goes flat against his chest before dropping away. It leaves a lingering warmth behind. Backing up, you plop onto the couch, bending forward to remove your shoes. Simon turns away quickly, running his fingers through his hair as if that will calm his racing heart.

He retrieves wood from the pile on the south side of the house, stacking it all next to the hearth. Removing the correct tools, Simon sets to work. It won’t take much to warm the room, and Simon gives just enough life to the fire to take care of other tasks. Given the right conditions, the fire will do what it needs to on its own.

Opening the fridge, Simon snorts. Johnny’s mother truly did stock it. She not only prepped for dinner but left plenty for breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea. Amongst all that are various snacks.

We won’t need to leave at all.

That is what Simon ultimately wanted, and it’s exactly what he’s receiving.

Simon begins heating the small oven and selects one of the prepared meals from the fridge. Johnny’s mother even left a couple bottles of wine and a small bottle of scotch on the counter. While Simon loves a strong drink, he prefers Kentucky bourbon, but he won’t turn down what’s freely offered.

By the time the two of you finish a bottle of wine and dinner, it’s dark out. Simon shutters the windows, cleaning up the cutlery and wine glasses before joining you on the sofa. The old thing sags under his weight but it’s comfortable, and you lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his arm.

Simon doesn’t feel anything but contentment. He’s like white linen hanging on a clothesline under the summer sun. No cares. No worries. There is nothing but you and him and this cottage for the next few days.

Shifting in his arms, you look up at him, your chin slightly digging into his shoulder. Simon glances down at you, and without hesitation, places his large palm against the side of your throat, his thumb gently caressing your cheek.

“Ready for bed, love?” Simon means sleep, but that idea utterly vacates his brain when you swing your leg over his thighs. Still keeping his hand on your throat, you move from his right side to his lap. The wool blanket is still around your shoulders, and it falls open slightly as you raise both hands to rest against his chest.

“Simon.” His name on your tongue is honey-thick. “You know what I want.”

“I know,” he says, because it’s what he wants too.

Two months. Two months since he first saw you standing in the doorway of 141 Ink. He thought you a phantom, an illusion of the mind that happens to him sometimes. But you were real that day. You were real and fate brought you to him.

Simon has waited three fucking years for you.

And he’s going to make up for every missed second.

His hand drops from your neck only to settle on your hips. Simon squeezes, filling his grip with you, imagining when there will no longer be a barrier between his skin and yours. It’s what he’s been thinking of, what he’s been wanting, but that’s not the whole picture.

You are more than what you can offer him physically, and while that is the final piece, it’s not everything. Simon adores your kisses and kind smiles. He loves your silly jokes, and the sense of peace that comes with your presence. The instinct to protect and possess is a constant thing. It sits in the back of his head and between his rib bones.

A model relationship isn’t something Simon knows. He grew up with violence and made a career of it. Every person Simon has ever engaged with on an intimate level have always been quick and efficient affairs. Simple need fulfillment. Nothing more.

But this? With you?

It’s so much more. It goes beyond the bounds of reason. It is suffocating as much as it is lifegiving. There is no doubt in Simon’s mind about how he feels, only beautiful truth.

Your hands venture away from his chest. One comes to a rest in the muscled dip where his neck and shoulder meet. The other is low, nearly in his lap, toying with the end of his shirt like you want to delve underneath but aren’t sure if you should.

“Do you want me?” you ask, and Simon hears the gentle break.

Do you truly think he’ll reject you?

“Always,” he answers. “Constantly.”

Simon’s hands slide up to your waist, holding tight, drawing you closer. Your head tilts in invitation and Simon matches your movement. The connection is electric and yet completely comforting. This feeling is a tangled web of warmth and anticipation. It courses through Simon’s veins until it buzzes in the tips of his fingers.

Again and again, Simon is lost in you. The craving is unending. You press in, roll your hips, and Simon snaps. Breaking the kiss, Simon grasps the nape of your neck. The gasp you release upon separation heats his blood.

“We need to talk first,” he says.

You whimper and try to return to him, but Simon’s grip is firm. He doesn’t want to deny you this but the two of you need to discuss protection before anything continues.

“Listen to me, love,” coos Simon. Your gaze goes from his lips to his eyes. “If we’re doing this, I want no barriers.”

The middle of your brow creases in confusion. “You have me, Simon. Completely.”

Simon shakes his head. His left hand falls away from your waist and slides over the curve of your ass, dipping between your spread thighs. Pausing, Simon cups your pussy and your eyelids flutter with pleasure.

“No barriers,” he repeats, pressing slightly until you make a sound in your throat that shoots a bolt of need to his dick. “That’s what I want.” Your gaze darts over his face, but you don’t say anything.

The silence is excruciating, and he needs an answer. “Do you want that?” he asks, even as the uncertainty of your answer bites at his resolve.

If you say no, it’s not a big fucking deal. Simon packed an entire box of condoms for this very reason. Whatever you decide, he’ll respect it, but he just needs to know. Because whatever you tell him, the two of you will need to make a plan moving forward.

Simon will fuck you bare. He wants you dripping with him. To see it between your legs and know that you belong to him.

“Simon.”

“Tell me.”

“Yes.”

Fucking hell.

“Yes, what?” he prompts.

“I want you,” you breathe. “No barriers.”

Simon removes his hand from between your thighs. “Are you sure, love? Don’t say yes just for me.” His fingers tighten slightly on your neck, and your eyelids flutter in response. “Not looking to put a baby in you.”

Not yet.

The unspoken words hang in front of his eyes, and Simon freezes.

Fuck.

Not yet. Not. Yet. Why the fuck did he think that? Why is his head even considering that as an option?

Because it’s true, even if Simon has only given the idea a few seconds of consideration. When Amelia showed Simon the photo of you holding Lillian, he couldn’t help himself. He imagined the small infant as yours. The one he’d have with you. Wanting a child is not something Simon has ever entertained, but then again, he didn’t have you in his life.

Pieces of him—pieces that were nothing more than scattered fractures—are beginning to reform. They’re finding each other, fusing, collectively forming the image that is Simon.

It is happening.

Slowly. But happening.

He is finding himself in the void.

“Is that something you want?

 Your question pulls Simon right out of his silent musings. He considers his next words carefully.

“It’s on the table.” Because it is, but only if you want it. “In the future,” he amends, making it clear that is not what he wants at this particular moment.

Even if he did where would the infant go in his flat? There isn’t any fucking room.

You simply nod and say nothing. Simon senses an unease radiating off you but he’s not entirely sure why and it’s unclear if he should push the topic.

“You on birth control?” he asks, deciding it’s better to receive verbal confirmation.

“I am,” you reply.

Simon sighs audibly and squeezes your thighs. “Good.”

You smile coyly. “You’re very sweaty all of a sudden, Simon. Are you nervous?”

Simon swallows and his salvia sticks in his throat. He coughs, almost chokes. “What?”

“Your cheeks are flushed.” The backs of your knuckles graze the line of his jaw. “Haven’t seen that before,” you murmur, almost as if you’re speaking to yourself and not to him.

“Come here,” growls Simon, pulling you in for a kiss to cover up whatever has caught your attention.

You giggle, playfully swatting at him, only to soften with each lingering kiss. Your muscles relax, and you melt into him, lengthening and deepening each meeting until you’re pliant in his arms again.

This is how it should be.

You become absorbed in him, and Simon revels in it. All this time, all these years, Simon believed his need for you was entirely one-sided. But with you in his lap, and your hunger flaring hot, Simon understands that you just as desperate.

Squirming, you tug on the front of Simon’s shirt as if you can pull him closer. “I want you inside me, Simon.”

You say these words against his lips, branding his flesh with your desire. Sweet victory roars beneath his skin like an animal. Simon is going to fuck you senseless. Take you over and on every possible surface.

“How, love?” he replies. “Use your words.”

When you answer, it is with shaky breath. “No barrier. Want you. Only you, Simon.”

Using just his hold on your neck, Simon draws you back to him. The kiss is chaste, more of a whisper against skin. “Can I come inside you?” Simon flexes his hips upward, rubbing his growing need against your covered pussy.

Your own hips answer back, arching into his touch as you beg. “Please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs as he gives you what you need.

Why are these kisses so much sweeter? So much more addictive?

Simon craves another the moment the last one is done, as if the second they stop he’ll lose them forever. This desperation makes a home in his stomach, filling him with a smoldering demand to completely possess every part of you. Like a feral beast, Simon awakens, seeking his meal.

Without losing his hold on the nape of your neck, Simon removes the wool blanket from around your shoulders. He discards it to the side, not caring where it lands. Returning to your mouth, Simon seeks and tastes until everything within him shatters.

He is made of splintered bones, and you are the adhesive glue that will fuse him back together. To achieve that, Simon needs renewal, a blessing of your flesh.

Your top and bra are only simple obstacles. They surrender to him easily, and neither of you gives either item a second thought. It is meaningless now.

There is only bare skin against bare skin.

Simon’s palm explores, running up and down your stomach to the valley between your breasts. Everything is touched. Everything is savored until his blood roars in his ears.

Groaning, Simon forces himself to release that lovely mouth. He aches until he finds you again. Simon’s head dips, lips brushing against your throat. The kisses he leaves along the line of your neck are simple things that slowly shift and ebb, transforming into playful nips that turn to claiming bites.

Your fingers find his hair, threading and tangling, pulling slightly until Simon growls. The hold you have on him is pleasurable as much as it borders on pain. He moves lower, and it’s an odd fucking angle, but Simon doesn’t give a shit. Every inch of you deserves his mouth. When his lips skim just above your right breast, you instinctually lean back, giving Simon better access.

Simon runs his tongue over and around your nipple. You shiver in his arms, fingers lightly digging into his scalp as he teases it to a hard peak. Once stiff, Simon switches to the other, giving it just as much attention.

But it is not enough.

Sliding his hands to the backs of your thighs, Simon lifts you up as he stands. Your arms immediately lock around his neck as your ankles cross behind his back. The fact that he doesn’t need to instruct you in this pleases him.

Simon travels from the couch to the bed, and this one action reminds him of Riot Room when he lifted you in the air and bounced you on his cock. He was observing the expressions on your face as you watched him enter and exit your body. Witnessing that was fucking bliss.

He’ll do that again. But not yet.

At the edge of the bed, Simon eases you down onto the comforter. While your legs come to the bed, your hands take longer to retreat. Your fingers linger, nails lightly dragging across the back of his neck and then down the front of his chest.

Simon lets you have this.

But once you completely fall back onto the bed, Simon’s resolve is absolute.

He doesn’t demand or ask.

Like your top and bra, Simon simply grabs and tugs until you’re in nothing but your underwear. His fingers trace up your bare legs, stopping at your thighs momentarily before his hands drop away.

You’re fucking beautiful like this. A banquet. A feast he’s about to gorge himself on.

Leaning back on your forearms, your bare chest is completely exposed, breasts pushed forward in his direction. Your nipples are still hard and raw from his mouth, and Simon has to bite back a groan at the sight.

There is plenty of time to enjoy all of you. Simon needs to get a fucking hold on himself before he pushes your legs wide and buries himself without a thought for you. His blood is electrified, buzzing until it bounces around in frenzy, attempting to convince Simon to claim you until there is no doubt who it is you belong to.

He needs to slow the fuck down. Wednesday is the day the two of you return to civilization, and neither of you are leaving this cottage until then. There is only him and you and this bed.

Slowly, Simon returns his hands to your legs. He begins at your ankles, roaming up your shins and then your knees, sliding down your thighs to stop at the band of your underwear. He considers them a moment and then roughly fists the fabric. In two quick tugs, Simon has them down and around your ankles.

“You don’t need these,” he says, tugging one last time and tossing them aside.

Much better.

Your lips part and your thighs quiver. Simon’s mouth salivates from that alone. All this time, and you crave him just as much. Pride swells in his chest with the knowledge that you want to be here, and that you want this with him.

“What about you?” you ask, nodding toward Simon.

Here you are, naked and on your back, and Simon hasn’t taken off a single fucking thing. His mind was too focused on stripping you down than thinking of himself.

To answer your question, Simon reaches behind him with one hand, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Yanking it up over his head, Simon tosses the shirt to the side, leaving him in only his jeans and black socks.

“Better?” he asks, extending his hands outward slightly.

You nod, pink tongue darting out just before you nibble on your bottom lip.

Simon draws his hands back to his sides, turning them into clenched fists as a small tremor hits him causing his hands to shake. He’s worked up, and his cock fucking aches, but no matter how much he’d love to spread you wide to pound into you, your pleasure is just as important.

You’re not taking anything until you’re prepped and ready for it.

“Spread those gorgeous thighs for me,” he commands through clenched teeth. Simon watches as you part them slightly, but it isn’t nearly enough. You’re still hidden from him.

“More,” demands Simon, desperately needing to see that sweet pussy.

Again, you part your legs further, feet sliding across the bedding, but it’s still short of what Simon is after. He needs to wide. Completely open.

“No. Like this.” Simon slides his hands between and forces your thighs apart until he can see fucking everything.

The sight of you steals the oxygen from his lungs.

You are glossy. Slick. Wanton.

Fucking hell.

Simon is going to devour you.

Chapter Text

Wraith.

That is what you’ve always called him. Even now, with Simon towering over you, he is no longer than lurking danger you sensed in Riot Room. He is still a mystery—still a sealed box with no apparent entry.

But you’re receiving pieces. Little by little you’re starting to build the image that is Simon. Ghost, as you once knew Simon, still lingers in the dark recess of your understanding of him. The picture is incomplete, but it is forming. The film is beginning to show its true nature in the dark room.

The wraith you knew—and the one you know now—are fusing.

Before you, Simon is all hunger. You are completely naked. Bare for him. Legs spread wide for his pleasure. And his gaze is locked to that place between your legs, the one that aches for him and longs to be filled. There is a possessiveness to his stare that heats your blood and sends your bones into vibration.

How are you to survive this man? And why did you run in the first place?

Even now, you witness his need, the starvation. Simon has been depriving himself of you, and you are fully aware of this. The other day when you were in his shower, when you gave him permission to fuck you, Simon resisted.

He was waiting, and now you’re here.

A banquet. A feast. Food for him to gorge on.

Simon’s hands rest on the insides of your thighs. It’s not a harsh touch, though the rest of him is all hard lines. There is no mask. You see Simon for who he is. Blonde hair. Dark eyes with pale eyelashes. A few scars on his face and the ones on his body covered in ink.

Simon is not hiding, and the knowledge of that is enough. It’s trust. And something more.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The compliment catches you off-guard. You’re so absorbed in admiring him that you forgot to listen.

“Thank you,” you murmur, heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. It’s such a silly thing to say in the moment, but it’s all you can muster.

The corner of Simon’s mouth quirks in amusement. His large hands stroke up and then down your thighs absently. The movement is soothing, and you feel your muscles relax beneath his touch. Simon gently squeezes, fingers lightly digging into your skin as he begins to descend to one knee. You watch from between your legs, momentarily paralyzed as he makes himself comfortable. You notice a slight wince, but it’s so brief you might not have caught it if you weren’t paying attention.

From this position, all you can see are Simon’s broad shoulders and thick chest, his strong neck with its blackout tattoo. His blonde hair is a bit messy like he’s been constantly running his fingers through it, but really you were the one grabbing him.

Simon blinks, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “You still want this?”

He might sound steady but it’s all in the eyes. There is pain there—a hesitation bordering on trepidation. You ran before. Twice now. Perhaps he thinks you’ll slip away again.

“I want you,” is the answer you give, because it’s true. You do want Simon. You crave him like an addiction. A caffeine fix you never want to part with.

All the muscles in his shoulders relax. A calmness appears to settle over him, and though his face is mostly pensive, you notice the small smile that seeks the light. It’s such a tiny thing. A flash of happiness.

His chest heaves, and then his arms snake under and over your thighs, locking you in place. One hand splays wide over your lower belly while the other firmly grips your thigh. There is no escape from him, but you wouldn’t try.

Simon is who you want.

“And I want you,” he replies, voice almost a growl.

He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to his mouth. Simon’s breath is hot against the inside of your thigh. From between your legs, Simon watches, his lips landing against your skin just shy of his fingers. It’s slow but purposeful, each kiss moving lower and lower to what is clenching—needing him to be inside.

Simon’s lip graze against your pussy, and everything tightens, anticipating the moment he makes contact. The other times Simon has eaten you out, he’s done so with stamina and enthusiasm. Right now, he begins tentatively, the tip of his tongue just grazing your sex.

It’s a tease of a touch. A flash of pleasure that quickly vanishes.

Simon repeats the movement, giving a bit more, sending you squirming in his hold.

“Simon,” you gasp as he lazily runs his tongue over you.

“Fucking love the way you taste,” he says, almost absently.

Your fingers find his biceps the second his tongue returns, stroking slowly. Simon is exploring as if he’s never ventured here before. As if he hasn’t eaten your pussy countless times already.

Your hips want to move. They want to seek out Simon’s mouth. To have the constant pleasure before it explodes into fragments. But you are unable to do much with your lower half. Simon has you locked in, and he’s taking his time.

Each stroke is agony, and yet so fucking satisfying. He gives a little more each time until his tongue flicks back and forth over your clit in a steady pace. The hand splayed on your lower abdomen descends, and you don’t really notice until a finger parts your pussy, sliding inside.

It’s a nice stretch, but insignificant. What you really desire is Simon’s cock. You’ve been craving him, but not how the two of you fucked in Riot Room’s basement green room. There was passion there, but that was between two strangers.

This is different. This is more, and that is all you desire. To be more with Simon.

Simon sucks your clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue toying it in little circles. Your back arches, hips flexing, but there is nowhere to go. It only shoves you further into Simon’s hold. He growls—almost a warning, like he wants you to quit wiggling.

Your breath comes in short pants, breasts heaving with every inhale. But Simon doesn’t notice. He’s too preoccupied with eating your pussy. Every part of you is tightening, the coil building under pressure. Like floodgates preparing to open, you too are close to bursting.

Simon circles your clit with the tip of his tongue is just the way you need him too, and everything tenses. All the limbs and muscles in your body suddenly clamp, shaking. The exhalation is cut off—choked—before blooming into a depraved moan.

Tension releases, and then you’re truly writhing beneath him. Simon does not cease, his tongue and fingers moving in tandem, stroking so perfectly it’s sending you into overstimulation. You claw at his arms, gasping for breath, wanting to beg but unable to find the words. They keep escaping you, floating off into the air where you cannot catch them.

Your moans grow ever louder, the orgasm pounding through you until you feel it behind your eyes.

“Simon,” you cry, tears beginning to form in the corners. “Please—I can’t. No—no more. No—”

With that one word Simon withdraws, his mouth leaving your sex but not his fingers. Those remain inside you, pumping lazily. His lips and chin are glossy with your wetness, and his eyes are heavy-lidded.

Simon kisses the inside of your thigh. “You good, love? Or can I have a bit more?” He punctuates his questions with a slow, deep thrust of his fingers.

You whimper, nails biting into his skin. Simon leans in and kisses the inside of your thigh again. This time, there is teeth. He bites. Sucks. Soothes with a few kisses.

“Want me to fuck you?” The raspiness in his voice has your pussy squeezing his fingers. He smiles against your skin, as if that alone is an answer.

It is what you want. To be his. To know him as you know yourself. Riot Room was a discovery, but this is a binding. You are giving yourself to him, and he to you.

Releasing his bicep that you’ve been clinging to; you rest your hand against Simon’s cheek. He turns into the touch, eyelids closing briefly as he inhales. Your thumb brushes over his cheekbone as Simon’s lips graze your palm.

“Need to be inside you,” he mumbles, almost absently.

“Simon,” you murmur, voice a caress.

He sighs heavily as if your voice is a soft spring rain. Simon glances at you, those dark eyes all fire, and you see the resolve forming there. He is a pillar. An obelisk. A monument to be erected.

Slowly, he withdraws his two fingers from your pussy. Keeping them together, he opens his mouth and slides those sticky digits over his tongue, sucking them clean. Strong arms release their hold, and then Simon is standing tall, an imposing form before you.

He observes you a moment, the silence stretching under his intense stare. It’s like he’s seeing all of you at once and absorbing the information to commit to memory. Just as it feels too much, and your heartrate kicks up, Simon reaches out, grabbing you by the neck.

It is not a cruel touch. It is possessive. Using that leverage, Simon draws you up to a seated position. His lips find yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

Simon whispers your name and you reach out, your palm splaying wide over his tatted pectorals.

“First time is for me,” he says, voice breathy. Simon presses his forehead against yours. “Might be a bit rough.”

“It’s okay,” you reply. “You won’t hurt me.”

Simon hums low in his throat. “Not worried about that. I’d never hurt you.” He goes in for another kiss and this one completely steals your breath. “Second time is all for you. Promise.”

“Take what you need, Simon,” you murmur, running your fingernails gently over his skin.

He shivers, and then grabs your wrist, drawing it away from his chest. “On your hands and knees, love. That’s how I want you.”

Simon’s hands fall away as he shifts back. You hesitate for only a moment, the anticipation pooling in your belly. Slowly, you twist, planting yourself firmly on your hands and knees, presenting your backside to Simon.

You expect his hands to be on you immediately, for him to grab and devour. Instead, Simon’s fingers are whispers against the backs of your thighs. They explore upward, traveling over the curve of your ass to settle at your lower back. Lightly pressing, you submit to his silent instruction, arching your back and pushing your ass into the air. Tucking your legs together, Simon grasps your hips, guiding them up a bit higher.

One hand falls away while the other stays. Behind you, you hear the clink of his belt buckle, of leather brushing against denim, the sound of a zipper. You’re propped up only be your knees and forearms. Fingers digging into the bedding, you wait in wanton anticipation.

When Simon’s hands return, there is no gentleness in the touch. No sensitive love. He is hungry, and his hands speak to that. They both grab hold of your ass, squeezing—almost painfully.

You gasp, only to choke when Simon swipes his tongue over your pussy. He pauses at your entrance and then delves inside, curling the tip to run along your inner wall. Simon fucks you with his tongue, stroking repeatedly until your press your face against the bed and groan aloud.

Simon consumes, and you’re so lost in it that when he ceases tasting you, you don’t realize that it’s no longer his tongue but the head of his cock. He keeps a firm hold on your ass, the head beginning to push in.

At first there is resistance. Simon has your legs pressed together, creating a tighter space for him. It’s silly, really. He doesn’t need it, but fuck does it feel good.

“That’s it. Breathe. Good girl.”

Simon pushes in a bit more and the stretch short-circuits your brain. You don’t remember Simon being this large at Riot Room. You needed patience then, but this is beyond simply breathing through it. You’re being cracked open, split in two, cleaved.

“Breathe,” soothes Simon, stroking one hand up and down your spine. “You’ve taken me before.”

Whimpering in answer, you try to steady your breathing. Simon waits until your next stable exhale. He slides in a bit more, and your toes curl.

“Doing so well, love. Breathe for me again. That’s it.”

With another a steady breath, and some help from Simon, he seats himself entirely inside you. This angle is overloaded. You’re stretched to a point you didn’t think you could reach, and Simon hasn’t even started to fuck you yet.

You reach behind you—seeking him. Simon grasps your hand and he squeezes it before bringing to up to his mouth for a quick kiss against your knuckles. He gently releases your hand, and you bring it back to the bed.

Simon smooths both hands up and down your back before they settle. They find a home on the curve of your ass. Again, Simon grabs hold, and using this grip, slowly slides you up the length of his cock until just the head is inside.

The drag is slow. Languid. A beast with sharp teeth wanting to fill its appetite.

“Oh fuck,” you murmur into the bed, your walls fluttering slightly.

“Fuck,” groans Simon, the vowel elongating slightly.

With that same searing hold, Simon slams you down his length until your ass bounces against his pelvis. He repeats the motion, sliding slowly upward before bringing you back down on him again.

“Fuck,” you whisper into your forearm, because it’s all you can utter.

The stretch is unrelenting, and the angle hits deep, penetrating to a place that has your senses tingling with frenzy.

Simon creates the movement again, but this time the retreat isn’t slow. He sets a pace, bouncing you up and down his cock. With the position you’re locked into, all you can do is dig your fingers into the bed and take it.

He said he’d be rough, that this first time is for him, but it’s not painful—and it doesn’t scare you. If anything, it is primal—lustful. A deep root sinking further to make a home in the earth.

Simon is claiming your body in the way he needs to, and you accept this gladly. If he needs to fuck you like this, you’ll take it. Every time he buries himself inside you, he hits deep, treading toward pleasure.

Penetration alone won’t get you there, but these movements are enough to take you somewhere, and right now, you’re spinning. Clinging. Holding on with all your strength as if that will somehow ground you in the moment.

You’re not sliding across the bed. Simon’s hold on you is too firm. But your upper-half is slipping—melting like a late spring snow.

His grunts behind you are low, coming from somewhere deep within his body. With a slight twist, you dare a look back.

Simon’s head is dipped back in ecstasy, lids shut, jaw clenched. All the muscles in his arms, chest, and stomach flex with every thrust. He looks like a god—a fallen angel. Lucifer himself reborn from the ashes, and the ashes are the ink that marks his body.

One of his hands slide up to grasp your waist, and this hold is more intense. You gasp—choke, rest your forehead against your bicep as Simon continues to fuck you relentlessly.

Time is fleeting. You are lost to the rhythm of his pace, of the tight stretch and the sweat the blooms on your skin.

It is Simon squeezing your ass briefly and promptly withdrawing that brings you back to awareness. You don’t feel sticky between your legs. He did not come. But your confusion turns to sudden pleasure as Simon’s mouth returns to your pussy.

It’s just a few quick strokes of his tongue, and then Simon is flipping you onto your back, dragging you to the very edge of the bed. With one hand, he pushes your left leg wide, and with the other, Simon brings your right leg flush against his front, ankle at his shoulder. He hooks his arm around the leg against his chest, creating an anchor. His free hand rests against the inside of your thigh.

Once you’re in position, Simon returns to your pussy, keeping the same pace as before.

His shoulders are a bit hunched, body leaning forward slightly as he drives forward and back, skin smacking against skin. Other than that, it’s just your breathing and his, and the slick sound of your pussy taking him.

This time you’re free to writhe against him. The bed is not enough. You need to feel his skin.

Reaching out, you try to grasp for anything. What you receive is tenderness. The hand on your thigh disappears, and Simon snags your seeking hand, trapping it against your pelvis. But it’s not a rebuttal. It is not a refusal.

Simon is holding your hand, fingers intertwining.

“Look at me,” he growls, his hips stuttering slightly. You glance up. Make eye contact. It is brief. Fleeting. You are unable to hold his gaze. “Fuck, love. Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, and Simon grinds his hips against you.

“I want to look into your eyes when I come inside you.” His chest heaves. “Don’t look away.”

You don’t. Never. You hold his gaze as Simon’s pace becomes a hurried, frenzied thing.

Simon groans, eyelids fluttering, and then he’s holding himself flush against you. You feel it then—his release. Your pussy is overly full, and you don’t care at all.

Simon’s breathing is deep, shoulders heaving slightly with every breath. At first, he seems a bit dazed, but then he smiles, and your heart flutters at the sight. After all of that, and he’s still holding your hand.

Without speaking, he brings that hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to your fingers before bringing it back down to the bed. Simon finally releases them, placing his hand back on your inner thigh.

He does not withdraw. Simon stays inside you.

“Give me a couple minutes,” says Simon with a shaky breath. His hand on your thigh meanders inward, and then his thumb brushes over your clit.

The touch is a shock, and your pussy reflexively clenches around him, all the muscles in your abdomen tensing slightly.

Simon grunts when you squeeze around him, and then chuckles. “We’ll get back to it.”

“You want a second round?” you ask, breathless.

You hardly did anything and yet your limbs feel like rubber.

“Not up for it?” he replies, a cheeky expression on his face.

You roll your eyes and Simon’s deep laugh makes you grin. “Fuck you, Simon.”

“If you insist,” he croons, rocking his hips slightly.

“Stop,” you groan, even as Simon continues to rub your clit.

You begin to squirm, and Simon eases your leg back to the bed. He shifts again to accommodate it, and that one movement sends a bolt of pleasure up your spine.

“Said I wasn’t done with you.”

“I know,” you mutter as if this displeases you. It doesn’t. You do want more, even if your limbs ache.

Simon ceases playing with your clit and returns to stroking your inner thigh. “You good?”

You nod, and reach for him again. Simon accepts the touch.

The two of you linger there for a few minutes before Simon slips from your pussy with a gentle moan. His gaze falls to the place between your legs, and you feel his cum dripping out. Simon is transfixed, staring intently at your pussy before his gaze sweeps to your face.

“Let’s worry about you now.”

With effortlessness, Simon drags you into a seated position before drawing you into his arms. You instinctually wrap your arms around his neck as Simon turns to sit on the bed.  He shifts backward, coming to rest against the old headboard. Adjusting you in his lap, Simon puts you into a seated position, your back to his chest, legs open to the room and draped over his slightly bent legs.

His hands caress over your body.

Abdomen. Breasts. Throat.

Simon leaves nothing untouched. He is so gentle—so careful with you. His face presses against your temple, and he sighs as if this is his happiest moment. You snuggle further against him, matching his sigh, allowing your head to rest against his shoulder.

Hands delve. Ascend.

Simon brings one up to the front of your throat while the other sinks between your legs. He goes right past your clit to press two fingers into the mess.

“Mine,” murmurs Simon, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple.

Lazily, Simon moves his fingers in and out of your pussy. The palm of his hand rubs against your clit. The swirling, coiling sensation begins to build again. The back of your head presses against Simon’s shoulder. You reach up and snake your arm to the back of his neck.

“Lift you hips for me, love.”

The instruction is delivered with a sultry purr. You do not hesitate. Simon’s fingers slip from your pussy and in their place is his cock. He slides home and you moan aloud.

“Feel so good,” he says softly, rocking his hips, creating a sleepy rhythm. “Made for me.”

Simon’s hand tightens around your throat while the other settles over your clit. Like his hips, Simon rocks slowly, moving the two in tandem with the other. There is no exertion or need to find the finish line.

There is only you and him pressed together.

The fire in the hearth burns low, creating long shadows in the room, and hardly reaching the bed.

Simon’s head tilts slightly, and with his hold on your throat, he guides your face to him. You already know what he wants, and the kisses that follow are just as slow and lazy. Without rushing, you could stay like this forever. Even your orgasm blooms with the gentleness of pressed linens after a wash.

By the second orgasm, Simon’s hips begin a steady thrust, bouncing you lightly in his lap. Like this, he still does not stop kissing you—still doesn’t remove his fingers from your clit. Every touch and stroke are pushing you over the edge until you entirely melt into him.

He understands. He does.

Simon’s thighs tense beneath you, and his kisses pause. You gasp, wanting him back, and Simon dives in, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth as he finishes inside you.

Simon releases your lip, goes in for one more kiss. This one is deep—a claiming.

He eases you off his cock, some of his cum slipping out in the process, and then helps you settle into the bed.

“Come here,” he says softly, sinking down onto his back beneath the sheets, arms open and waiting.

You crawl into him, snuggling close, inhaling his scent. It wraps around you and fills your lungs. Peace sinks into your skin, your veins, and the marrow in your bones. It is all you know. All you aspire to be.

You are safe here in Simon’s arms.

His lips brush against your forehead and you snuggle in a bit closer, gently stroking your hand over his chest. Your eyelids are heavy, and you’re not really looking at him, but your fingers wander, traveling over his skin, tracing lines and circles in a languid fashion.

“That’s nice,” he says, voice gruff.

“I’ll keep doing it then,” you reply, pressing a kiss to his ribs before returning to your task.

Beneath the ink are divots and rises. They are scars—this you already know—but you’ve never really touched them or even asked about them. You don’t believe that it’s your place to do so. With Simon, you don’t want to push. You want him to come to you.

From his chest, you move to the furthest part of his shoulder. His entire are and most of his shoulder is a blackout tattoo, and beneath it is a rippling map of scaring that stops near his elbow. Still, you do not question, but you give this part of him just as much attention as the rest. You don’t want him to think you’re avoiding it.

“They’re burn scars,” he says, voice a bit flat.

You lick your lips, deciding it’s best to say what you’re thinking. “Can hardly tell with the ink.”

It’s true. It mostly blends in. If anything, it adds an interesting texture. Someone glancing at it might think it’s a creative choice before they thought it was burn scars.

Simon sighs and then glances up at the ceiling. He grasps your wandering hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your open palm before returning it to where he took it from.

You do not keep tracing. You keep your hand still.

“Got it while I was in the military.”

This you already figured out. His military career is still a bit of a gray area between you. Simon briefly addressed what he did, that he was essentially special forces, but he didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t press him then either.

But you were the one asking. British Intelligence came inquiring about Archie to his family, and you thought Simon might have some insight you could use to figure out if you should worry or not. It does still bother—still wiggles at the back of your mind like a blind worm.

“Before or after Riot Room?” you ask hesitantly, unsure if this is this the route to go.

Simon blinks a few times in rapid succession, still staring at the ceiling. “After.”

He does not elaborate and you do not press. You curl up tighter against him, snuggling into the crook of his arm. Simon shifts, his arm draped under and over your back tightening. He pulls you in, and leans in for a quick kiss on your forehead.

“It’s why I tattoo now.”

You frown. “They kicked you out for burns?”

The question comes out quickly, and you inwardly chastise yourself for it. You’re digging around.

Even with the knowledge you do have, that doesn’t sound right. If someone is able-bodied, and they’re psychologically okay, why would they turn him away? It doesn’t make sense.

“No,” he says, and you hear the sadness in his voice.

Whatever the memory, it’s a painful one. Still, you do not seek out more answers. This isn’t a place for you to run around in without his consent. It doesn’t mean you don’t want to know. You do. You want Simon to open up about these things, to reveal these pieces even if they are mere fragments of understanding.

“But you have your shop now,” you reply, deciding to divert the conversation elsewhere. You return to running your fingers over his skin.

Simon’s smile returns—a genuine one. Even the tips of his cheeks gain a pinkish hue. “I do.” He turns his head so he can look at you. “And you.”

You laugh and start to roll onto your back, but Simon draws your right back to him, grabbing the nape of your neck to bring you in for a kiss.

It is sweet and passionate.

A lover’s kiss.

Wraith.

But perhaps not a wraith any longer. That name could be set aside.

There is nothing hellish about him, and the danger you sensed all those years ago is simply a part of him. A history of violence you don’t entirely know yet but would like to understand if it brings you closer to him.

Those burdens shouldn’t just be on his shoulders.

Simon’s kisses become soft again. Lazy. You linger in the moment, seeking a few more before deciding to ask the next question.

“Are you done with me tonight?” you ask, fingers lightly grazing the line of his jaw. You catch your index finger just under his chin, drawing him back for another quick kiss.

“Could be. Up to you,” he answers, a bit of that heat returning in his gaze.

“Up to me?” you respond, one eyebrow arching in question.

Simon goes in for another kiss, and this time he pushes you onto your back. Your legs naturally part of him, and Simon settles between as if the two of you have done this countless times before.

He keeps his hand on your neck, but his kisses do not abate. They become deeper—hungrier. Incessant and insistent. Your lips part and Simon’s tongue delves inside. You suck on it. Release. Pull a guttural groan from him.

“If it were up to me,” he rasps between kisses. “I’d fuck you all night and into the morning.”

His words send a spiral of pleasure to your core. Your thighs quiver and then tighten around his hips.

“I don’t believe you,” you reply when you finally have a chance to catch your breath.

Simon presses his pelvis against your sex and his hardness is all the answer you need.

“You’re insatiable,” you giggle as Simon teasingly nips at your bottom lip.

“Only for you,” he coos, his teeth finally making a bit of contact.

Heat rises to your cheeks and floods your body. This softness is nice and you want to stay like this. Just the two of you in this old cottage.

“What’s the plan, Simon?”

“Plan?” he mumbles, head dipping so that his lips can nip and kiss along your collarbone.

“Are we staying like this the whole time?”

Simon nods. “You’re not leaving this bed,” he says against the curve of your breast.

“What if I have to pee?”

“Allowed.”

You snort. “To eat?”

“Of course.”

The tip of Simon’s tongue brushes over your pebbled nipple.

“What if I want to go outside? Breathe some fresh highland air?”

At this question, Simon gently bites, pulling a little gasp from you. “I’ll open the fucking window so you can look outside.”

“Simon,” you hiss, smacking the side of his chest.

His head lifts, those brown eyes of his piercing you like a spear. “I want you to myself for a bit.”

I want you to myself for a bit.

There is a desperate tone to his voice that worries you, but you dismiss it.

It’s nothing, and you are with the man you care for the most.

Your fingers slide over his cheek and then thread through his hair. Simon shifts forward, finding your lips again, and you open for him.

He can have you alone.

He can have you just to himself.

Chapter Text

Dreamless.

How long has it been? How long since Simon can recall a night where his dreams were not dark figments?

Years, maybe.

But that is his first thought upon waking. His sleep is a blank, endless nothing. A far cry from the violence Simon often has to sit with in his head. He blinks slowly, the edges of his vision still laced with a sleepiness that clings to him like honey. In his chest is a calmness that is foreign to him.

It is unknown. And it is strange.

The fire in the hearth is out, leaving behind the faintest scent of burnt wood. From the window next to the bed, morning light filters in through the flimsy curtain. It’s not enough to brighten the room but it does dig into Simon’s senses, drawing him further away from rest.

Simon blinks again. Yawns. Turns his head.

His chin brushes against hair, and you stir in his arms, tucking closer against him. Your hand rests on his chest, and your head uses his shoulder as a pillow. Every breath you take is slow and deep.

Reaching out, Simon brushes your hair out of your face. The small touch makes your nose twitch but you do not stir. His arm that rests against your back rises, and Simon places his hand against your bare hip.

There is no reason to wake you even though his dick is aching something fierce. The fucker can wait until you’re awake and ready for him. There are so many positions Simon wants to put you in, and the bed is just the start. There’s the couch, the dining table, the shower—fuck. Simon will even take you on the floor.

It’s three years of smothered desire all coming up at once.

Simon stares at the ceiling. He breathes in and exhales slowly, attempting to think of nothing with the hope that he might drift off again. But try as he might, there are deeper things lurking in the recesses of his mind. That shadow of a man—the familiar shape that Simon spent years stalking—still sits unsteady. Trying to shut it out is impossible. It keeps creeping back.

And it hardly scratches the surface.

British Intelligence might come knocking, and Price went out of his fucking way not once but twice just to talk to Simon about Kit Walsh’s reemergence. Simon shouldn’t worry about any of it. He’s not in the field anymore. He has his shop now. He’s retired.

Sighing, Simon closes his eyes, breathing deep again in an attempt to silent those anxieties from slipping in where they aren’t wanted. Repeating the process, Simon falls back into calm. He thinks of you during his meditation, and that does it, shifting him into a safer space.

Your hand on his chest twitches, fingers curling slightly before relaxing. It pulls Simon back to the cottage, his eyelids opening, the ceiling greeting him in his return. He reaches for your hand, clasping it in his own. Turning your wrist, he gazes on your palm, admiring the lines. Even here you are beautiful.

Simon brings your palm to his lips. The kiss is gentle. A whisper. It’s not much of anything, but you make a noise anyway. Shifting in his arms, you start to awaken, yawning widely before your eyelids blink slowly.

He turns his head, and his gaze falls on your smile.

“Morning,” you murmur.

Simon brings your hand back to his chest but he does not let go. “Morning, love.”

You snuggle against his side, face turned into his ribs. You place a couple of kisses there, and Simon resists the urge to laugh. Apparently, he’s fucking ticklish there.

“Sleep okay?” you ask, resting your chin on his pectoral.

“I did. You?”

You hum in agreement, eyelids closing as Simon’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand. “What’s the plan for today?”

Simon grins. “Thought we talked about this last night?”

“That’s right. How could I forget,” you reply, eyelids still shut, warding off wakefulness. “Your plan is to fuck me senseless.”

“You’re not senseless,” muses Simon.

“No. I am not.”

Simon slides up your arm and grasps your bicep, drawing you on top of him. You giggle, and playfully slap at him. Simon wraps his arms around your back and traps you there.

“Kiss me,” he says.

You’re still smiling, still a bit giggly when you quickly peck him on the mouth.

“More,” he coos.

“Simon.”

“More,” he demands.

Simon needs you like tree roots need the earth. You ground him somehow, and though he does not entirely understand, it’s the only thing bringing him peace.

Your smile shifts from a playful tease to one of sultry softness. Leaning forward, you place both hands firmly on Simon’s chest. Closing the distance is agony. Simon wants your mouth on his now, but you’re fine with taking your time. With teasing.

When your lips finally touch his, it is gentle. Not a peck or a brush of the lips, but a lovely little kiss that is full of warmth and sends Simon’s heart hammering. His arms ease from around your back and slide downward to grasp your ass before settling on your hips.

You push up so that you’re over him, and then the kisses come like a waterfall. The two of you push and pull, drawing close until one of you needs air. It is a dance. A tangle. Simon’s hands are everywhere. He cannot settle.

He is desperate. Hungry.

Simon is so focused on your mouth that he doesn’t notice your hand until your fingers wrap around him. You squeeze lightly, the tips of your fingernails scratching against the base.

Simon groans against your mouth. Breaking the kiss, he grabs your throat, halting any forward movement on your end.

“Don’t like it when I touch you?” you tease.

“I like it,” he rasps, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“Then let me touch you,” you sigh, eyelids a bit heavy, gaze focused on his mouth.

Simon’s need for control is like breathing to him. From his military career to how he runs his shop, Simon is deliberate with his choices. But this is not the battlefield. You are not a customer.

You are so much more.

You are everything.

And fuck it—this trip is about the two of you. Simon can relax. He can hand you control for a minute.

Slowly, Simon releases your throat and crosses his arms behind his head.

“Touch me,” he says, settling into the bed.

Simon might appear calm on the outside but his stomach is a knot. Tension sits tight in his abdomen. Anticipation is like a hot knife scorching his skin.

Your hand around his cock strokes up, and then you descend, leaving a trail of soft kisses behind. You’re gentle with him, and it only reminds Simon of how soft he is with you.

It is surprising. Breath-stealing.

You squeeze his muscled thigh, trace the v of his pelvis of your tongue, and lazily pump his cock like you have all the time in the world. Simon’s fingers itch. He wants to touch you back and tangle his fingers in your hair.

Further you descend, and then your tongue is on him. Just the tip across the head. Over the slit. Swiping up the precum that blooms there. The muscles in Simon’s stomach clench and release. You do it again, and they spasm.

Simon swallows down the groan forming in his throat.

If you’re going to tease him like this, Simon won’t be able to control himself. He’ll slip, and you’ll end up on your back with your legs spread.

You settle between his legs, one hand wrapped around the base and the other resting on the top of his thigh. You pump him a few times before leaning in to kiss the tip. A spasm blooms in Simon’s back, everything tightening with the anticipation.

A pearly bead of precum blooms in the slit, followed by another. You eagerly lick it up with the tip of your tongue, and then swirl around the head before licking his entire length from base to tip.

Simon hisses, hands clenching into fists. Fuck, he wants to touch you. He also wants to draw you back up his body and kiss you until you’re breathless.

And you’re teasing him, working between soft, open-mouthed kisses and slow licks of your tongue. Simon is trying hard not to fidget and squirm, but it’s difficult, especially with his arms crossed behind his head.

When you finally take him into your mouth, Simon’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. You hold him there, the saliva collecting, some of it even passes from your lips. Simon inhales, and you swallow him down, your lips touching your hand.

Simon is fucking gone. Done. He planned on finishing inside of your perfect fucking pussy every time during this trip but he might blow right here and now if you keep this up.

Hollowing your cheeks, you slide back up, and then repeat the process, bringing in your hand to pump him in time with your upward passes.

Simon can hardly focus. You are messy. Eager. Enthusiastic. He groans loudly, nearly choking on the end of it when you completely throat him. Every instinct is telling him to tangle his fingers in your hair, to seize control and make you squirm.

You suck hard, and Simon’s hips jerk without warning.

No. He’s still going to finish in your pussy. Fuck it.

Uncrossing his arms, Simon reaches out and forces your mouth from his cock. It falls from your lips with a wet pop. There is saliva on your lips, and a lusty haze over your eyes.

You’ve touched him, and now Simon wants his control back.

“Staddle me.” Simon almost doesn’t recognize how raspy his voice is. He sounds like a rabid animal. “Fuck yourself on my cock until you come.”

Your answering whimper is sweet, and the way your crawl up his body even sweeter.

With palms flat against his chest, you push back into a seated position. You reach down between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, flexing your hips upward. With just the slightest shift of your hips, the head of Simon’s cock presses to your pussy.

This time Simon touches. His hands dart out to grab hold of your hips. You’re sinking down on him. Parting. Opening. Welcoming him inside. You’re tight and wet and fucking perfect as more of him disappears.

“Fuck,” Simons groans loudly as you push down on his chest to flex your hips up and back down on him.

You lift, roll, go back down. Again. Again. And again, until you’ve taken every fucking inch of him. You’re doing exactly as instructed, fucking yourself on his cock. Watching you is just as wanton.

Simon could get used to this. You in his bed, and greeting the day with you on top of him.

One hand slides up to your waist and then shifts to your stomach, traveling up between your breasts. Simon wraps his hand around your throat, and you instinctually bend into the touch.

“Say my name,” growls Simon, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Say it.”

Your lips part with a shaky breath. “Simon.”

His cock is glossy, disappearing and reappearing with every bounce and roll of your hips. Simon’s gaze locks on to the spot, of your pussy taking him entirely. Fuck, you’re absolute gorgeous.

“Again, love. Say my name again.”

Simon finds your clit, rubbing circles there. Your pussy clenches around him, squeezing so hard that Simon starts silently listing things on 141 Ink’s nightly checklist to keep himself from finishing.

Your head falls back, exposing your neck. “Simon,” you moan.

You shudder, body clenching. Simon watches it all, absorbing all the little details from how your chest heaves and your thighs quiver.

His resolve shatters. Breaks.

Simon sits up and wraps his arms around your waist, rolling you onto your back. He keeps himself inside, and once you’re flat, he starts to thrust with abandon, seeking his own end.

It comes fast. And Simon smothers his groan by claiming your mouth in a fierce kiss. Your arms drape over the back of his neck, and your thighs tighten around his hips. He pumps shallowly, savoring the feel of your cum-filled pussy.

You’re his. Fucking his.

Simon’s hips still, and the kisses slow.

“That’s one way to start the morning,” you murmur against his mouth.

Simon grins and kisses you again. “Could be every morning.”

“Promise,” you reply, nipping at his bottom lip.

Simon groans and draws back, playfully thrusting into you even as his cock softens. You burst out laughing, one hand covering his face as Simon makes smooching noises.

“You’re a menace, Simon,” you giggle, trying to wiggle away from him.

Scooping you up in his arms, Simon brings the two of you to a seated position. “Let’s get you showered and fed.”

You arch an eyebrow, grasping the sides of his face. “Are you joining me?”

Simon does join you, and even in the shower he cannot keep his hands off your body. You are an addiction. A deep craving. A never-ending sweet tooth that cannot be satisfied. The shower is large enough to fit both of you, and Simon takes every advantage, filling the steamy room with your moans.

At breakfast, Simon places a black helmet on the table.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“Yours.”

“Mine?”

Simon nods. “You said you wanted some fresh highland air.”

You pop your spoon into your mouth, and then remove it slowly. “You told me that you’d open a window.”

Simon did say that, but he was also lost in a haze, the lust in his bones animalistic in its need for you. Last night he needed to possess. That’s all.

“I did,” he agrees. “But I also want to show you something. Take the afternoon.”

Your gaze shifts from Simon to the helmet and then back to him. “I should change.”

“You should.”

At the main house, Simon uncovers the sport bike. It’s Johnny’s, the one he purchased before joining the military. It’s old. Dirty. But it’ll do the job. Simon doesn’t want to take the SUV for this. It might be the middle of November, but the weather is decent, if a bit overcast.

You stand off to the side, clutching the helmet in front of you. Even from where Simon examines the bike, he can see how eager you are. You’re nearly on your toes, bouncing with excitement.

It pleases Simon to know he’s about to make you happy in a different way. Sex is nice, but your smile upon seeing the sport bike twists his heart. He wants you to smile like that all time, not just when he has his cock inside you.

Simon kicks the stand up and wheels it out into the open, bringing the stand back down once the bike meets gravel.

“You’ve ever been on one before?”

You shake your head. “No. But I’ve always wanted to.”

A new memory then. Good.

Simon pats the seat. “Need to talk safety.”

You nod and step up to Simon, staring down at the bike.

Simon points with the tip of his shoe. “These are your footpegs.” He catches it, and then pulls it out on one side before reaching over and doing the same for the other. “You’ll rest your feet here when you’re on the back.”

He then points to the exhaust. “Careful your heels don’t touch this. It will melt your fucking shoes.”

Again, you nod, but you don’t interrupt. Simon can’t gauge whether or not you’re picking it all up.

“You’ll sit here.” He pats the passenger seat. “I’ll get on. And then you will.”

Simon steps away from the sport bike and glances down at you. Your gaze lingers on the bike before it shifts to him. “Hold on to me at all times. Around the waist is best.” He points to the gas tank. “Place your hands against that when we’re slowing down or coming to a stop if you think you need it.”

“Will I fall off if I don’t?”

The question startles him. The very idea of you falling off the bike while he’s driving makes a small part of his brain reconsider even taking this short trip in the first place.

“Not necessarily. Just make sure you’re moving with me.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“If we’re going around a curve, lean into it like I do. Don’t try to remain upright or lean too far. Might throw us off balance.”

“That’s it?”

Simon shrugs. “It’s the basics.”

You straighten your shoulders, determination on your face. “I can handle it.”

Simon cups your cheek and steps into your space. Leaning forward, he places a quick kiss on your forehead.

“You’ll do fine,” he says, pulling away. “Let’s get that helmet on.”

Simon watches as you struggle to put it on. You make a weird face and then it’s sliding into place. The straps dangle and you stand there with arms out like you’re ready to go.

“Good?” you ask, voice a bit muffled.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, reaching for the straps.

With one hand, he flips up the visor, revealing your eyes. Simon secures the snaps into place and then he tugs on them, causing you to stumble into his arms.

“Simon!” you gasp, grabbing onto his forearms to keep yourself from smacking into his chest.

“Can’t even put a helmet on properly,” he tuts. “What am I going to do with you?”

You groan like you’re overly annoyed with him and Simon grins, squeezing your waist before smacking your ass. You swipe out at him but completely miss. With a grin, Simon saunters backward and retrieves his own helmet.

Usually, Simon wears a balaclava underneath, but without one, all he has is a covering for his mouth and nose. He secures it in place before putting on his own helmet.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready!” you exclaim, hands clasped in front of you.

Reaching out, Simon snags your arm and draws you in. He lightly taps the front of his helmet against yours. Your answering giggle and the crinkling in the corner of your eyes pleases him. Simon wants to bottle up your happiness and keep it forever.

He taps the top of your helmet before heading for the bike. Simon kicks up the stand and tosses his leg over the side of the bike. Reaching out, Simon offers you his left hand. You take it and put one foot on the footpeg, pushing yourself up and onto the seat.

Your hands slide over his waist and come to a rest on his stomach. Simon answers by reaching back and squeezing your thigh.

The bike flares to life, the engine roaring before mellowing out. Simon brings his feet up, and then the two of you are off, leaving gravel for paved road. You’re perfection the whole way, leaning with him during turns, and keeping your arms around him.

Driving is calming for Simon. It doesn’t matter if he’s behind the wheel of a car or on a bike. It’s all soothing to him. Ever since his injury and retirement, Simon’s excursions on the back of his sport bike have dwindled. He does own one, but he hasn’t brought the thing out in months.

This is almost cathartic. Completely natural.

As Simon approaches their destination, he turns off onto a gravel path that gives way to dirt. There are no trees this way, and there are no cars. It’s likely illegal to be driving over unpaved road like this, but Simon doesn’t give a fuck about the risk. What he cares about is giving you a view, and making new memories with the woman he cares about most.

Ascending a ridge, Simon comes to a stop, turning the bike and shutting it off.

To the left is the open sea.

There is no one around. No cars or noise. Just the view. And fresh highland air.

Simon twists a bit and offers you his arm Your dismount isn’t graceful but you don’t stumble. Instead, you’re hastily pulling on the straps in your eagerness to remove the helmet. When you have it off, Simon is just getting off the bike.

Your smile is so wide and fierce. He’s never seen you like this. There is a sense of adventure he didn’t realize was there this whole time. Simon removes his helmet and face covering. Holding his helmet in one hand, he walks up behind you, wrapping one arm around your waist to hold you close.

You sink against him, your hand covering his. “Thank you, Simon.”

He can hardly hear you over the crashing waves below, but he does, and his answer is a soft kiss to the top of your head.

The two of you stand there, gazing out at the ocean. Neither of you speaks, and Simon doesn’t mind. It’s peaceful simply existing in your presence. Simon doesn’t need to think about anything. He can hold you close to him, and that’s enough.

You twist in his arm and glance up at him. Your eyes are soft and full of an emotion that Simon first registers as love. Yet that can’t be right. You haven’t said that word to him, but neither as he.

Affection, yes. But love? Not yet.

Not yet.

Simon’s gaze drops to those luscious lips and he cannot resist. He meets them with his own, and you greet him eagerly. It is a slow dance of self-control. Simon wants to consume as much as he wants to savor. But he’s not the one seeking more. You’re ravenous, deepening each kiss until Simon swears he can taste the salt of the sea on his tongue.

Drawing back is torture, but he manages. “What are you doing, love?”

Your lips part. There is an answer forming there, but you aren’t saying anything. Simon wants to coax it from, for you to speak your mind, to say whatever it is you’re struggling to communicate.

But he also can’t force. He can’t take what you do not freely give.

If words cannot be spoken, Simon can give you something else.

“Come here,” he says, turning you around. “Give me your helmet.”

You offer it to him and he takes it. Simon strides over to the bike and hangs a helmet on each of the handlebars. He gestures to you, one hand extended. You come to him immediately, and Simon draws you close, wrapping his arms around your waist.

These kisses are not slow. They are deep. Consuming. Simon’s dick is hardening in his pants with each one. His hands roam over your body, grabbing at whatever they can. You groan into his open mouth, and Simon knows exactly what he wants.

He pulls back and grasps your chin. “Can I fuck you?”

Your eyes widen. “Out here?”

“There’s no one around,” he says, stealing another kiss. “And I want you.”

You grin sheepishly, shying away from him slightly. “What did you have in mind?”

Simon has plenty of ideas, but there’s only one he really wants to try. “Do I have your permission?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

With his hands on your hips, Simon guides you over to the sport bike. Sliding inward, Simon goes for the front of your jeans. The button first. Then the zipper. Slipping his hands underneath the band, he shoves your jeans and underwear down to your thighs, revealing your ass to the cool air.

“Bend over the bike.”

“Over the bike?”

“Over the bike,” repeats Simon.

You place both hands on the seat. Glancing over your shoulder, Simon sees the hesitation.

“We can stop,” he says, because he can. This never has to go further unless you want it to.

“That’s not it,” you reply softly.

Simon walks up behind you, brushing some of your hair behind your ear. “Think we’ll get caught?”

You shake your head.

“I won’t let you fall.”

“I know. I trust you, Simon.”

Simon grabs your neck and pulls you in, claiming your mouth. Your lips part and Simon slips his tongue inside.

“Bend over that fucking bike, love. I need to be inside you.”

The heat in your cheeks stirs Simon’s groin to attention. You obediently bend over, presenting your gorgeous ass to him. With your jeans around your thighs, you cannot spread wide. It’ll be a tight fucking fit, but Simon doesn’t care.

What he’d like to do is lick your clit until you’re dripping, but this will have to do.

Simon is quick with the front of his pants. The urge to be inside you burns in his bones, and when his cock is free, Simon feels like he can suddenly breathe. He rubs the head against your pussy, and he’s greeted with your slickness.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs. You’re ready for him, and he’s hardly touched you.

Simon finds what he’s after, and starts to sink in.

You gasp aloud, the sound of it cut off by a crashing wave. Simon grasps your hips, sinking in further until he’s seated entirely inside.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, composing himself.

The fit is tight, and you’re completely grasping him as if you don’t want him to retreat or move at all. Simon needs to get his shit together fast. He’s been inside of you for only a few seconds and he’s ready to blow.

You have one hand on the gas tank and the other on the footpeg. You’re too far forward to glance back at him. Simon would like to see your face, but this position is fucking sexy. You’re at his mercy, presented to him like an indulgent treat.

With his hands on your waist, Simon rolls his hips, slowly working his cock in and out of your pussy. It’s a slow drag, and Simon feels every single part of you. It’s heaven. Paradise.

Every stroke draws forth a moan from you. Even with the waves crashing against the cliff, Simon can hear each sound you make. Each one drifts up and curl around his head, penetrating his senses.

This is fucking perfect to him.

Your pussy clenches, and Simon’s hips stutter, wobbling the bike.

Fuck.

If Simon is too rough, he might send the two of you toppling over. He needs to be fucking careful. Sure, he wants to fuck you, but this is mostly about you, and making you feel good.

Digging deep, Simon drags up a morsal of control. Finding a better grip on you, he sets a steady, rolling pace.

Simon keeps rhythm until you groan and your pussy clenches hard around him. He’s not far behind, staying in to the hilt as he fills your pussy for the fourth time today.

Every exhalation brings steam, and Simon suddenly realizes how cold its become. Slowly, he slips from your body, cock softening as he stuffs himself back inside his pants.

He helps you unbend, returning you to an upright position. You turn around with a dazed but pleased look on your face. Simon eases your jeans over your ass, closing the zipper and securing the button for you as you fix your hair.

“Want to stick around for a bit?” asks Simon.

“Could we go for a ride instead?”

“Sure, love. Whatever you want.”

After the ride, you and Simon rarely leave the cottage. Simon wants you in every position and on every surface. He got exactly that and so much more. Simon forgets about everything and spends each moment with you present and happy.

Which makes the return that much harder.

It’s a slow tearing of flesh with nothing to staunch the pain. Simon drags his feet returning to London. You’re a dead brick the whole drive, snoozing softly in the passenger seat. Simon doesn’t disturb you. In fact, he drives slower, reaching out to you on occasion just to reassure himself that you’re real and close.

When Simon pulls into Amelia’s drive, he almost backs right out and takes you home with him. Simon sits in the driver seat and stares as your sleeping form.

Reality isn’t always nice. It isn’t always fun.

These last five days have been some of the best of Simon’s life. He doesn’t want to return to anything. He only wants you, and the rest of the world can just fuck off for a while.

He hates what he does next, but he does it.

Simon unloads the car, and carries your bag to the front door. He doesn’t have to knock. Amelia is there to greet him.

“She’s asleep in the car,” says Simon automatically.

Amelia shrugs. “Room is upstairs and to the left.”

Simon silently ascends. The door is open and the light is on. He knocks softly and pushes it open. Evie reclines on the bed with a book in hand. Bravo is on the very edge, facing the door. His head perks up at Simon’s entrance.

His tail smack smack smack’s against the comforter.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, dropping the bag just inside the door. “Come on, Bravo.”

At the car, Simon opens the passenger door. He stares at you a moment before gently shaking you awake. You twist toward him, rubbing at your eyes. When you notice it’s Simon, you smile, and it hurts him somewhere deep.

“We’re here,” he says, almost raspy.

“Already?” you yawn.

He clears his throat. “Afraid so.”

You slip out of the car and Bravo comes forward, pressing his nose into your head. Simon grabs your other hand and pulls you close. “Let me walk you to the door.”

“I need my bag.”

“Already took it upstairs.”

You squeeze his hand and go up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

Simon steps back and opens the rear passenger door. “Inside, Bravo.”

The German Shepard obediently hops in. Simon shuts the door, still holding your hand, and walks you to the front door. He doesn’t want to let go, but it’s cold out, and you need rest.

“I had fun,” you say.

“Just fun?” teases Simon.

You shake your head. “I liked getting away for a bit.” You reach up and rest your hand against Simon’s cheek. “And being with you.”

Simon turns into the touch and presses his lips to your palm. “When can I see you again?”

Your face falls, and Simon’s heart drops into his stomach. “I don’t know. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Of course, love.”

You do call him the next day, and Simon can hear the quiet anxiety in your voice. The two of you were gone for almost a week, and anything could have happened during that time. While Simon isn’t particularly happy that he cannot see you, he understands. He also has his own shit to take care of.

Because he rearranged his schedule to take you away for a few days, Simon rebooked appointments almost on top of each other to make it happen. That isn’t ideal either, but he did it for you, and that makes it worth it for him.

It’s an entire week without you, and the days of November are starting to creep towards the cold of December. He hasn’t even asked you about coming with him back to Johnny’s family farm for Christmas. It’ll be expected that he goes, and he’s already blocked off his schedule, but he needs to convince you to come.

After the last client leaves for the evening, Simon closes up shop. It’s routine at this point, and he’s upstairs pouring himself a whiskey in a matter of minutes. Bravo pads over to his bed, turning three times before digging at it and then flopping down with a huff.

“Hard day?” asks Simon and Bravo grumbles at him.

Simon snorts into his whiskey glass. He shoots it back and then reaches for the bottle.

A chime goes off in the kitchen. Simon freezes.

He knows that sound. It’s not his personal phone or one of the many appliances. It’s one that he never wants to hear. Ever.

Simon turns in his chair, staring into the dark kitchen. He waits, thinking that he might not have heard the sound after all.

The chime comes again and Simon shoots up out of his chair. Simon flips on the kitchen light and strides toward the phone. He always keeps it on. Always keeps it plugged in.

Simon had it during his time in the military, and Price told him to keep it in case they ever needed him. It’s encrypted. And its sole purpose is for secure communication.

It hasn’t gone off since his retirement.

Simon snatches up the phone, removing it from its charger. He’s not sure what he’ll find.

Taking a deep breath, Simon logs on, and a message stares back at him.

It’s not Price. Or Gaz. Or even Laswell.

It’s fucking Johnny.

It’s Walsh, Lt.

Of course it fucking is.

Expect me Friday.

Chapter Text

The words lingered. Nearly burst.

You almost said them—almost confessed it all to Simon at the cliff’s edge.

I love you, Simon.

But you didn’t. You clung to them, sucked them down and pretended they didn’t exist. When you looked at Simon, and saw the possession in his gaze, you faltered. Those dark eyes of his transported you back to Riot Room, to the way he looked at you in the mirror when he had you in his lap.

You couldn’t speak them. Couldn’t make them real and whole and tangible.

As you chew on your nail in Amelia’s kitchen, you regret not saying something to Simon. The truth sits heavy in your chest. It is a rock in your stomach. Things might be different if you had said those words to him. Maybe you’d be with him now and not anxiously tapping your foot against the floor.

Amelia comes around the corner, her gaze falling to your bare feet. “Where are your socks, dear? You’ll catch cold.”

The weather is finally starting to change, becoming chillier by the day. It’s currently raining outside. The sky is gray and dreary.

“I’ll grab some,” you reply, reaching for your coffee mug. “Just started the kettle for you.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet,” smiles Amelia. “Did you eat yet?”

“Just toast with a bit of butter and jam,” you answer, yawning.

Amelia tuts. “Always start the day with a proper breakfast.” She begins opening cupboards. “I’ll take care of it.”

You’re about to ask Amelia if she’d like some help, but Lillian’s soft wail from upstairs silences your question.

Lillian is a month old now. It feels like only yesterday when you were at Evie’s bedside at the hospital. According to the pediatrician, Lillian is developing well. Healthy. That at least is a comfort. Everything else is tangled up, like bugs twisted in a sticky web.

Amelia glances over her shoulder, setting a pan on the stovetop. “How about you check on, Evie? I can handle breakfast.”

“Sure,” you nod, yawning yet again, taking your coffee cup with you.

“And put on some socks!” she calls out after you.

You lift your mug in answer, ascending the stairs quickly and entering the bedroom you’ve been sharing with Evie. She reclines in an arm chair with Lillian held to her chest. The baby suckles at her breast, all wailing gone.

Evie glances up and you instantly see the exhaustion. Having a newborn isn’t easy, but it’s so much worse without a partner. Evie might have you and Amelia to help, but who she really needs is Archie. She deserves to have her husband here with her.

When you returned from your trip with Simon, you tried not to hound Evie about what happened while you away. Spending time in Scotland helped you forget everything—to take the burden off your shoulders for a while. It was nice. Lovely. Simon helped you slip into comfort. You were safe and loved while you were with him.

Evie insisted that everything was calm while you were gone. Nothing but rest, but you know it’s a lie. She’s been pensive—a bit withdrawn since your return.

It’s troubling, and you’ve been keeping an extra eye on her. The only time you see Evie smile is when she’s looking at Lillian.

You take a sip of your coffee. “After you’re done feeding, I can watch her for a bit. Take a shower?”

Evie softly shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

You pop a hip. “When’s the last time you showered, Evelyn Green?”

This time she smiles, and it reminds you just how infrequently you’ve seen that side of her. She sighs with exaggeration, and that is all the answer you need. Evie’s lips part, and you hold up your hand, silencing whatever rebuttal she’s forming.

“No arguments,” you insist. “Shower. Breakfast. And I’ll take Lillian.”

Evie’s gaze softens. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her focus returning to the little bundle in her arms.

When Lillian is done feeding, you take her from Evie’s arms and head downstairs. You want Evie to take her time and enjoy the shower. Sometimes she tries to handle things alone, and she simply can’t. It’s why you’re here and not back in America.

Amelia putters about in the kitchen preparing breakfast. You sink down onto the sofa, placing your mug on the coffee table before situating Lillian into her bouncer. It’s not automated, but you’ve found using the toe of your foot to keeps it in motion while keeping your arms free.

Lillian’s eyes are open. Those beautiful blues shift around, exploring her surroundings. It takes a bit, but she eventually falls back into slumber. Leaning forward, you examine her little fists. Her fingers are curled tight and it takes forever to wiggle a single finger free.

“Need to clip your nails, little lady,” you muse.

Lillian’s response is a slow blink and a yawn before falling back asleep. You laugh softly and lightly tap the tip of her nose. She wiggles a bit, face scrunching, but she doesn’t wake.

“Now. Where are your clippers,” you ponder, glancing up.

As you search your brain for where they might be, a harsh knock comes from the front door. You turn in the direction of the sound, staring through the doorway of the living room, unsure of who might be here at such an early hour.

It’s not even ten in the morning.

“Can you get the door, dear,” calls Amelia from the kitchen.

“I have Lillian,” you reply back, still staring at the front door.

“Blast,” swears Amelia.

You hear shuffling, and then the clanking of pans just before Amelia comes around the corner. Another knock follows, this one more insistent than the last. Amelia huffs, strands of grey hair slipping from her bun as she rushes toward the door.

Returning your attention to Lillian, you move the toes of your feet against the bouncer, giving the contraption some movement to keep the infant asleep.

“What are you doing here?”

Amelia’s question comes out like a bullet. An accusation laced in metal. You’re immediately on alert.

Leaning away from Lillian, you attempt to see around the old woman. Your view is partially obstructed, and you can’t entirely make out who is on the other side of the door.

Their answer is muffled, and while you don’t catch any words, their tone of voice sounds familiar. What’s irritating though is that you can’t seem to place it.

Frowning, you stand, staying close to Lillian. There isn’t one but two people at the front door. You take a step forward and to the right in order to see over Amelia’s shoulder.

Your blood solidifies in your veins. Becomes ice. That coldness creeps outward, snagging bone and muscle until you’re rigid and unbelieving. Evie is upstairs right now and has no idea that her in-laws are at the door.

Archie’s father, Charles, wears a perfectly tailored tweed coat and black slacks. His wrinkled face is formed into a severe frown, as if seeing Amelia and being here at all is entirely distasteful. Archie’s mother, Miriam, stands next to him. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe bun, skin so tight from the hairstyle her expression remains neutral.

Fuck.

“The two of you should leave,” says Amelia, tone flat.

“We came to see our granddaughter, Amelia,” replies Charles just as flatly. “And it’s not your decision.”

Amelia scoffs. “It’s my bloody house. And neither of you are welcome.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You know this.”

This has nowhere to go but south.

Miriam’s eyes widen slightly but the rest of her face remains the same. The woman is so vain she’s likely had recent work done. “You would deny us, Amelia? After everything?”

After everything? As if they deserve to take one step into this house or interact with Lillian at all. You don’t want to be part of this conversation, and Lillian is right here, next to you. Oblivious and asleep. There is no way you can slip past the bickering trio to hide her upstairs.

“Fuck,” you mutter, as you attempt to sort out your next steps.

You can’t see Amelia’s face but you hear the anger in her tone. “Leave.”

Charles and Miriam stay where they are. Of course they do. They’re wealthy. They own an obscene amount of land. And they know a slew of influential people. They won’t budge. Not for anyone. They stick their noses up at everyone that don’t deem worthy of their attention.

“We drove—”

“Your driver drove,” corrects Amelia, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Semantics,” he sighs, removing his scarf. “We came to see our granddaughter. Let us in.”

You don’t like his abrasive, pushy tone. This is the exact shit that pisses you off.

Amelia stands her ground. “You’re not allowed in this house. You know that, Charles.”

Why he isn’t allowed inside the house is beyond you, but you suspect it has to do with Evie and Lillian’s presence. If they weren’t here, Amelia might allow them entry.

Charles’ frown deepens somehow, his cheeks going bright red. “Where is Evelyn? I’d like to speak with my daughter-in-law.”

They haven’t spoken to Evie once since Archie’s death. The only contact she’s had at all from them is through their solicitor.

“She’s not here,” says Amelia.

“Absurd. Of course she is.”

You glance down at Lillian and sigh.

“It’s the friend.”

Friend drips off Miriam’s tongue like a viper. It stings your skin, and you hate that it does. This is the same woman who called Evie a leech on her wedding day. Her slimy demeanor never got under your skin but it does now.

You turn, ready to strike out, but a soft voice cuts through the tension.

“It’s okay, Amelia. Let them in.”

Evie stands on the bottom step of the stairs. Her brown hair is still damp from the shower. She wears a dark green fluffy robe. Evie appears less tired than before. Maybe the shower refreshed her.

Amelia glances between Evie and Archie’s parents before stepping aside, allowing them entrance. The movement is sluggish—almost reluctant.

Charles extends a hand and Miriam enters first. Her gaze knocks Evie, and then Amelia before turning inward, noticing you, and then—

Before the words even leave her mouth, you block Miriam’s view of Lillian. Her lips become a thin line and she clutches her purse like you’re about to snag it from her at any moment.

Charles enters in behind her, frown unchanging. He studies you a moment, and then the blocked bouncer.

“Is Lillian there?” he asks, taking a step forward.

You match his movement. “She’s sleeping.”

Amelia follows behind like a brewing storm. She gestures at the two lounge chairs across from the sofa. “The two of you sit there.”

Charles and Miriam glance around as if afraid to touch anything. You feel their distaste for the space ooze from them in a wave. They eventually sit, though they do so reluctantly. Miriam’s completely rigid.

You wait until Evie takes a seat. She selects the middle of the sofa, directly in front of Lillian. Amelia settles to Evie’s left and you end up on the right. Evie reaches out and lightly presses on the bouncer until it begins to softly rock.

“Thank you for inviting us in, Evelyn,” says Charles. He hasn’t removed his coat and neither has Miriam.

Strange. Perhaps they don’t plan on staying.

“Of course,” she replies. “I just want peace between everyone.”

Evie is always the optimist. She cares about everyone else before herself. In this, you wish she’d be a little selfish. Archie’s parents have always been awful, and being kind to them doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Removing your phone from your pocket, you send out a quick text to Archie’s solicitor. He told you no interactions, but Evie let them in, and he needs to be here or at least be aware of the situation.

Mister Grant responds almost immediately.

I’m on my way.

For a second, your fingers hesitate. Simon told you to text or call if something came up. That he would act as a buffer if necessary. But Mister Grant is already on the way, and it’s early. Simon is probably in his shop getting ready for a day full of clients. You don’t want to bother him with this. It’s not his battle.

You place the phone screen-side down on top of your thigh.

“I agree,” says Charles. He clears his throat. “It’s why we’ve come.”

Amelia snorts and Charles shoots her a look. Amelia stares right back, unafraid. “And what is your version of peace, Charles? Hm?” She looks ready to brawl.

Thank fuck for her. You’ve faced these two plenty of times but it’s better with backup.

Amelia isn’t Charles’ biological mother. His mother died suddenly, but his father, James Williams eventually remarried before divorcing that woman and marrying Amelia. Amelia and James were together for almost eight years before they separated. The fourth wife was James’ last. While Archie never cared about his grandfather’s many wives, Charles has always been vocal about his faithfulness to one woman.

Evie isn’t making eye contact with anyone except her daughter. There is a small, sad smile on your friend’s face that clenches your heart.

“A peace that has everyone’s best interest. I think we can all agree that Lillian’s health and future come first,” answers Charles.

“Indeed,” muses Amelia. “And what does this look like to the two of you?” She glances between them. “You didn’t drive all the way to my home just for a quick visit.”

Charles and Miriam share a look.

Your heart drops into your stomach. The tips of your fingers grow numb. Evie’s gaze is still on Lillian but her fingers no longer press against the bouncer. They’ve gone still.

Charles clears his throat before reaching into an inside pocket hidden within his tweed coat. Withdrawing some folded papers, he begins to smooth them out.

“What is this, Charles?” asks Amelia, worry in her voice.

“Our lawyers drafted this. All Evelyn needs to do is sign.”

Evie finally glances up. “Sign what?” Her voice sounds a little distant and shaky.

“You’re not signing anything,” you say to Evie, placing your hand on her knee.

Charles keeps his gaze on Evie. Even Miriam is looking at her intently. They both sit up straight, clearly uncomfortable.

“Wait until Mister Grant gets here,” you murmur. “He can take a look at it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupts Charles. He retrieves a pen from his pocket, clicking the end. “Just sign at the bottom, and you’ll never see us again.”

“Sounds like a bloody dream,” mutters Amelia.

“So you didn’t come to see Lillian?” asks Evie.

“We did,” affirms Miriam.

Even as she says this, something doesn’t sit right with you. Ever since Archie’s death, his parents have done nothing but make Evie’s life hell. Why would they come for a ‘final visit’ before breaking off ties entirely?

“There’s a catch,” you say. “What is it?”

Charles’ gaze moves to you and his frown deepens. “All Evelyn needs to do—”

“What do you want, Charles?” snaps Amelia. “Speak plainly.”

“You’re not the child’s grandmother nor are you her mother, Amelia,” growls Charles. “Stay out of this.”

“And yet I have been more of a parent to Archie than either of you,” she retorts.

Charles’ lip curls, the papers shaking in his fist. “You were a lounge singer my father had a fancy for. And when he tired of you, he left.” He takes a deep breath. “Thankfully.”

“James would be ashamed of your behavior,” hisses Amelia.

“My father is dead and I am the head of the Williams estate,” snarls Charles. He drops the stack of papers into his lap. “And this matter only concerns us and Evelyn.”

Miriam leans forward, her gaze on the bouncer. “Lillian will be happy. All her needs will be provided for.”

Evie’s head tilts slightly. “Lillian already has what she needs.”

This conversation is spiraling. Your head is spinning. Maybe you should have contacted Simon. He’s much closer to you than Mister Grant.

Miriam sighs and you immediately want to throw them out the door. This is going nowhere except downhill. They have a fucking agenda. You know this deep in your bones.

“Lillian is our granddaughter. We want what’s best.”

“And I’m her mother,” breathes Evie. “I know what’s best for her.”

“Do you, Evelyn?” replies Charles. He smooths the papers again and holds them out. “It would be best for everyone if Lillian leaves with us.”

It would be best for everyone if Lillian leaves with us.

No. Fucking no.

You should have texted Simon. They’d cower in his presence. He’s the intimidation you need in a situation like this. But Simon is not here.

It is just you, Evie, and Amelia against two entitled assholes who can’t leave things alone.

“Lillian is not leaving with you,” you say coolly, fingers curling around your phone.

“That is for Evie to decide,” replies Charles, matching your tone.

Evie shakes her head. “Lillian is mine.”

Amelia stands, her anger on full display. “You will leave this house immediately.” Her voice is so cold. All bottled fury.

“Amelia—”

“Leave, Charles. Take your wife and piss off.”

“Amelia!” cries Miriam, also standing.

Charles pops up from his seat, his free hand out to stop his wife from moving forward. He tosses the papers onto the coffee table and then steps back to place his hand on his wife’s arm.

“I see we aren’t wanted.” Charles grabs his scarf as tears begin to form in Evie’s eyes. “Think about it, Evelyn. You know we can provide a better life for her.”

Amelia crosses her arms as Charles and Miriam see themselves out. When the door is shut, Amelia storms over, engaging the lock.

“The fucking nerve,” she says.

Evie grabs Lillian and abruptly stands, clutching the infant to her chest. “I need to lay down.” She pauses. “And pump.” Her voice cracks on the end before she takes off up the stairs.

You watch her go, your heart heavy. Amelia sighs and walks past you, entering the kitchen.

Amelia sighs and walks past you, entering the kitchen. Breakfast is likely ruined but you’re no longer hungry.

When Mister Grant arrives, he retrieves the papers Charles left and promises that he’ll look into it. He remains calm during the exchange, but even you can tell this situation rattles him. It’s not uplifting, and it only turns your stomach.

The rest of the day is a blur. You hardly feel anything. Most of your time is spent checking emails and catching up on work. Even then, it’s fuzzy. Completely separate as if you’re looking through a foggy window. The words on your computer screen mean nothing and your head hurts something fierce.

You’re aching inside. Wanting—needing comfort. You crave strong arms around you, and a comforting warmth only a specific person can provide.

But you don’t seek Simon out, though you want to. Instead, you sulk on the sofa, leaving the bedroom to Evie. She needs her space and time alone. You don’t want to shake things up after all that’s happened.

It’s not until the next day that you realize how much you miss Simon. Over a week has passed, and yesterday was hell. You need to feel his hands on your body. To hear his gruff voice in your ear. To feel that perfect stretch of him inside you.

Anything.

You’ll take anything Simon is willing to give. You just need him right now.

The hour is late, but you’re desperate. The walk to his place is short. Brief. You didn’t call ahead, but you weren’t thinking of that when you walked out the door. The only thing on your mind is getting to him.

Simon gave you a key to the exterior door that leads into the cramped hallway up to his apartment. It’s dark when you enter, and you shut it behind you softly, lingering just inside the doorway for a moment as you catch your breath.

You ascend the staircase, pausing at Simon’s apartment door. As your fist rises to knock, you hesitate, the stress of yesterday catching up to you. It hits like a wave and you feel the tears welling up unbidden.

Knocking sharply, you step back from the door.

Bravo doesn’t bark. It’s all quiet on the other end. That would be just your luck for Simon not to be home.

But then you hear heavy footfalls, and the door swings open.

Simon is maskless and his eyes widen slightly at your appearance.

“Simon,” you murmur, not recognizing your own voice. It’s cracking. Shattering.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, reaching out to take you into his arms.

As his arms go out to pull you close, you drape your own around his neck. Pulling him close, you bring him in for a fierce kiss. You are demanding. Needy. Simon senses this immediately. He melts against you, the two of you tangling until one of you has to come up for air.

“I need you, Simon,” you murmur against his mouth. “I don’t want to feel anything. Just you. Only you.”

The middle of Simon’s brow furrows, his gaze traveling all over your face like he’s trying to map your pain. He sees a problem, and he wants to solve it. You’ve seen this assessing gaze before. But you don’t need Simon to solve anything. You just need him to fuck you.

The two of you can talk afterward.

“Please,” you whimper and Simon relents.

He drags you inside, slamming the door shut with one hand. He shoves you up against the wall, trapping you there, his pelvis pressing against your stomach. You cling to him, fingers digging into the back of his neck.

Simon steals your breath, devours you with kisses that bring a slickness to your core. This is how you needed to be kissed. It is melting away the ice. Warming you everywhere. You seize more of them, hungry to consume as many as you can. You are a greedy thing, and Simon willingly submits, indulging you completely.

Your fingers claw at his clothes. You want them off. You want them gone. There is nothing you long for more than to feel Simon against you, to know only his flesh and touch. Everything buzzes. Everything aches.

Simon heeds your desire. He pulls on your clothes just as you tug at his. Pieces start to fall away. Drifting to the floor. Skin is revealed, and Simon is warm beneath your hands. He is all hardness. Pure strength.

You explore his angles and ridges, fingers trailing over tattoos and scars. Simon groans with every touch, pressing harder against you, grasping your hips and waist and thighs as if the two of you have been separated for an eternity.

Your hands descend, and Simon groans loudly when you wrap your hand around him.

“This is what I want,” you murmur. You release him, grab his hand, guide it between your legs. “And I want it here.”

“Fuck, love,” growls Simon. Bending at the knees and sliding his arms under your thighs, he lifts you off the ground and presses you against the wall again. You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankle behind his back.

Simon slides home, filling you completely with one quick thrust.

Your fingers dig into his skin, leaving half-moons behind.

Simon isn’t slow. He is just as desperate, using your body in the exact way you need him too. This is what you needed—what you desired.

Skin against skin. Exchanged kisses and breath. Dark eyes with pale eyelashes staring into your soul. The man you love claiming you.

Your lungs are full of him.

Vanilla. Black tea. A hint of smoke.

All you feel is Simon.

It is intoxicating, and you are drowning.

Chapter Text

Simon’s skin is sticky with sweat.

Last night, you ran to him with tears in your eyes and his name on your tongue. Simon took you into his arm and offered you his body without question.

 He had you up against the wall with your legs locked behind him, shaking the decorations on the wall with each thrust. Simon dragged you to the floor after he came inside you. Putting his mouth to your sex, he ate you senseless. When you were boneless and soft, Simon wrapped you up in his arms, bringing you to his bed. The rest of the night, Simon worshipped your body, and whatever was on your mind seemed forgotten after the third orgasm.

Now it’s morning, and Simon stares at the ceiling.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and sighs. Your scent is still on his skin, and you taste lingers on his lips. The very thought brings a smile forth, the pride in his chest swelling at how pliant and good you were for him last night. Simon turns his head, glancing at the woman beside him. You’re completely out, curled up in the bedding like a burrito. All he can see of you is a nest of hair.

Simon has no plan to wake you. You deserve rest, and whatever it is that sent you to him in the dark, you’ll tell him in time. Never have you pushed him, and Simon respects that by not pushing you back. He hasn’t always been good about it, but after Scotland, he wants to try. Desperately.

Slowly, Simon slips out of the bed, heading into the bathroom. He quickly brushes his teeth and splashes some cold water onto his face. Rubbing the back of his neck, Simon looks at himself in the mirror. Sometimes he sees his father looking back, but all Simon sees is a ghost.

He takes note of his body as he does every morning. The bad knee aches, and his usual pains are there, but there isn’t any flare up. Nothing is bothering him more than it usually is. That at least is something Simon can work with.

Returning to the bedroom, Simon finds you turned over in the bed, one arm outstretched over the space he previously occupied. You’ve unraveled from the sheets, exposing bare leg and a portion of your stomach. Even in sleep, you seek him. Knowing that you’re naked under there sends a burning need through his blood. It travels southward, hardening what was previously soft.

The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches with a smile. You’re adorable, and fucking sexy. Simon saunters over to the side of the bed. Lifting the sheets, he slides back in, lifting your arm so he can settle in beside you. You groan in annoyance, eyelids fluttering, snuggling closer to Simon as he releases your arm. It drapes over his chest and stomach, your fingers curling in slightly, the tips of your nails scratching his skin.

“Good morning,” you murmur, the hand on Simon’s stomach descending slightly.

“Morning, love,” replies Simon, voice still gravelly from sleep.

Your hand travels further south. Simon notices but dismisses it. He drapes his arm over your back to drag you into a kiss. At the moment his lips find yours, your hand wraps around the base of him, stroking lazily.

“What are you doing?” asks Simon against your lips. Beneath the question is desire. Simon loves it when you touch him. When you seek him first, it drives his possessiveness higher. You’re all his, and you knowing this pleases him.

You return the smile and gently squeeze, thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. It sends a bolt of pleasure through him, his dick swelling with need.

Fucking hell.

“Do you not like it?” you tease, giving him another pump.

“I like it very much,” growls Simon, as you slightly change pace.

A possessive wave roils up, seizing Simon’s control. He grabs hold of the front of your neck, the size of his hand against your throat a marvel to him. In this, Simon is the dangerous one—the one that can easily break if you he tried. You’ve put your trust in him. You seek him for safety and comfort. That undoes him, twisting between and around his ribs until it clenches his heart.

You whimper at Simon’s touch. Using his leverage on his throat, Simon pushes you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. He goes in for another sweet kiss, grinding his hardness against your sex. Your hips flex, meeting him, and Simon groans into your mouth.

For Simon, you are fucking sweet. A treasure.

Grasping your hips, Simon turns you onto your side, pressing your back against his front. Slipping a hand between your legs, Simon lifts the top one by the thigh, giving him access. There is no resistance. You’re soft in his hands. Perfect. Wanton.

With his other hand, Simon guides himself between, sliding in to the hilt. You moan loudly, head falling back against his shoulder.

“You feel so fucking good, love,” groans Simon into your ear.

Simon has no idea if you’ve heard him, because he is lost after the words leave his mouth, pumping ferociously. Your exhalations are sharp and breathy. They float outward and up to the ceiling. All Simon understands is your body, and the luscious sounds you make.

Simon nuzzles your neck, grunting with each thrust. His bad knee aches but he doesn’t give a bloody fuck about it. The only thing that matters is how you feel around him, and how much he adores this closeness. He wants you all the time, and when you are here, he wants to take every advantage.

When you clench and spasm, Simon’s lower back and groin tighten. With one hand pressed to your lower belly, Simon holds himself inside you, giving you every drop.

The two of you linger like this for a bit, and when Simon finally retreats, he guides two fingers between your legs, stopping his release from escaping. He presses it back in, leaving gentle kisses against the curve of your shoulder. Reaching behind you, your fingers finding the back of his neck.

You scratch there with the tips of your nails and Simon’s eye close, tiredness returning with every pass. He’d love to stay like this. But Simon has to open up shop today, and you might have things to do on your agenda.

As badly as he wants to say, Simon forces himself to say the words.

“Ready for a shower?” whispers Simon into your ear.

You hum contentedly. It’s answer enough.

Dragging you from bed and into his arms, Simon carries you into the shower with him. Even there, he does not stop touching you until your moans fill the steamy room. When the two of you dried off and dressed, Simon makes breakfast.

“Want to tell me what happened?” asks Simon, bringing his tea mug to his lips.

He leans against the counter, waiting for the toaster to spit out his bagel. Simon is going to load it up with eggs, bacon, cheese. He needs something greasy and filling.

Your hand briefly pauses above Bravo’s back. Simon notices this hesitation, but it’s a slight thing. You return to scratching him like nothing is wrong at all. Bravo’s tail thump thump thumps against the kitchen floor.

“You think something happened?” you sigh, moving to scratch between Bravo’s ears. The German Shepard leans into the scratches, tongue lolling out to the side with contentment.

Simon knows you’re hiding something, and while he isn’t interested in pushing, he does want you to talk to him.

“Showed up late,” replies Simon, shrugging. “Didn’t call.”

You had tears in your eyes.

But Simon doesn’t speak it. He doesn’t want to corner you.

“Sorry for that.”

Simon frowns and strolls over to you. Placing his hand on the back of your head, Simon leans down. You answer his touch, seeking him just as he seeks you. The kiss is slow and a bit chaste. Simon offers up another, and you take that one too.

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs. “Want to make sure you’re okay.”

Your smile is a bit sad, and Simon goes in for another kiss, wanting to turn it into a genuine one. He makes sure each is deep and intimate, playfully teasing with a quick nip before pulling away. This time, your smile is broad and delicious.

“It’s just family drama,” you answer.

“Your family?” asks Simon.

You shrug. “Evie’s family. But she’s like my sister. So I suppose it’s the same.”

Simon sets his tea mug onto the table, sliding into the chair next to you. “Anything you want to tell me?” The toaster goes off but Simon ignores it.

Your lips part before you glance away. “I regret not calling you yesterday.”

Simon blinks. “You don’t ever have to call me before coming over. Gave you a key for a reason.”

“Not that,” you laugh. Your smile is brief. “Earlier in the day. I should have called you immediately.”

That doesn’t sit well with him. Leaning forward, Simon places a hand on your knee. “Tell me what happened.”

Your exhalation is laced with exhaustion. “Archie’s parents stopped by. They tried to convince Evie to hand over parental rights to them.”

Simon’s grip on your knee tightens. “They demanded Lillian.”

That’s fucking fresh, but Simon isn’t shocked at all. After nearly knocking Adam off his chair at the pub, it’s no surprise the rest of the family is fucking vile.

“They didn’t leave with her,” you amend, tone a bit softer.

“Good,” growls Simon.

You place your hand on Simon’s, fingers intertwining. “It was messy. Stressful. I just needed to get away.”

“How do you feel now?”

You glance up, and the smile you give him goes straight to his dick. “I’m much better.”

The morning continues to be better for you because Simon sees to it. He feeds you a filling breakfast, and then takes you to the couch for another round of sex before you reluctantly leave him. Simon insists on walking you home, but you want some time to yourself before returning to Amelia’s. The two of you compromise on the door that exits on the street.

Simon kisses you the entire way out the door and down the stairs, drawing you back to him with each one. No matter of much your squirm or try to avoid him, Simon manages to snag you back, peppering you with kisses.

But it’s Friday.

The day Johnny said to expect him.

And Simon has his fucking job to do.

141 Ink is up and open in record time. There is a buzzing beneath Simon’s skin. Maybe it’s all the sex he’s had, but he feels fucking good. Everything is in order. Everything is as it should be. You are his. 141 Ink is thriving. Simon is growing. Changing.

Slipping the balaclava on, Simon welcomes the first client of the day. Most of today’s bookings are piercings. Piercings don’t take long, and Simon made sure to book his schedule tight to make up for the lack of ink work. Of all the bookings today, only two are tattoos, both of whom are wanting smaller pieces that won’t take him more than hour or so to complete.

Simon falls into focus. He keeps his attention tight, all worries slipping away. The clients have his attention, and the day passes quickly.

After the last client leaves, Simon starts closing up. Johnny didn’t tell Simon when to expect him, just that he’d show up today. It’s already late, and if Johnny doesn’t arrive soon, he won’t linger in the shop too much longer.

At his desk, Simon decides to tidy the area. He really needs to fucking check his email but that’s work for another day. Shifting the paperwork around, Simon discovers a reminder.

Simon stares down at the sketches. Sketches meant for you. You asked him to tattoo you, and Simon still plans on it, but he wants it to be special. He’s narrowed it down to five with plans on redesigning each to see which he might like best. But the final decision will be a gift.

Something special to give to you.

Taking extreme care, Simon places the sketches into a neat pile on his desk, and sets them atop his sketchbook. His fingers linger against the topmost sketch. The charcoal sticks to the tips of his fingers.

The soft chime of 141 Ink’s front door opening snags Simon’s attention.

A familiar face walks through the door, and Simon grins behind the balaclava, pushing off the desk to greet his friend.

“Johnny,” calls Simon, striding toward him. “Wondered when you—”

Johnny holds up a hand and Simon comes to an abrupt stop. The raised hand forms into just an extended index finger that Johnny brings to his lips, indicating silence. Simon remains frozen, his gaze focused in on Johnny.

From his pocket, Johnny retrieves his phone. He types something out and then holds the phone up, screen-side facing Simon.

Someone might be listening.

What the fuck does that mean? Someone might be listening?

Johnny pockets his phone and glances around 141 Ink, his gaze assessing. Simon knows that look. It’s that military training kicking in. Does Johnny think there’s a bug somewhere in Simon’s shop? The idea seems absurd, but he’s never doubted Johnny before.

Then, Simon recalls the rest of the text.

It’s Walsh.

Coldness seeps in to Simon’s blood.

Simon lightly punches Johnny’s arm, grabbing his attention. He frowns at Simon, one eyebrow slightly arched in question. Like a light switch being flicked on, Simon returns to his history of violence.

Simon indicates he’ll take the back area while Johnny conquers the front with a few hand signals. Johnny nods, understanding. The two of them have done shit like this before but in far more dangerous places.

They split up, working through everything. Every drawer is opened and checked for false bottoms, lights are disconnected and inspected, vent coverings are removed and piping is cleared.

Nothing turns up. 141 Ink is clear.

Johnny and Simon meet in the middle of the shop. There’s a tension in Johnny’s jaw that Simon doesn’t like. He needs to know what the fuck is going on.

“Why would someone be listening, Johnny?” asks Simon, swallowing down an angry growl.

The very idea of someone invading Simon’s personal space infuriates him. This is home, his fucking business. He might share this space with Bravo but he’s also been sharing this space with you. And your safety is fucking everything to Simon.

“We should check your flat,” replies Johnny, avoiding the question.

“My flat?” scoffs Simon. “What the bloody hell is going on, Johnny?”

Something is wrong, really fucking wrong. Johnny never avoids question. The two of them have always been close, and the respect runs deep. It almost hurts that Johnny isn’t being completely truthful yet.

Johnny’s sigh is heavy. “Let’s check your flat first, Lt.”

Upstairs, they tackle the space together, going room by room. The process is slow, but this is Simon’s personal space. Neither of them wants to break anything. If this were a different place, they wouldn’t care about breaking shit. But this is Simon’s home, and the possible intrusion is personal.

Simon expects to find nothing—that Johnny is overreacting.

But Johnny isn’t.

He’s completely fucking right.

Johnny finds a microphone in the overhead light in the living room. Simon finds another microphone in his bedroom, this one hidden in the bedside alarm clock he never uses.

The offending devices look like beetles on the living room floor. Simon stares down at them, wanting to know who the fuck has been listening in on him. It’s certainly not SAS. They have no reason to, and it’s not British Intelligence. Those retirement papers were signed and Simon wiped his hands of the whole fucking thing.

This is far more sinister.

Simon grabs a nearby notepad and scribbles across the page, holding it up to Johnny.

Can you trace the transmission?

Johnny shrugs.

Maybe. It’s not promising but it’s something. Johnny bends down on one knee. Simon watches as he starts taking the microphone apart. His fingers are steady, and once the transmitter is disconnected, Johnny drops the tiny microphones and smashes them under his boot.

The sound is satisfying.

“I’ll take these to Price,” says Johnny, presenting his open palm.

The transmitters are small—nearly pea size.

“What do you think the range is?” asks Simon, staring down at the transmitters.

Johnny shrugs. “Can’t be too far. These are bloody fucking tiny. Perhaps a block or two.”

“A block or two?”

“I’m only guessing, Lt. Better at blowing things up.”

Simon grunts in acknowledgement. “You better start fucking talking, Johnny.”

“Might need a bloody drink first, Lt.”

Simon strides over to his personal bar. Grabbing two tumblers, Simon brings them to the kitchen table along with a bottle of scotch. He pours Johnny a heft portion, and the man knocks it back, slamming it down. Simon tops him off.

The two of them sit, the silence stretching for a bit. Johnny sighs heavily and runs his hands over his face. The transmitters sit in the middle of the table like an ill omen.

Johnny takes a sip of his scotch. “We had a month-long mission. Lots of surveillance. Infiltration.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Bloody fucking right,” quips Johnny. He takes another sip, grimacing slightly. “We were watching some of Walsh’s compounds.”

Simon frowns. “Were they actually his?”

“A few,” shrugs Johnny. “We had to move quietly. You know how he works.”

Simon knows exactly how Walsh works. He purposefully makes friends with people in the government as a means to cover up his activities. When he’s not making nice with politicians, he makes nice with extremist groups and religious leaders. Kit Walsh is only after what he wants, and he will seek those goals out with anyone willing to give him some leverage.

“At first, the circle was pretty wide. Wasn’t just one-four-one handling things. But information was leaking from somewhere. Laswell and Price were furious. Walsh and his cronies kept slipping through our fucking fingers.”

Johnny finishes his scotch and he pours himself another. “Every time we went to raid a place it’d be fucking empty. Cleared out. Nothing.” Johnny makes a face before taking a sip. “Circle started to tighten after that.”

“You find the snitch?”

Johnny nods. “Sure did. But we couldn’t do anything. Our mission wasn’t ‘sanctioned’ or some other bullocks.”

Simon shakes his head. “Someone working behind the scenes then.”

“Yeah,” nods Johnny. “Government level and military. We know who Walsh likely paid off but sticking that accusation is going to be fucking difficult.”

“So everything is happening under the radar?”

“For now,” confirms Johnny. “We have to pretend like we’re not touching the guy but neither Price or Laswell plan on letting this bastard walk free. Not after everything.”

It explains a few things but not much. There are still so many unanswered questions.

“And what about me, Johnny?” asks Simon. “Why is someone listening in on me?”

Johnny grimaces and then finishes off more scotch. He reaches for the bottle and Simon snags it out from under him.

“Talk to me, Johnny,” says Simon.

“Pour me some scotch first,” he counters. Simon stares him down and Johnny laughs. “I fucking deserve it.”

Simon shoves the bottle toward him and Johnny snatches it up, filling his glass.

“Someone found out that it was you we talked to.”

“What?”

Johnny sighs. “Someone found out Price, Gaz, and I talked to you. They told Walsh. He knows, Simon.”

Fragments of memory return suddenly and violently. Simon is thrust back into that tiny parking lot in Edinburgh when he saw a shadow of a man leaning against Simon’s car. Simon recognized the stance and shape. He thought it was Walsh then, and with Johnny’s confession, it likely was.

And it’s not just that one moment. There were others—like the time you and Simon had breakfast at the little café down the street. How Simon had glanced across the street and saw a familiar yet burned face.

Simon dismissed all those moments, believing they meant absolutely nothing—that his old demons were simply awakening to bite as snarl at him.

Wrong. Completely wrong.

“You think Walsh had these planted?” nods Simon at the transmitters.

Johnny remains quiet but that’s answer enough. Scowling, Simon has to force down the rising anger. He wants to punch the fucking wall. To know that Walsh invaded his home and walked amongst his things, enrages Simon.

And it’s not only that.

Simon has no idea when these were planted. It certainly had to happen well before yesterday which means whoever is listening on the other end has not only heard Simon but heard you. With one of them planted in the bedroom, it’s likely that whoever is listening in heard every one of your moans.

That is vicious. A violation.

You are his. Your pleasure is only for Simon’s ears.

“What are the next steps?” asks Simon, clearing his throat.

The issue is that Simon isn’t part of the military anymore. He has no foot in this race. Whatever Price and Laswell have planned is out of his control. But know what might be coming can help him figure out what his next steps need to be. Protecting you is the most important thing to him.

“There are a few more compounds we’ve been looking at. Gaz has been on surveillance. Keeping tabs.”

“But you haven’t found him?” asks Simon.

Johnny shakes his head. “No. But we’ve taken out a few of his contacts. Intercepted a few weapons shipments.” Johnny shrugs. “We seized a forty-foot shipping container full of drugs out from under him. Walsh was trading it for weapons.”

“Bet he hated that,” snorts Simon.

“Oh, I’m sure,” replies Johnny with a smile. It’s a brief grin, one that disappears quickly. “It’s not enough though. We’ve made ground but it’s small. No one is happy.”

It’s not surprising. It took Simon nearly a year before he was able to get close enough to Walsh to kill him. But he didn’t kill him. He might have shoved a blade into his chest and watched him fall into flames, but even that couldn’t take the man out. This time, it better happen with a bullet. One that strikes true and between the eyes.

“You have any idea where he might be?” asks Simon.

“He’s back in Europe. We know that for certain. Whatever he did in the States is over. Laswell believes he was schmoozing. Looking for donors to his cause.”

“Yeah, well, Walsh enjoys spending other peoples’ cash. It’s why we had such a hard time tracking him.”

Johnny lifts the bottle of scotch and inspects the liquid within. “And I enjoy other peoples’ liquor.”

“You drive here, Johnny?”

“Nope.” He brings the bottle to his lips, drinking deep.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, snagging the bottle out from Johnny’s grasp.

Johnny chuckles, cheeks a bit flushed from the alcohol. He leans forward and places his arms on the kitchen table. “I’m real sorry, Lt. We never wanted you to get messed up in this.”

“It’s not your fault, Johnny. You didn’t plant these. You didn’t tell Walsh I helped you.”

“I know.”

Simon pushes up from his chair and takes the now empty bottle to the sink. Setting it down, he comes back to the table, arms crossed over his chest. “Stay here for the night. Take the couch.”

“Do I get a blanket?” teases Johnny.

Simon glances at the couch where there’s a throw blanket and pillow already waiting for him.

“How’d you know?”

“I fucking didn’t.”

Johnny laughs. Simon removes the tumblers from the table, adding them to the dishwasher. When Simon turns around, Johnny stares out in the living room, a crease in his brow.

“Price doesn’t believe Walsh is coming after you.”

Simon frowns. “It wasn’t really on my mind. But I did run him through.”

“Aye. Lt. You did.” Johnny strides over to the sofa, grabbing the blanket off the back. He shakes it out and holds it up. It won’t cover him completely. If anything, it looks fucking small compared to Johnny’s broadness.

“Is this for a fucking child?” asks Johnny.

Simon rolls his eyes and pulls out a sheet from the closet. “Here, you wanker.”

Johnny does a pretend bow before he fluffs the pillow. Simon knows Johnny is only trying to lift his spirits. This situation with Walsh is fucked—a complete mess. But Simon has confidence in Price and Laswell. If they don’t believe Walsh is coming after Simon, he’ll take their word. But that doesn’t mean he won’t keep an eye out.

“You should take her away for a bit,” says Johnny.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your woman. Take her somewhere. Get away.”

“We were just at the cottage, Johnny.”

He shrugs. “I know, but—” He pauses. “Might be good.”

“Could I bring her for Christmas?”

Johnny turns in Simon’s direction. “Of course you can. Mum would love that.”

Simon nods. “I’ll handle it, Johnny.”

“I know you will, Lt.”

Chapter Text

Three Years Ago

“Confess, bitch. Give us the details.”

Sam takes a towel to a bottle of prosecco, the cork popping as she dislodges it. Jade collects four tumblers from the mini-bar and sets them out on top of the low dresser the television sits on.

“Don’t leave anything out,” adds Jade, tossing her blue hair over her shoulder.

All of you are freshly showered and wearing the fluffy hotel provided robes. The softness is absolute heaven. Like wearing a cloud.

You sigh heavily and fall onto your back on the plush hotel bed, hands pressed over your eyes. There is a pleasant ache between your legs—a reminder of your wraith. His scent still lingers even though you stood under scalding water and scrubbed the day away. There is a hint of mint. Of black tea. A whisp of smoke.

Maybe it’s in your hair.

Maybe it’s embedded into your skin.

Thorns that have burrowed and only time will push them out or leave them to fester and infect.

“What do you want to know?” you groan, rubbing your temples.

Already, the alcohol is beginning to creep from your system, leaving a tension behind that signals an oncoming hangover. It’s not piercing yet. Just a nuisance. Sam tops off the glasses and the prosecco is distributed. The bubbly drink burns your nose a bit but it drives off the blooming headache.

Begrudgingly, you push up to a more seated position, your three best friends staring back expectantly. It’s the moment of truth. You’re facing the jury. This is your judgement.

“Was it good?” asks Sam, one eyebrow arched in question. She takes a sip of her drink, leaning slightly to the right, adjusting the front of the robe.

“Yes,” you reply slowly.

“And?” she prompts, waving her hand in a signal to go on.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” you mutter, staring down into your dwindling glass of prosecco. If you’re going to get through this conversation, you’re going to require more.

Jade sets her glass down on the side table between the two beds. She goes up on her knees, excitement buzzing through her bones. “How big was he?” she asks. “What did it look like?”

“Jesus Christ, Jade,” you groan.

Yes. More prosecco will fix this.

“Just say when,” interrupts Jade. She brings her hands flat against each other, and then slowly starts to move them away.

Sam snorts, and then chokes on her beverage, nearly rolling off the bed as she goes for a tissue. You stare dumbly at Jade, not saying anything.

“Just say—seriously? Seriously?” Jade’s hands are unrealistically far apart. “This is impossible. I’m starting over.”

“Stop,” you laugh, grabbing her hands. “He was…decent?”

“Decent?” snaps Sam. “We don’t get any details? Color? Length?”

“Girth,” adds Jade. “A prominent vein?”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Girl. Give us something!”

You glance over at Evie. “Are you going to help me at all?”

She shrugs and sips on her prosecco. “I’m curious too,” she says softly.

You down the rest of your prosecco and immediately regret it. A wave of indigestion hits you and you swallow down a burp.

“Okay,” you concede, holding up one hand placatingly. “Fine.”

The three women settle onto the bed, all their attention on you. It takes a moment—a deep inhalation before you begin. But you do, and you tell them most of it. You talk about Ghost’s proposition out in the alleyway and of where he took you to. You describe the positions he put you in, and how damn good the man was at tonguing orgasm after orgasm out of you.

They sigh and swoon. They giggle or simply stare open-mouthed.

There are some things you don’t say. You don’t tell them how you felt in your heart when you left or the circumstances of why. The sense of needing to run was insistent and strong, but looking back—you now feel shame.

You regret not staying even for a few extra minutes.

“Damn,” sighs Sam, leaning back on one elbow.

Jade just blinks, her mind still trying to process the information.

Evie smiles behind her glass, and you know that look. “What?” you prompt, lightly smacking her thigh.

“Sounds like you had fun.” She lightly smacks your thigh back. “Aren’t you happy we went?”

Now

“Bag packed?”

“I think so. How’s Lillian?”

Evie takes a bite of her sandwich and glances down into the bassinet. “Asleep. For now.”

“How are you feeling?” you ask softly, walking around to the side of the bed. Sitting down on the edge, you lean back slightly, staring at your friend.

It’s been over a week since Archie’s parents came to visit. The rest of the day and the following, Evie was a mess. But her cheeks have color to them now, and the bags under her eyes are almost non-existent. She’s always been the mediator, but it doesn’t seem like she’s willing to the mediator in this anymore. Her fuse no longer sparks.

While Evie hasn’t spoken it out loud, her actions indicate her willingness to separate from Archie’s family completely. It would be better for everyone, but mostly for her mental wellbeing. She’s dealt with too much of their bullshit, and it’s time that she breaks away from them for good.

It’s their own fault. Their own behavior that has caused all this. It never had to come to this, and now they likely won’t see their granddaughter at all.

“Better,” she sighs. “A bit nauseous.”

“Headache?” you ask.

She nods. “I just need a little caffeine. Maybe something carbonated.”

“All the paperwork signed?”

“Yep. On the table in the kitchen.” Evie takes another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s fine, Evie. I’m happy to do it.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “And I know I keep thanking you, but I do mean it. Having Amelia around is wonderful, but she wouldn’t be able to do everything you’re doing for me.”

It’s true in a way. Amelia has been integral in helping with Lillian, but it is you that has spent all your time taking care of the financial end. Mister Grant calls you. The estate agent contacts you. You are Evie’s voice at the moment, and you’re more than happy to do it.

“I’m not the one packing anything up,” you laugh, throwing up your hands. “All I have to do is point and Jennifer’s assistant will label it.”

“That’ll be easier,” sighs Evie. “I can’t imagine trying to go through all our belongings by hand.”

You shrug. “I get to eat lots of takeout in the meantime. I’ll be fine.”

Evie reaches out and squeezes your hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Evelyn Green.”

Her grin is infectious as you push up from the bed and snag the backpack you packed. Hefting it over one shoulder, you salute Evie and walk out of the room backwards. You hear her giggle all the way down the hall.

Once the paperwork is in your hands, Amelia drops you off at the train station. You spend the entire trip hunched over the paperwork and reviewing the list you made of all the items Evie wants to keep. She’s giving you liberty to make the final call on most things, but you know it’s because she’s doesn’t want to deal with any of it.

It’s understandable. Everything in the home reminds Evie of her dead husband, and she’s already emotional delicate. If she doesn’t want to look at or deal with any of it, you’ll carry the burden.

When you arrive in Cambridge, it’s a quick taxi ride to the house.

The quiet is almost ominous, and the dark rooms seem bigger without anyone here with you. For a moment, you consider calling Simon to ask if he’d like to come out here and join you. But the idea is quickly dismissed. Simon has work. He has a job to do. Already he’s made numerous changes to his schedule just to accommodate your needs.

It’s not like he wouldn’t come if you called. You know that if you picked up the phone right now and dialed Simon’s number, he wouldn’t even hesitate. Simon would come like a moth to a flame.

But moths are often consumed in fire.

You think better of it.

The estate agent, Jennifer, and her assistant are supposed to arrive early in the morning to start the pack-up process. There isn’t time to dwell on your feelings or how much you wish Simon was here with you.

On the kitchen island, you set out the paperwork, organizing it now so you don’t have to deal with it in the morning. You just want to sleep—to have as much quiet as you can before the work begins. Lillian keeps Evie up, but the little one keeps you up as well. The lack of sleeping is starting to eat away at you.

It’s a fresh start in a way. You sleep deep and you sleep hard. When Jessica and Mollie arrive, you’re refreshed.

“Evelyn wants these packed?” asks Jessica, gesturing toward an array of kitchen appliances.

“Yes,” you confirm.

Jessica nods and Mollie writes “pack” on a sticky note before attaching it to the mixing bowls. Plenty of things are going into storage for now—at least until Evie is confident enough to find her own place that is uniquely hers.

You haven’t broached the subject explicitly. It’s only been mentioned in passing, and Evie agreed that she didn’t want to sell everything off only to have to replace it later. What she truly wants is for the house to be sold. To create a space that doesn’t constantly remind her of her dead husband.

You and Jessica walk around the entire house and garden with Mollie trailing behind, her arms loaded with tape, paper, and sticky notes. It takes several hours to go through everything, and by the end you’re starving. The coffee and croissant you ate for breakfast are out of your system entirely.

Jessica taps away at her phone, a frown on her face. “I swear. I’ve been having issues with this thing all morning,” she grumbles.

Mollie shrugs. “Want me to reach out to them?”

“Please,” sighs Jessica. “They’re supposed to deliver the boxes for us. Find out from John what time.”

Mollie nods and grabs her tablet, her fingers tapping away furiously. She gives her back, one arm clutching the tablet while her other hand unloads the pens from her coat pocket.

Jessica turns to you with a bright smile. “I’ll find out when the boxes are supposed to arrive.” She lifts her phone in the air. “If this will cooperate. Bloody technology.”

“It’s fine,” you laugh. “They’ll get here when they get here. I can manage until then.”

“Too true,” she beams. “At least you have a few to start with.”

“But the rest will be boxed up independently?”

“Yes,” confirms Jessica. “Just take the things that Evelyn wants. Leave the rest. I have the keys. When the team is ready, I’m meet them here. We’ll take care of everything else.”

“Wonderful,” you sigh, as you say your goodbyes and escort Jessica and Mollie to the front door.

The boxes do arrive, but so do an endless parade of people. Mister Grant stops by to review the paperwork before handing over more for you to take to Evie when you return to London. The appraiser comes to evaluate the house, and several different contractors arrive to assess potential fixes that Jessica suggested during the walkthrough.

It’s an avalanche of faces—and the only one you want to see is Simon. It’s the face you think about when you slip into bed that night. It’s the face you imagine when the ache between your thighs grows and you need some sweet relief. It’s the face in your dreams that night, and the one that lingers when you wake.

You need Simon like plants need the sun. He is your light. Your sustenance. This love blooming in your chest is a twisting beast that intends to devour you whole. It is lovely. It is consuming.

All you want is him.

When you return to London, the first thing you’re doing is heading for 141 Ink to spend an afternoon in his shop. Watching Simon work is a pleasure. You’ve only witnessed it a few times, and it was hypnotizing when you did.

“Really?” you mutter, staring at the text message on the phone screen, stuffing the rest of your breakfast into your mouth.

It’s Jessica! New phone! Sending the assessor out to you today! One last walkthrough!

“They were just here,” you groan, staring around at all the empty boxes. “Why is this necessary?”

The boxes were delivered, but they were all flat. At least packing tape came with. Otherwise, you’d be out of luck. Evie wants some things to come to Amelia’s and those are the items you’re supposed to be collecting. That is supposed to be your focus at the moment.

And a new number for Jessica is annoyingly inconvenient, but you’ll deal with it. Her phone was acting up yesterday.

“Whatever,” you say to the ceiling, updating your contact information for Jessica.

You continue to pack, taking breaks every so often to check work emails. You’re in the zone—a flurry of activity—so when the doorbell goes off, you nearly flinch at the sound.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, sealing a box with packing tape.

Pushing up to standing, your knees pop. The doorbell rings through the house again and you sprint to the front door, legs a bit achy from crouching.

You open the door, a little breathless. “Hi!”

A man in his mid-thirties stands on the other side. His dark hair is cropped short and he wears a polo with khakis. On the left side of the polo is a little logo that says “Heisman Consulting.” He clutches a clipboard in one hand and has a utility belt hooked around his hips. Behind his right ear is a sharpened pencil.

“You must be the assessor Jessica mentioned,” you greet.

“That’s me,” he says, presenting his hand. “I’m Jack.”

You take it, giving him your own name. It’s a firm, strong handshake. His eye contact is intense. It’s a bit strange actually. You’re not sure why he’s staring like he’s trying to see into your soul.

“We just had the assessor here yesterday. Did Jessica give a reason for another visit?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

Jack just grins and it’s disarming. “Second opinion.”

“I see,” you say slowly, not understanding at all.

What’s the point of a second opinion? Did the first one already come back? That seems unlikely. These things don’t happen overnight. But you’re not the expert on real estate. This is out of your depth.

What you want is to leave this conversation as quickly as possible and return to your task. “I have a few things to take care of. I’ll make sure to stay out of your way while you walk around the property.”

“That won’t be necessary,” replies Jack, his smile still in place.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica wants you present for the inspection.”

You laugh, the sound awkward as it leaves your lips. “No she doesn’t. I’ll be around. Just come grab me if you need something.”

Jack shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders casually. “Jessica isn’t happy with the last assessment. Wants someone else observing.”

“Like a witness?” you ask.

He shrugs his shoulders again, and the unease only grows. Why does he want you to stick around so bad? If anything, you shouldn’t be in his way at all.

“Fine,” you concede, attempting to give him a smile. “Not sure I’ll be of much help.”

Jack glances down at his clipboard and removes the pencil from behind is ear. “S’all good, love.” He winks and notes something on the clipboard before his gaze scans the room.

Love.

In Jack’s mouth, it sounds like an insult. It doesn’t sit right. The only person you enjoy calling you that is Simon.

You try to smile, but it falls flat.

There are too many things to do, and you only have a few days to complete them. You’re supposed to be in Cambridge for the weekend—returning at the latest on Tuesday if necessary.

“Where would you like to start?” you ask, taking a cautious step back, edging toward the paperwork sitting on the counter.

Jack takes another gander of the kitchen and living room. It’s strange, really, how he’s observing the space but not really looking at it. It almost appears passive, like he’s not interested in it at all.

You tuck the loose paperwork into the binder Mister Grant left and lean against the counter, arms crossed over your chest.

“Let’s cover the outdoors first,” Jack finally says. “Weather is all right for now. Never know when it might rain.”

“Sure,” you reply. “Let me grab my coat.”

You quietly excuse yourself, heading for the guest bedroom. It’s at the end of the hall. Tucked away. Even though you don’t sense a presence at your back, you keep checking, glancing over your shoulder like Jack will suddenly appear.

It’s silly, really. Why are you uneasy about all this? Jessica sometimes gets back to you last minute on things. It’s just a little tight. A little odd. But it’s not completely unusual.

Grabbing your coat, you return downstairs, finding Jack near the patio door. He’s hunched over a bit, blocking your view of the handle.

“Want to start in the backyard first?” you ask loudly, tugging on the coat.

He turns sharply, his mouth a firm, flat line before morphing into a smile. He’s still blocking your view of the handle.

Reaching behind him, he slides the patio door open. “Sounds great.” He moves with it and stays there. “Ladies first.”

You slowly approach and brush past him. Jack is far too close and you wrap your coat a little tighter around you as he exits after you. With clipboard in hand, the two of you begin walking the perimeter of the house.

Jack never removes any tools from his belt. He doesn’t measure anything. He only observers and makes notes on his clipboard. There are no questions asked. Nothing. The silence is excruciating, and while you’re itching to break it, you don’t dare do so.

There is a chill beneath your skin, and it’s not the cool December air. It might be cold out but it’s not that cold—not like it can get in the States. This is a creeping chill. One that starts at a point in your chest and slowly spreads outward until the tips of your fingers and toes feel numb.

Jack isn’t wearing a coat, but perhaps he’s simply used to the weather. He doesn’t appear bothered by it.

“Anything I can help with?” you finally ask once the two of you make it back to the patio area.

“Just keep close,” he winks, stepping inside the house.

You stand just outside, unsure if you want to go in at all. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. The urge to call Jessica is intense—nearly stifling.

You step inside, glancing back the interior handle. The screws are gone. And the lock is clearly broken.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, whirling around to find Jack standing nearby, a hammer clutched in his fist.

Jack isn’t smiling. His frown is deep. A scowl. Your gaze darts to the hammer in his hand and then back up to his face. He’s between you and the front door. The only way out is through the patio door. It might be directly behind you, but you still have to run along the side of the house to make a break for the road.

If you’re fast, you could do it. But you’ll have to give Jack your back. And he’s wielding a fucking weapon. Even if you’re out of swinging distance, he could still hurl it at you like a javelin.

Slowly, you slide your foot backward.

Jack remains utterly motionless.

“I’m calling Jessica.”

Again, Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You take another slow step backward.

Without taking your eyes off of him, you fish out your phone, holding it up in the air. With Jessica at the top of your message list, it’s not difficult to hit the “call” button. There is a pause before you hear the muted ring coming from your phone.

But that isn’t what unnerves you.

A ringer goes off. Loud. Near.

It’s not Jack. He still stands there in the middle of the room with hammer in hand. Unfazed.

It’s coming from behind you.

The muted ring from your phone and the loud, audible one sync together. Jack’s gaze slowly shifts from you to a point over your shoulder.

Your eyes burn and you don’t realize that you’re crying until the salt of them sting your cheeks.

Jack isn’t looking at you anymore. His gaze is beyond. Absorbed elsewhere.

Twisting, you glance over your shoulder and find a man standing just outside the patio door. He holds up a ringing cellphone and half of his face is covered in burn scars.

“Hello, love,” he says, voice gruff like he’s smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. “The name’s Kit.”

Chapter Text

It’s raining.

Simon can hear it pattering against the steel roof. He stands on the edge of a fracted concrete slab, staring down into darkness. Even the rain collects here, falling from the opening in the roof several stories up.

This is the only light Simon has. The rest of the building is utterly dark.

Walsh is here. Somewhere. Slinking through the inky blackness like a tentacled beast awaiting its next meal.

The fucker is cornered, and he knows it. Walsh blew the goddamn fuse box, shoving the abandoned construction site into complete darkness. It’s not ideal—but Simon has worked in far harsher conditions.

Simon had the advantage—the element of surprise. He seized it, only for Walsh to run when one of his conspirators shot off at Simon suddenly and without warning. The bullet only grazed Simon’s upper arm. Nothing more.

They’re all dead now.

All but Walsh.

Simon made sure of it. He did it slowly, using the shadows to his advantage, becoming a violent mist that struck with sharpened blade. Those men are just puddles of blood and vacant eyes.

Twirling his knife end-over-end, Simon considers his next move. Walsh’s only escape is on foot, and even in that the man is fucked. Simon managed to nick the back of Walsh’s leg just before he disappeared. Best case scenario, Simon struck a tendon. Unlikely—but Walsh isn’t going to make it far on foot, not with this rain and an injured leg.

Simon’s cold gaze surveys the building around him.

It’s just one of many properties Walsh owns, but knowing which was always the hard part. The man hides behind fake companies and even faker names. Connecting them back to him took the most effort. This place is just storage—a building to conceal what you don’t want found.

“Where are you?” murmurs Simon, cleaning the blood off his blade against his pant leg.

Walsh is unpredictable when he’s cornered. The man turns into a wild animal. All raised fur and sharpened teeth. This is the Walsh that’s dangerous. The one that will do anything to escape.

Stepping away from the edge, Simon submerges himself into the shadows. He backtracks, stepping over bodies along the way, boots silent as he walks. The rain picks up as Simon enters a partially completed stairwell. There are walls and stairs, but no roof or railings.

He is unprotected from the rain, and the water soaks into his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin. Most of his body is unprotected, but this isn’t an infiltration, and backup is far away. The opportunity appeared suddenly, and Simon seized it with both hands, ready to choke. Simon made himself a false friend to Walsh, and that is the only reason Simon is this close to victory.

Three years.

Three fucking years since Simon started tracking this fucker.

Three years of endless searching. Endless infiltrations. Endless missions. Simon got close. Moved in. And now he’s fucking here, ready to finish the job.

And he will.

He fucking will.

Simon exits the stairwell and returns to the slim light trailing in from the hole in the roof. There’s a sharp illumination, a flash of white, followed by the cracking boom of thunder. The metal around him lights up, soaking up and reflecting the lightning.

Simon inhales, the scent of rain seeping through the soaked balaclava.

He glances upward, and squints just as another flash of lightning illuminates the space.

Above him—four levels up—is a shadow of a man.

Simon doesn’t wait for the next bolt of lightning. He turns back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. His heart pounds in his chest—adrenaline spiking. Blood rushes through his limbs, muscles tense and poised for action.

The next flash of lightning comes, but—no. Not white. Not bright.

This is hot. This is heat.

This is flame.

The building shakes and Simon slips, sliding down the stairs, eventually landing on his knee as a resounding boom vibrates his bones.

“Fuck!” cries Simon as his knee strikes concrete. It’s a sharp crack that shoots up his leg and goes right to his head.

Rolling to the side, Simon presses himself against the wall, protecting his head as everything shudders around him. The rattling tapers out—and the moment Simon’s teeth aren’t rattling around in his head—he pushes to an upright position.

The first step is agony. He can hardly bend his fucking knee.

Hissing sharply with every step, Simon continues to climb, emerging onto the fourth level as a rising wave of nausea hits him.

The wispy tendrils of smoke come first before the heat. Simon cautiously walks forward, circumventing a slab of slanted concrete.

Behind it is fire. There is so much of it. Climbing the walls, complete undampened by the rain.

What the fuck did Walsh set off?

Simon’s intelligence said that this place might be storing chemicals, not weapons. But it didn’t say what kinds of chemicals.

A nearby beam falls from its mooring and crashes to the floor. Simon takes a step back, and then the world is tipping. Spinning.

Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see Walsh coming.

There are strong arms around him, shoving him down.

Simon’s training clicks into place, and he surrenders to the push, falling into it. When Simon’s back hits the ground, he rolls with the momentum, shoving Walsh off of him. Walsh tumbles away, rolling through a small patch of fire, before skidding to a stop on his side.

Simon pushes up to standing just as Walsh regains his footing. His black hair is a soaked mess, lips a snarl. Simon always thought that Walsh looked like a crow. All sharpness and talon.

“You fucking betrayed me,” screams Walsh, spittle flying from his lips.

He takes a step, staggering slightly. The sleeve of Walsh’s jacket smokes. In his right fist is a crowbar.

“Always planned on it,” replies Simon coldly.

The crowbar gently swings with Walsh’s swaying form. He hefts the metal up, pointing the bent end at Simon. “I’m gonna kill you. Take your eyes. Feed them to my fucking dogs.”

Simon says nothing. He remains still, knife clutched in his fist. It’s the only true protection he has.

“And then I’m going to kill every person you love,” continues Walsh, eyes widening slightly as he talks. “Everyone you’ve ever cared about.” Walsh lowers the crowbar. “Even the dead ones.” He laughs, the sound manic and high. “What’s a bit of graverobbing, yeah?” Walsh grins. “You can add it to the fucking list of grievances.”

“You’re not walking out of here alive,” says Simon, keeping his tone calm.

Price and the rest of the team are on their way with additional forces. Simon can kill the man, but it’ll be much easier once everyone else arrives. He just needs to play this right, to keep Walsh occupied for a bit or until the wanker tires himself out.

Either way, Walsh is a dead man.

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” He starts walking forward, the crowbar swinging. Walsh twists his wrist and the metal bar comes upward for him to grasp it like a bat. “I always fucking win.”

Simon steps to the side as Walsh brings the bar down. The man grunts. Staggers. Turns back in Simon’s direction.

Pushing the advantage, Simon shoves the knife forward with a quick slashing gesture. Walsh dodges, the metal of the blade harshly sliding against the crowbar. Sparks fly as the two metals meet.

Walsh swings again. Simon grabs the crowbar just above Walsh’s hands, holding it at bay.

“Fuck you!” screams Walsh, kicking out.

He connects with Simon’s injured knee. Simon staggers. His hand slips a bit on the crowbar.

“Fucking bastard,” spits Walsh, kicking out again, striking Simon in the chest.

Simon’s hold on the crowbar remains but he goes down, the two men stumbling to the concrete floor.

They are a tangle of limbs. Walsh gnashes his teeth, chomping at Simon as if to tear away flesh. Simon’s elbow connects with Walsh’s jaw. The man’s head snaps back and Simon slices the knife through the air.

The blade tears up Walsh’s neck, drawing blood. It isn’t much. Not nearly enough.

Walsh pushes off Simon, clutching his throat as he takes up the crowbar and swings again.

This time, the bent end connects, digging into Simon’s leg. Screaming, Simon lunges for it, intending to rip it out of his leg.

“No you fucking don’t,” snarls Walsh, yanking on the crowbar.

Simon scream again. Muscle and tendon are tearing. Nerves severing as Walsh drags Simon’s by his leg across the floor.

“I’m not done with you,” growls Walsh, yanking again.

Simon growls and lunges forward, grabbing onto the crowbar. The two men fight for dominance and control.

Walsh lashes out with his fist. Simon jerks to the side, and then thrusts his head forward, cracking his forehead against Walsh’s nose.

Blood bursts across Walsh’s face. The man stumbles back, falling on his ass.

With a guttural cry, Simon changes his angle on the crowbar, tugging it free. A black pool begins to form beneath Simon’s leg.

Groaning, Simon turns onto his side, pushes up to sitting with both hands. Grabbing his knife, Simon staggers to his feet just as Walsh steadies himself.

Simon charges, knocking into Walsh, blade pointed forward.

The knife goes in clean. Perfectly slips between ribs, missing bone, and meeting tender flesh.

Walsh screams, and then laughs—fucking laughs. The sound is choked. Garbled. But it’s not just Walsh who screams. They’re both screaming, staring into each other’s eyes as all that pent up rage and anger emerges like a storm.

A knee shoves into Simon’s stomach, and then the two men are up again. Simon’s knife is still lodged in Walsh’s chest.

The rest is all fists. Blurry. Bloody.

At some point Simon’s back and arms burn, the clothes singed and partially melted. He’s not sure when it happens. Everything is growing fuzzy, and his leg doesn’t want to move. It drags behind Simon with every swing of his fist.

Walsh’s hands slide around Simon’s throat. Using his weight, Simon drives forward, moving like a rugby player, pushing Walsh closer and closer to the edge.

Walsh’s mouth is moving, but there are no words.

It’s a buzzing. Like an alarm.

Like—

Simon’s eyes snap open. He’s greeted by the ceiling. The burns beneath the tattoos are warm as if the dream renewed the long-forgotten pain.

And that buzzing.

“Fucking hell,” groans Simon, sitting up, and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

Bravo whines and places his head on Simon’s leg, his large dark eyes tinged with worry.

Simon opens up the doorbell app on his phone, checking to see who is out on the street wanting entrance. He checks the time and balks.

“Shit,” mutters Simon, swinging his legs out of bed. Bravo grumbles his annoyance but doesn’t move from his spot.

The quality isn’t great but there’s a woman standing outside. All he can see is a coat and her figure. He can’t tell if it’s you, but it might be.

Simon hits the button that unlocks the downstairs door and shuts off his phone. Standing, his bad knee stretches, resisting movement. He stretches a bit, and then heads for the front door.

Someone is banging on it before Simon even makes it across the living room.

He unlocks the deadbolts, and swings the door wide, expecting that it might be you and you’ve simply lost your key.

But it’s not you. It’s—

“Evie?” breathes Simon, his sudden excitement dimming to an extinguished flame.

She is rain-soaked. Trembling. Her brown eyes are large and round. Simon tastes fear and desperation in the air.

Something is wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know it’s late. But I have no one else to turn to. The police aren’t doing anything and I—”

“Come inside,” says Simon, softly, taking a step back.

Evie swallows hard, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she takes a hesitant step into Simon’s flat. He shuts the door behind her, locking the deadbolts.

“Sit here,” he instructs, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll make tea.”

“Simon,” she starts.

“Tea first, and then we’ll talk.”

Evie only nods, removing her coat to hang on the back of the chair. Simon fills the electric kettle and turns it on. Striding into the living room, he snags a blanket off the couch, and offers it to Evie.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, unfolding it slowly to drape over her shoulders.

Simon returns to the kitchen, preparing what he can for the tea. This concerns you. He knows it deep in his bones. But as much as Simon wants answers—craves them like a cigarette after sex—he needs to be fucking calm about this. He needs to be the clear-headed one.

When the kettle goes off, Simon makes each of them tea, spooning the perfect amount of milk and sugar into both. Simon sets a mug down in front of Evie and then decides to settle in the seat across from her.

“What happened?” he asks.

Evie’s mouth opens. Closes. She bites her lips and stares down into her cup.

“Start wherever you need,” says Simon. “Take your time.”

Time is never on anyone’s side. He is fully aware that time is your greatest friend and enemy. Even a few seconds are crucial.

Evie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She should have been home yesterday. It’s not like her to not call if she’s running late.” She pauses, taking a moment to drink some tea. “I called. Texted. Nothing. Would go out to the house but I have Lillian to think of.”

“What time was she supposed to be home?”

“Around dinner,” answers Evie after a few seconds. “Still no word. No phone calls. No texts.” Evie sighs. “I went to the police station this morning but they shrugged it off. Said it’s too soon to file a missing person’s report.”

“Have you tried contacting anyone else?” asks Simon. His grip on his cup is the only thing grounding him right now.

Evie nods. “I contacted the estate agent. She said she’s go out there and check.” Tears begin to form in the corners of Evie’s eyes. “Haven’t heard anything. When I call her it goes straight to voicemail.”

Evie glances up from staring into her mug. “I’m worried. That’s why I came.”

“You did the right thing,” replies Simon. “I’ll go check.”

Her sigh of relief is palpable, as if the burden of it is a physical thing. “Thank you, Simon. I—”

“Finish your tea,” interrupts Simon. “I need to make a few calls.”

Glass crunches under Simon’s boots. Some of it shines in the morning light. Other pieces shine red.

The patio door is completely shattered, the glass strewn over the living room and lawn. In the middle of the floor is a deep pool of dark red liquid. And in that pool are two bodies.

Neither of them is you—thank fuck, but it’s hardly reassuring.

You are not here. You are—wherever you are.

Simon stares down at the two dead women. There’s a hammer near the blonde, the bludgeoning end covered in brain matter and gore. This is the estate agent and her assistant. They came to check after all at Evie’s request.

And they walked right into their deaths.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Captain Price, bending at the knees, observing the two lifeless women.

Kyle and Johnny are near the kitchen. Gaz is slowly shuffling through the paperwork on the kitchen counter while Johnny slowly walks the entryway with a torch. Simon doesn’t think they’ll find anything important.

This doesn’t have to do with Evie at all. Or Archie.

Not at the moment anyway.

This is about Simon. This is about Walsh.

It is about revenge, and the spirit of the chase in pursuit of that excellent vengeance.

Simon walks the perimeter of the dark pool, coming to a stop next to Price. He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze downward.

“Good thing you called us,” says Price, voice gruff. He comes to a standing position, a frown on his face. He turns to Gaz and Johnny. “Found anything?”

“Nope,” comes Soap’s response as he shines his torch up and down the staircase.

Gaz shrugs. “Not sure,” he replies. “This is mostly paperwork about selling the house. Don’t think Walsh is after that.”

“He’s not after the house,” growls Simon.

Price glances at him. “Simon.”

He’s trying to remind Simon to be calm—to chill the fuck out. But Simon is anything but calm. He’s fucking fuming.

“Walsh is after me,” says Simon, gaze locking with Price’s.

“Then why didn’t he come after you?” counters Price, shrugging. “You’re a civilian now. Why not surprise you in your home?”

Simon snorts but it’s not with amusement. “Think Walsh wants to make this quick?” He gestures toward the dead women.

Price doesn’t even glance at them. “These two were in the way. Likely surprised them.”

“Sure,” agrees Simon. “But he wants to hurt me first. To cause pain before he strikes.”

“We’ll find her,” sighs Price. “Maybe she escaped?”

“She would have turned up somewhere. Made contact with someone.” Simon shakes his head. “Walsh has her.”

“We don’t know that, Simon.”

Simon is ready to snap a reply, to show some teeth. This is about him, but it’s also about you. Walsh can have anything, but he can’t have you. You are the only thing Simon has ever truly wanted. The only person he’s craved to the point of obsession.

Life does not seem complete without you.

Letting you go is not an option.

“Captain!” calls Johnny.

Simon and Price snap to attention, their bodies shifting in Soap’s direction. There are solid footsteps, and then Johnny appears around the corner, coming to a stop next to Kyle. He clicks off the torch and places it on the kitchen counter. In his other hand is a large stack of mail. He gently sets the mail down, and spreads them out, making sure each envelope is on full display.

Simon takes a step forward. He’s not sure why he’s moving. Something is telling him to, wrapping around him like a string, and tugging.

Johnny lifts an envelope and holds it up. Frowning, he turns it around. “It’s addressed to Simon.”

He closes the distance in seconds, snatching the letter out of Johnny’s hand. It’s simple parchment. Slightly faded and weather-worn. There is no postage. No address. Just Simon’s full name.

“Simon,” says Price, almost cautiously, as if he doesn’t want Simon to open it.

He ignores Price, tearing it open.

There is a single piece of paper inside. It’s thin—nearly translucent. With slightly shaking fingers, Simon withdraws it from the envelope.

Come and find her. – KW.

Chapter Text

Come and find her. – KW.

Come and find her.

Come. And find her.

Find her.

Simon stares at the little piece of paper in his hands. It’s so small. Confetti in his palm. Something that could be easily overlooked like trash that collects near a storm drain.

But it’s not trash.

It’s a taunt. A warning.

And it’s all for Simon.

Instinct tells him to crumple the note in his fist—to dismantle by destroying. Burn it. Maybe. Shred it into even smaller pieces until it truly resembles confetti.

But what party would he throw to sprinkle the remains? There will be no cake or gifts. No sunshine or clear skies. It will be a funeral, and the shredded paper is the dirt tossed by the mourners.

Dust, really. Like the soul. Smaller than dust. Insignificant.

“You need to go home, Simon.”

Captain Price’s voice used to be a balm to Simon—a place of safety. The words from Price’s mouth do nothing but drag Simon back to reality even as Simon attempts to claw back to the darkness that are his thoughts.

“Go home and do what?” replies Simon, not looking in Price’s direction.

Come and find her.

“It’s not healthy to stay here,” sighs Price.

Simon snorts. “What part of my life as ever been healthy.”

Price flinches, and Simon immediately regrets his words. Captain knows every horrific detail, every open hand and closed fist, of the fangs and masks and gore and screams that are Simon’s history.

It is ugly and foul.

Price used to fuss over it, trying to drive Simon to talk to someone about it all. He did—once. More than once, but it didn’t do much but reaffirm everything Simon already knew.

That life can be cruel, and we are only defined by our choices.

And Simon has always chosen to be different.

“Staring at that note won’t help things. It won’t help us find her faster,” says Price, his voice low and soothing like it always is when he’s trying to be gentle.

Simon takes a deep inhalation, calming the raging desperation thudding around in his chest.

It’s a torrent. A downpour.

“I want to help,” is all Simon says in reply.

Price takes a step closer, and leans in a bit, lowering his voice. “I know you do, Simon. And I value that help. But trying to figure shit out here isn’t the place.”

Simon stares into Price’s face, frowning. He lingers there a moment before glancing over Price’s shoulder.

There are new people in the room. Price called them up after Johnny found the note and presented it to Simon. They move about the space like phantoms, their eyes cast downward, minds geared toward the task of cleaning up the mess that is Evie’s home.

Evie, who came to Simon’s door rain-drenched and desperate. Simon is glad she didn’t try to seek out the authorities. What the fuck are police going to do about this? Nothing. That’s what.

But Price will do something. And so will Johnny and Kyle.

They have his back. They fucking care about you because they care about Simon. He has people in his corner.

“Excuse me.”

Simon and Price glance toward the man addressing the two of them. He’s a little younger than Simon. In his hands are a broom and dustpan. Beside him stands another man holding a trash bag. Simon scowls and the man blanches slightly.

“The glass,” he mutters, nodding at Simon’s feet.

The glass. The broken patio door. Blood.

Simon clears his throat and steps back, glass crunching under his boots even as he and Price move to a different part of the room. The two men start sweeping it up while two others lift and deposit the bodies of the estate agent and her assistant into body bags.

All the color from their faces have melted away, leaving behind a grayness that only comes when there is nothing left to salvage. While neither of the women currently being placed in body bags are you, Simon is grateful that you’re not one of them. That is enough to hope even if everything inside him doubts.

Positivity isn’t Simon’s thing. But the fact that you’re not here could only mean that Walsh wants you elsewhere. He wants Simon to come seeking. He wants Simon to have hope, and for that reason alone, Simon still clings to the idea that you’re not gone.

But maybe you are.

Time is crucial. It is scare and fleeting and slipping away as the seconds tick by.

“This is my fault.”

“Simon,” chides Price, ready to defend him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” growls Simon. “Walsh is after me, and I know that. I kept—” Simon stops, his unoccupied hand forming a fist.

Price frowns. “You kept what?”

Instead of shutting down, Simon trudges forward. “I kept seeing him. Or thought I did.” He glances down at the note and then at the darkening pool of drying blood. “Should have trusted my gut.”

“You can’t linger in the past, Simon. It happened. You made choices. Walsh made choices. That control is gone. We can only move forward.”

Simon remains silent. Price is right, even if Simon doesn’t want to admit it out loud. Shit happens. Plans go wrong. You can’t always predict what the enemy will do or how they might deviate from the information you have. You have to go in with the knowledge that things might change at the last second.

Adjustment is crucial.

Adjust and survive or stay stagnant and die.

“By moving forward, that means I go home,” says Simon slowly.

Price inclines his head. “It is.”

Simon shakes his head. “I don’t accept it.”

“And what will you do, Simon? Search every building in the country? And what will you do after? Head for the continent?”

“I’d destroy everything and everyone if that means I get her back safely.”

Price’s jaw twitches. “Or you might just get her killed.”

Simon’s head snaps in Price’s direction, venom on his tongue, but it’s Price’s glare that stays his harshness. Even though he’s no longer under Price’s command, the training doesn’t leave. Instead of lashing out, Simon takes a calming breath, but it does little except settle the sharpness that wants to emerge from his lips.

“I’m helping with this. I won’t budge,” affirms Simon.

Price nods. “I know, Simon. Didn’t say you wouldn’t be.”

Simon turns toward him fully, lowering his voice. “You told me to go home.”

“For now,” corrects Price. “We need to clean up here, and then we can talk. This isn’t the place.” Price shrugs. “Not like I have all the information in front of me.”

True, but Simon isn’t happy. His body desires movement. It desires action. The storm inside him wants to be released, and its target is Walsh.

“I have to talk to Evie,” murmurs Simon, almost absently.

Price clasps Simon’s shoulder. “Want someone to go with you?”

“I can.” Simon and Price glance up as Johnny comes to a stop in front of them. “I’ll go with you, Lt.”

Simon nods as Kyle approaches with a couple of binders. “She might want this. It’s all paperwork.”

Kyle holds the stack out to Simon but Price reaches for it. “We should make copies. Take a look just in case.”

“I’ll do that now,” nods Kyle. He turns toward Simon and lightly punches his arm. “We’ll find her. Bring her home.”

Kyle departs with a brief nod toward Johnny.

Price clears his throat. “Go home. Take Soap with you. I’ll call when we’re ready to meet.”

“You got it, Captain,” says Johnny, all confidence.

Simon appreciates it. He does, but his heart is close to exploding—a volcano in his chest that he isn’t sure is heartburn or an incoming heart attack.

Price says goodbye by giving Simon’s shoulder another squeeze before walking away to chat quietly with the woman supervising the cleanup.

“Come on, Lt.”

Simon used to correct Johnny after retirement, but he no longer has the heart to. It almost feels normal—like Simon is back in the field and not a tattoo artist with awards and accolades. It is a strange sensation, and Simon is surprised by how his mind and body are at odds with the feeling.

They step around shattered glass and overturned furniture. They walk around the darkening blood that’s starting to congeal. Simon doesn’t even glance at the hammer or the gloved hand that lifts it from the floor.

And it’s not Simon who drives. All the control he likes to have his gone, and it is Johnny that takes the wheel, guiding them back to London as if they’re just two mates on a weekend holiday.

It’s not until Simon is stepping into his flat and Bravo greets him that reality comes crashing into him like a hollow point on impact.

Johnny sighs heavily and drops onto the sofa. Bravo doesn’t go to jump into Johnny’s lap or to seek belly rubs. The German Shepard takes up post next to Simon. He sits rigidly, one paw tapping at Simon’s thigh as the dog tries to get his attention.

“I’m ace, Bravo,” he murmurs, reaching out to scratch between Bravo’s ears.

The dog whines softly but he drops his paw, accepting the scratches before padding over to Johnny. He jumps onto the couch and starts stomping all over Soap until Johnny is laughing and aggressively rubbing Bravo’s belly.

As Bravo settles, Johnny turns his attention to Simon. “You good, Lt?”

Simon shifts in Soap’s direction. He glances around, realizing that he hasn’t moved away from the door. He lingers like a ghost who can see everyone but no one sees them.

“Yeah. I’m good,” coughs Simon, his legs moving mechanically. He plops down onto the sofa next to Johnny and then sighs heavily. “I need a smoke.”

“Have some sitting around?” asks Johnny.

“Nope.”

Soap nods. Keeps nodding. “I’ll go grab some. There a shop around here?”

“On the corner,” answers Simon, eyes closed as his head tips back to rest against the top of the sofa.

“Up for a walk, Bravo?” asks Johnny.

Bravo barks and then jumps out of Soap’s lap, padding over to his leash.

When Johnny returns, the two of them sit on Simon’s balcony facing the back street between the buildings. Bravo is below them, sniffing the little stretch of grass there. He’s a dark spot amongst the green, moving back and forth as if he smells something interesting.

Johnny bought enough packs to give them both lung cancer. Soap isn’t one for smoking, but he joins Simon in it anyway. The two of them sit in the cold silence, the chilly air unable to penetrate the inferno that burns within Simon.

“When do you want to talk to the friend?” asks Johnny, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Tomorrow,” sighs Simon.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to say to Evie. Looking her in the face is going to be difficult enough, but explain? No. Fucking no. That shit is a mess.

Johnny’s foot taps absently like he’s listening to a song in his head. “You want me to talk? Or you want to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” replies Simon immediately.

This is his mess. You are his woman. And you are Evie’s friend. This has to come from Simon or no one at all.

Johnny inclines his head and takes another drag on his cigarette. He grimaces. “These are fucking nasty, Lt. How do you do it?”

“Rage,” replies Simon dryly.

Johnny cocks an eyebrow and then bursts out laughing, falling onto his back as he clutches his stomach. The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches with amusement.

Coughing, Johnny turns on his side in Simon’s direction. Bravo comes to a stop in the grass, his noise pushed into the dirt like he’s stumbled upon a scent.

“What is it, Johnny?” asks Simon as Soap stares at him but doesn’t speak.

“She cute?”

Simon blinks. “Who?”

“The friend.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

“I’m only asking,” replies Johnny, all innocence.

Simon shakes his head, this time smiling naturally. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You know I like a pretty face,” says Johnny, ashing his cigarette.

“Don’t make me blush, Johnny,” teases Simon.

The fire beneath his skin dims from an inferno to a small campfire. This banter is comforting to him—a reminder that there are people out there who care for Simon as more than just a previous coworker. Johnny cares. Kyle cares. And fuck—Price cares to the point that sometimes Simon thinks he has a loving father.

“Oh, aye, Lt. Been lusting after you for ages.” Simon glances at Johnny before snatching his cigarette from his fingers. “I’m smoking that!”

“You hate cigarettes, Johnny,” chides Simon, taking a long drag and finishing it off. “And you’ll have it off with anything that moves.”

“Not anything,” mutters Soap, sitting up fully.

Simon puts out the cigarette and takes another from the pack. “When did you last get your dick wet?”

Johnny’s lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Johnny,” says Simon, almost sing-song.

Soap mutters something and Simon punches him in the arm.

“Fuck, Lt. Yesterday.”

Simon shrugs. “Knew it.”

“If you’re gonna fucking ask about it, you’ll listen.”

“I’m good, Johnny,” replies Simon, holding up a hand for silence as he goes to light the new cigarette.

“Kyle and I were—”

“Not interested.”

“This beautiful blonde cornered me and I couldn’t say no. Lips like that—”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“She pushed me up against the wall. Dropped to her knees—”

“Johnny—”

“Never finished so fast in my—fucking hell Simon!”

Johnny clutches the back of his head where Simon lightly swatted him. “Said I didn’t want to know.”

“Then why’d you bloody ask!” exclaims Johnny, this time grabbing Simon’s cigarette from his fingers. He tries to puff on it but promptly grimaces, offering it right back to Simon.

“Absolute wanker,” mutters Simon.

“Favorite wanker, Lt.”

Simon snorts and reaches behind him, grabbing the whiskey bottle and setting it down between them. There are no glasses, but it’s not necessary. Johnny grabs the bottle and removes the screw lid, taking a swig directly from the bottle before holding it out to Simon. He takes the offered whiskey and Simon gulps down more than he should in one go.

He offers it back to Johnny. “Don’t fucking flirt with the friend, Johnny.”

Soap inclines his head and raises the bottle in salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Simon.”

The two of them sit on the balcony until the whiskey is gone and the sun has long since dipped below the horizon. Bravo stays in the living room, curling up on the sofa with Johnny.

Simon stares at his empty bed. It’s still unmade from when he hastily got out and answered the door.

Sighing, Simon heads into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He cranks it until it’s scalding. The heat is a nice distraction, and for a while, Simon pretends that you’re not gone. That you’re with him underneath the spray.

From memory, Simon plucks out his favorite moments, lingering in your sweetness. It’s not just the physical Simon smolders in. Everything about you is like a drop of lifeblood. Simon lingers on your smile, and on the calmness you bring him when you’re nearby. He dreams of your touch and the way you wrap your arms around him. The scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils.

That only leads to lustier thoughts, and Simon has to pull back before he goes too far.

When the water grows cold, and your hands are not there to warm his skin, that is when Simon breaks.

Everything is a flood. Everything fractures.

What are dying stars but beautiful confetti. Dust. Specks bursting outward to settle in forgotten places.

Simon is dust.

No—less than dust.

Atoms.

But lesser than that.

Nothing.

Infinite nothing.

His tears become one with the cold water. His shaking becomes one with the icy chill that makes his skin shiver. Simon’s nails dig into his skin. Blood blossoms in the moons. Drip onto the tile.

Simon sits on the floor of the shower until every tear is down the drain.

He doesn’t recall falling into bed. Or when he drifts to sleep.

It isn’t until Simon wakes that he’s realized he slept at all.

There were no dreams. Just blackness. Hardness.

But he hears Johnny, and Bravo’s nails against the wood floor.

It is reluctant duty that drags Simon from bed.

“Made breakfast. And tea. And coffee,” shrugs Johnny, offering a greasy piece of bacon to Bravo.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,” sighs Simon, loading his plate with a little bit of everything.

Johnny ignores Simon and talks to Bravo like the dog is human baby. Bravo eats it up like it’s the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Simon drops into a chair. His stomach grumbles and then he’s eating. The eggs are still warm, and the coffee is still hot. He zones out, grabbing seconds and then thirds.

“Have appointments today?” asks Johnny.

Simon shakes his head. “I rescheduled everything back a week. Wasn’t sure how long I’d be gone.”

Usually, Simon hates leaving his shop and moving bookings around, but it can’t be helped.

Johnny nods and inspects the empty skillet that held scrambled eggs. “Still planning on chatting with the friend today?”

Simon swallows down a half-chewed piece of toast. “That’s what I said.”

“Just checking, Lt.”

Simon’s fork pauses. His tone was harsh. “You still coming with me?” asks Simon, softening his tone this time.

“Aye. I’ve got your back.”

Simon clears his plate and finishes off the last of the coffee before he and Johnny head over to Amelia’s. They decide to walk, bringing Bravo with them. Simon fiddles with a cigarette the entire way but never lights it.

“You still want to do this today?” asks Johnny, lingering at Amelia’s door.

No. He’d rather turn tail. Be a coward in this.

Instead of answering Johnny’s question verbally, Simon knocks three times on the door. It’s mid-morning, and Evie’s daughter should hopefully be up by now.

For a moment, there is no sound on the other side, but then Simon hears footsteps—then the turning of a deadbolt.

The door opens, and Simon’s heart falls into his stomach.

Evie stands there, Lillian in her arms. When she sees Simon, her expression changes from neutrality to hopefulness. Her gaze lingers on Simon before shifting to Johnny. That brightness—that joy—fades as time passes.

She is looking for you. And you are not there.

The whites of Evie’s eyes redden, and Simon knows what comes next. As if sensing her mother’s changing mood, Lillian begins to squirm, her own tiny face bunching with a coming tantrum.

“Oh shit,” mutters Johnny, reaching for the baby just as fat tears begin to slide down Evie’s face.

Evie surrenders Lillian to Soap immediately as if all the wind has been knocked from her lungs. She deflates, one hand grasping the doorframe like she’s about to faint. The baby starts to whine, and Johnny panics, holding the infant out before him like he’s never held one before.

“Fucking hell, Johnny. Support the head,” mutters Simon as Evie takes a step back, her other hand pressing to her chest.

“Evie?”

It’s Amelia. She comes rushing forward, grasping the woman’s shoulders. She glances at Simon. Then Johnny. Then little Lillian.

“Give her here,” instructs Amelia, reaching for the infant.

Johnny passes Lillian off and sighs with relief. Amelia cradles the child in one arm and uses the other to support Evie.

Evie is gasping for breath. Chest heaving. Nearing a panic attack.

“Is she…” but Amelia trails off.

Simon understands.

“We don’t know,” replies Simon, because it’s true. And the truth is best, even if it cuts deep like sharpened steel.

Evie chokes and Simon continues on, wanting to crush the rising panic on Evie’s face. “She wasn’t there. Which means that she’s probably still alive.”

Evie is shaking her head. Amelia’s face reveals nothing.

“Go on,” prompts Amelia.

Lillian still wiggles and whines but she’s not nearly so loud now.

“Your estate agent and her assistant are dead. Nothing appears stolen.”

Except you.

“But she’s gone?” asks Evie. Her voice is so strained Simon is surprised the woman can talk at all.

Yes, is what Simon wants to say. It’s what he should say. But all of his words are stuck in his throat.

“Yes,” answers Johnny for him, and Simon could sigh with relief on not having to say the words out loud. “But we’re looking for her.”

“She’s alive?” asks Amelia. She places a hand on Evie’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

“Until we know otherwise,” replies Johnny. “Yes.”

Amelia and Evie both relax even if the tears remain. Johnny was always better at talking to people than him. It’s why Simon rarely did it. He was either too blunt or didn’t know how to comfort. Johnny knew how. He always has.

“We should tell them,” murmurs Amelia to Evie.

“Tell us what?” asks Simon, curious.

Evie shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Then I will.” Amelia steps back and gestures for them to come inside.

Bravo stays next to Evie’s side all the way to the couch. When the woman sinks down on it, Bravo rests his head on her knee. Soap remains standing, as does Simon.

“British Intelligence came,” begins Amelia, and Soap’s eyes widen.

Simon doesn’t look at Johnny, but from his peripheral, he notices the slight turn of Johnny’s head as his friend glances at him. Price has to know by now. Simon didn’t tell him, but he’s likely putting all the pieces together once he looks at the documents Kyle is making copies of. Archie’s name is probably all over them.

There isn’t any hiding now.

Amelia sighs. “They were asking about Archibald. The circumstances around his death.”

“When did they arrive?” asks Simon.

Johnny remains quiet, his gaze still darting between Simon and Amelia.

“Yesterday,” answers Amelia.

Evie slouches forward, dropping her head into her hands.

“Is that it?” asks Simon, cautiously.

Amelia glances at Evie, her mouth turned downward into a frown. It’s not one of disappoint. It’s stress that’s creeping into her features. With a sigh, Amelia places Lillian into a rocker. Amelia grabs the edge and lightly presses down, the contraption moving in a slow bounce that quickly soothes Lillian’s irritation.

“Asked about potential enemies.” This time, Amelia’s sigh is much deeper. “It’s a strange question. Archie is incredibly kind. There isn’t anyone I know of that holds any ill will toward him. Everyone liked him. Everyone admired him.”

She chews on her lip. “I don’t understand.”

Evie sniffles. Rubs her hands over her face. Glances up. “Why her?” she rasps. “What did she ever do to anyone?”

She didn’t. It’s all me.

The muscles in Simon’s shoulder tense. Walsh likely killed Archie because it suited his goals. If anything, Walsh executed him and moved on without another thought to the bloke. Walsh might have no idea that you are Evie’s friend or that Evie is Archie’s widow. The connection might not be there for Walsh at all.

The only person Walsh cares about is himself. The man has goals, and he fulfills them to whatever ends necessary. If that means taking out one or many, Walsh will do it without thinking twice. Evie might not even be on his radar.

But you?

You are.

All because of Simon. Not because of Archie and his connection to Evie. Walsh wants revenge. He wants Simon to suffer.

It is Simon that betrayed Walsh. Because of Simon’s actions—because of everything he did to take the man down—Walsh only wants you to for the simple goal of getting back at Simon.

When Johnny says nothing, and Simon remains silent, fresh tears fall from Evie’s eyes. “Maybe we should call the police, Amelia. We can’t handle this.”

“The police—” interjects Johnny but Evie continues on like he didn’t say anything at all.

“Thank you, Simon. Thank you for going. But we need to get the authorities involved.” Her hands are shaking even though she tries to hide it.

“No,” says Johnny sharply, one hand slightly raised.

Amelia and Evie both jump, turning toward him.

Johnny closes his eyes and sighs, dropping his hand. When he opens them again, his tone is softer. “Simon called the right people to handle this. Local police can’t do anything.”

Both women frown, but Johnny continues.

“Simon,” begins Johnny, lingering for a moment before continuing, “used to be military.”

Amelia nods. “I’m aware. Known for years.”

Johnny frowns. “Do you know what he did?”

Amelia blinks. Shrugs. “A bit.”

She doesn’t know much. In fact, Amelia knows very little. What she does know is that Simon sustained a bad enough injury for them to force his retirement. Amelia doesn’t know why or how.

“Johnny here used to be on the same team as me. We were sent all over the world on international missions. Our targets weren’t grunts on the ground. We went after those who wanted to do terrible things to a lot of people in the worst ways possible.”

Simon doesn’t elaborate. Amelia and Evie don’t ask for clarification.

“I’m no longer in, but Johnny is. I called our captain, and he’s the one handling this.”

“Why?” asks Evie. “Why would you need to call someone like that for this?”

“Does this have to do with Archibald?” asks Amelia.

“No,” says Simon sharply before Johnny can answer.

He has to put this right. He needs to speak the truth even if it pains him. “It’s someone from my past. Someone I made an enemy of.” And then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

An apology is all Simon can offer. He has no comforting words for them because he has none for himself.

Evie glances away, her hand a fist that she presses against her mouth. There are no words spoken after that. She places her head on Amelia’s shoulder and the four of them lapse into silence.

It is Johnny that eventually wanders into the kitchen. He makes tea—poorly—but Simon accepts it anyway. He sits in an armchair, staring out the window as Bravo comforts Evie.

The two women don’t ask or tell Simon and Johnny to leave. Simon doesn’t know if Evie blames him. He wouldn’t mind. It’s deserved. But Amelia? That might hurt. Simon is loath to ask so he stays quiet.

Johnny carries the conversation. He speaks quietly to Evie and Amelia, asking them all sorts of questions that he’ll take back to Captain Price. Simon wants to suck it all in, to absorb the questions and trauma and hold it in his stomach to digest.

He’s seen worse. Done worse.

It is late by the time Simon and Johnny depart. It’s not true night but the sun is lowering, the sky awash with a reddish-purply glow. The walk back is utterly silent. Johnny and Simon linger with the sounds of passing cars and the occasional bark of a nearby dog.

Simon’s thoughts are elsewhere. Everywhere but his own head. His mind is there—processing, but there are no connections. It’s spinning static.

But Johnny is present. He is a solid presence beside Simon.

And it is Johnny that grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt before they reach the exterior door to Simon’s building.

Frowning, Simon glances up, scanning the street, muscles poised for action. He expects someone to fall from the sky or for Walsh to appear with weapon in hand. Simon will take that if it means getting you back.

“Stay here, Lt,” murmurs Johnny from the corner of his mouth.

The crease in Simon’s brow deepens but Johnny is already moving, leaving Simon on the pavement as he approaches the door. Simon’s gaze follows every step, and when Johnny reaches out to grab something white off the door, Simon doesn’t know he’s moving until Johnny turns toward him, a bit startled.

“I told you to stay,” snaps Johnny but there’s no venom in it. Only concern. Pity. And Simon hates that.

Simon’s response is not to speak but to snatch the thing out of Soap’s fist.

It’s another envelope. White like the last one. No postage like the last one. And there on the front in handwritten scrawl is Simon’s full name.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home.

Was Walsh here? Has he been watching Simon all this time? Is he here even now, lingering in a nearby building to watch Simon’s reaction to whatever is inside?

“Simon,” warns Johnny, but he’s not listening.

He needs to know—to fucking know.

Simon tears open the envelope and withdraws the small piece of paper.

It is thin. Wispy. Almost translucent.

The words are even thinner—as if the paper was kissed by smoke.

There are seeds that cannot sprout unless they are burned first. A friend told me that.

Simon told Walsh that—when Walsh thought Simon was an ally and not an enemy. When Simon was a plant and gaining information that would turn Walsh’s entire operation upside down.

I think of that often. I think of you. Isn’t it interesting that some living things must burn before they can grow? What a gift that friend gave me. What a garden you and I are.

“Simon,” comes Johnny’s voice, but he’s not listening.

Everything is narrowing down to a point. He is fracturing all over again.

It rained that night. I burned like the seed. The sky watered my skin. I germinated. I flowered. I grew. What a gift. We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Call Price,” whispers Simon.

“Lt?”

“Call Price, Johnny.”

Simon knows.

He knows.

Chapter Text

It rained that night.

Simon turns his gaze upward into stunning light.

There is no rain. No boom of thunder. No flash of lightning.

I burned like the seed.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle stand behind Simon in a half-moon, watching on like observers at a burial, but not part of the procession.

The sky watered my skin.

Simon takes a step forward. Underneath his boots is cracked concrete. From the fissures sprout green. Not weeds. No. Those don’t belong in a garden.

I germinated. I flowered. I grew.

This is grass. Fresh grass. And perfectly green.

Veins. Veins of grass. A network. A web. Stretching outward from a bountiful source.

We are gardens now. The two of us.

“Simon.”

Price’s voice is gruff. A warning. ‘Danger ahead’ is the tone.

But Simon is steadfast and uncaring of what happens to him. He takes another step, crushing blades of grass beneath his boots as he heads for the epicenter of it all.

This building is a shell. A construction site long abandoned and used as one of many covert warehouses under Walsh’s hat. This place burned. Melted.

Simon remembers how the smoke burned his lungs. How it was Price and Johnny that dragged him out even as the fire blazed around him. The ride in the helicopter is still blurry even after all these years.

Afterward, Price told him how it took several days for the fire to eventually burn itself out. Chemicals caused it, and dumping water on it did nothing. The blaze was contained. And then it was left to fade out.

It did.

Eventually.

By that point, Simon was in the hospital thinking he’d never walk again without a prosthetic.

We are gardens now. The two of us.

Simon comes to a stop just shy of the garden. Because that is what it is. A garden.

This is where they found Walsh’s body. Burnt to a crisp with Simon’s blade still lodged in the chest cavity. The handle partially melted.

Simon understands why Price is urging cautiousness.

It’s valid. Truly.

Regardless of the garden surrounding him, in the center of it all is a body.

Not your body. And not a stranger’s either.

It’s a charred corpse. The corpse of Kit Walsh that isn’t Kit Walsh at all. The one discovered after the fire burned out. The one taken back to a lab somewhere for examination before they ruled the wanker dead.

How it’s here, Simon doesn’t know. But it’s preserved well, as if everything only happened yesterday.

The knife is gone.

But in its place is a tree. Not a towering tree, but a young one. Still growing toward the light that shines down from above. The tree, and all the surrounding plants come from fire-activated seeds.

Seeds that are coated in thick resin. Seeds that need that resin burned away before they can germinate and grow.

Simon clearly remembers telling Walsh about it, back when Simon was undercover and Walsh considered Simon a friend and confidant.

The two of them walked the streets of Manchester, lingering in a part of the city that few like to visit and only if they have to. A group of young boys no older than fifteen were slinging it out in an alley.

“They only use their fists now,” Walsh had said. “Back then we used our teeth.”

“Those boys are just seeds coated in resin,” Simon had replied.

Walsh had given him the strangest look. “Fucking what?”

“Some seeds can’t germinate unless they’re burned first.” Simon had nodded toward the group of raging boys. “They are the resin-coated seeds. Their violence is the fire. It’ll melt away the resin. Crack the shell. They will grow. Become a garden.”

“A garden?” Walsh had laughed. “You’re fucking hilarious, mate. A fucking garden? Like my mum’s flower bed?”

“No,” Simon had replied, knowing his own story. Knowing how his father and his bite was the flame that melted Simon’s resin. He had cracked. Grew. But not into his father. Not into that monster.

He germinated and followed a different story.

“A path. They’ll choose a path.”

Price comes up beside Simon, pausing just shy of his shoulder.

“I thought she’d be here,” murmurs Simon, staring at the burnt body of fake-Walsh.

“She might still be alive, Simon.”

“It still has the toe tag.”

Price sighs. “It does.”

Johnny and Kyle appear in Simon’s peripheral. They hover for a moment before coming into view. They walk the perimeter on the opposite side, gazes locked on the garden as if they might find a clue.

Could be that there is, but Simon doesn’t see it.

You are not here.

The note appeared on his front door and Simon knew exactly where when the words flowed off the page to burrow into his skull.

It rained that night.

It did rain that night. It fell in sheets. Soaked right through Simon’s clothes before the fire dried it all away.

“We’ll find her, Simon,” says Price, squeezing Simon’s shoulder before taking a step to the right.

They all stare at the garden. They all look for clues.

Simon’s mind is a cobweb. Dusty. Full of so much and yet unable to recall anything of note. Walsh’s actions have suctioned Simon’s resolve right out of his body like embalming tubes, filling him with a dullness that won’t abate.

Maybe it’s because you’re gone, and half of his purpose is missing.

Simon moves, but it is aimless. He tramples the garden. Steps all over the blooming buds. Crushed. Damaged. That is all he knows to do.

His gaze scans the flora. Examines the body. Its neck is bent backward, mouth open as if seeking falling rain.

Simon moves toward it. Notices a flash of white.

As if yanked from a trance, Simon lunges, falling to his knees, not caring that his bad leg cries out angrily in protest.

“What is it?” asks Johnny, dropping down beside him.

Another note. Another fucking note.

White envelope. No postage. Simon’s full name handwritten on the front.

It’s exactly the same. A twin from the one found at Evie’s home. A twin from the one attached to his front door.

This time, his fingers shake as he opens it up.

The small piece of paper is thin. Wispy. Translucent like the paper you might find in a wrapped gift.

Simon stares down at the ink. It is solid and bold. Not smoke-kissed like the last one. Here, it bleeds. Nearly illegible.

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

“Simon?” comes Johnny’s voice, but it’s a distant thing.

Friend. Friend.

“I wasn’t your friend, Walsh,” whispers Simon.

“What is it, Simon?” It’s Johnny again, concern lacing his tone.

“I wasn’t your fucking friend!”

Johnny leans away from Simon as he staggers to his feet. Clutching the paper in his fist, raging anger blooms white hot in his chest.

Price approaches Simon, hands outstretched as if trying to calm an animal.

“Get the fuck away from me!” shouts Simon.

Johnny gets to his feet, moving backward. Kyle, Johnny, and Price all stare back at him. There is pity—so much of it. Simon hates it. He wants to rip it away. They look like they want to give Simon their condolences, as if you are already dead.

But there is no confirmation.

Walsh wouldn’t hold on to your corpse just to take the piss.

Would he?

Walsh stole the fake body. He held on to it. Grew a fucking tree in the chest cavity.

A tightness forms in Simon’s chest. It grows, and then he’s heaving, panic rising. He bends over, placing his hands on his knees as his body convulses, wanting air but not able to find it.

“Simon.”

It’s Price, but Simon turns away, stumbling forward. He moves out of the garden and then collapses to his knees. They strike grass-laced concrete.

No one comes near him. Not until it’s over and his breathing slows to something even and calm.

“We’re taking you home.”

“Captain—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Simon.” Price puts all his authority in it, and Simon’s training rises to the surface, silencing him. “We’re taking you home. And I will handle this.”

Simon turns his head just enough to look at Price. “I want in.”

“I know.”

“I want in. I’m not asking.”

Price nods. “I know you’re not.”

The man sighs, glancing back at Johnny and Kyle. They linger near the edge of the garden, standing close but not touching. Gaz has removed his hat, holding it by the lip, speaking softly to Soap. Simon cannot hear their conversation.

Price returns his attention to Simon. “I want you to go home, and live as normally as you can. Let me take a look at our options. I will call. We’ll find her.”

Instead of walking away, Price presents his hand. “I’ll take it.”

Simon offers up the note without hesitation. Keeping it won’t do anything. It’ll only hurt more. It’ll only be a reminder.

Price nods and folds it up, placing it in his jacket pocket. Pushing up to standing, Price addresses Johnny. “I want this place picked apart. Call in who you can. And get me Laswell. I want Walsh fucking found.”

Distantly, Simon hears Johnny talking into a phone. Price talks too but it’s not to Simon. They are already making plans. Already moving toward the goal.

He is staring ahead. Hardly blinking. All the energy has been sucked from him.

It not Price or Soap, but Gaz that steps into Simon’s line of sight. He bends at the knee. Gets to Simon’s level.

“Let’s go, mate.”

Kyle offers his hand. Simon takes it.

The walk to the car is slow. Foggy. Like the trip to the hospital on the helicopter, this too is completely blurry. He doesn’t remember the drive out of Manchester and back to London. He doesn’t recall arriving outside his flat or the walk up the stairs.

There is nothing.

Only blankness.

Until Simon wakes—and realizes that the exhaustion finally overtook him, plunging him down into a black sleep that took all thought and dream and memory.

Routine keeps him together. It is the only comfort. Simon sinks into it. A distraction from everything. And between it all, Simon fills it with cigarettes and his favorite bourbon. If he didn’t love you, he’d likely be scrolling through his contacts thinking about how he can get his dick wet.

That’s what he used to do after you ran from him at Riot Room. He’d think of you and remember how you were forever out of reach. He’d wank one out to that shredded piece of thong in his drawer and be completely unsatisfied after.

From there, he’d find someone willing and warm. And that simmered the need. At least for a bit.

But he has you now. He loves you. Wants no one else.

The bourbon will do.

But it is a bloody shite substitute.

A day passes.

Then two. Then three.

After a week of radio silence, Simon feels the edges of madness closing in.

Evie calls, but Simon ignores her. She comes to the shop, and with hardened shame, Simon turns her away. It’s cruel. Completely fucking cruel.

But Simon cannot face her or anyone else. Not until he has an answer.

Whether you’re alive or dead, Simon will bring you home.

Amelia even comes—trying to talk sense. And yet Simon hardly cares. He stares blankly like he’s observing a wall. He says nothing. Doesn’t react.

Amelia eventually leaves. Clearly defeated.

A second week passes.

A third.

Simon is a zombie. He is decaying.

Lighting a cigarette, Simon takes up post on his balcony. It’s fucking cold. Winter is in full swing. Christmas has already come and gone. Simon didn’t go to Johnny’s family farm. Soap’s mum rang him just to check in. Apparently, Johnny was there. So was, Gaz.

Simon should have been there. You should have been there. He was so excited to bring you along, to introduce you to the two people in his life he can call parental figures.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette. Simon’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

Though time has passed, Simon is still eager with each vibration of his phone. Every time it goes off, Simon reaches for it—lunges.

He does it now, expecting something yet knowing that it’s unlikely.

Think we found her.

Simon’s heart stops. Drops into his stomach before returning to his chest to thud loudly until it’s all he can hear.

Before Simon types out a response, Johnny sends coordinates.

Meet us here. Three days.

Three days. In three fucking days he’ll be closer to finding you.

Urgency tells Simon to just go—to just fucking leave.

Three days.

Three. Days.

Simon puts out the cigarette and heads inside. Clearing the kitchen table of takeout boxes and empty bourbon bottles, Simon opens up the scheduling planner with all his upcoming appointments. He sets to work, making calls, rearranging fucking everything.

He rebooks until his schedule is clear for two months out. Finding and returning home with you is not nearly enough. Simon has no idea what state you’ll be in when he finds you. If you are alive, you might not be whole, and Simon doesn’t want to dive into work again. You will need all his love and attention.

You deserve it. And he wants to give all that he has.

From there, Simon packs a duffle. Bravo watches on, padding nervously around the bedroom as Simon shoves things inside the bag.

“We’re going on a walk, Bravo,” says Simon, snagging the German Shepard’s leash from off its hook by the front door.

Stopping at Dancing Faun, Simon drops off an extra set of keys to 141 Ink for Ben. After, Simon walks Bravo to the one place he’s been avoiding for weeks.

He hesitates before knocking.

“Finally ready to talk?” asks Amelia, her arms crossed over her chest after she answers the door.

She might be short but her energy isn’t.

“I’m leaving for a bit,” replies Simon.

Amelia shrugs. “And?”

She’s irritated, but that’s understandable. Simon hasn’t exactly been polite to her.

“I’m leaving to bring her home.”

Amelia’s visible irritation melts away. Her arms slowly uncross, dropping to her sides. Eyes widening, she opens her mouth to speak, hesitating at the last second.

“Can you take care of Bravo?” asks Simon before Amelia has a chance to say anything.

She nods quickly, taking the offered leash, holding it against her chest as if she cradles something precious.

“You sure?” she asks, voice shaking slightly. “Are you absolutely sure, Simon?”

There are no details. Nothing to guide him. It is a blank canvas. A deep gash in his understanding. Too many variables bounce around, and Simon cannot seem to grab one out of the air. They slip through his fingers.

Too much uncertainty dwells within him.

“I’m sure,” he lies.

Chapter Text

Knuckles pop. Joints crack.

Simon is primed—nerves and muscles alive and firing.

Ready for action.

Ready for blood.

His old life is returning. Not as fragments but through muscle memory. The training never left. It still dwells within him, twisting around tendons and bone like vines strangling a trellis, awakening to revive the man that once was.

"Tell me what you see, Simon."

Captain Price's voice comes from behind, drifting around Simon like lingering cigarette smoke and dirty snow. Silently, Simon observes the spread of information before him.

"These are the possible targets?" asks Simon, his gaze moving from picture to picture.

A small burst of air before the balaclava becomes steam. The abandoned barn they’ve set up shop in is fucking cold even with the generator-backed heaters turned on. But the cold hardly bothers Simon. His bad knee might not like it but the ache is easy to ignore.

On the wall is a massive map of the world. There are pictures of people and places pinned in various locations. Some of the people are crossed out—marked dead. Others are untouched or painted over with a question mark.

"Yes," affirms Price. "Anything familiar?"

Simon shifts his attention away from the wall and to the table in front of him. There are more pictures here—more documents.

A muscle in his neck spasms. "No," growls Simon. "Walsh likely abandoned his old haunts."

Price shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not."

Two pictures of Walsh stare back at Simon. One is an old photograph from before. Walsh's skin is perfect here—free from burn scars or blemishes. The second photograph is newer but slightly blurry. Walsh wears a black jacket, hood up, face in profile. Even with the burn scars, his face is unmistakable.

"Walsh is prone to paranoia," says Simon, bringing the newest photograph closer. "He had places even I didn't know about."

"That's my point," replies Price. "Walsh trusted you. And yet he still didn't tell you everything."

We are gardens now.

The two of us.

It's easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

Simon's fingers twitch with the urge to crush the photograph. Shoving the compulsion down, Simon returns the picture of Walsh to the table. Focusing on the massive board before him, Simon observes each marked location, his mind flipping through the rolodex of information he obtained during his infiltration.

"What makes you think it's one of these three?" asks Simon.

He lightly taps the picture in front of him. It's an aerial photograph of a series of warehouses near the Port of Felixstowe. There are two other ports marked including those of London and Liverpool.

Unease slides like sludge in Simon’s stomach. “Not only are these major ports, two of the three are fucking tourist attractions.” Simon turns on Price, crossing his arms over his chest. “You can tour a naval vessel and then board a cruise ship in a single day at Liverpool. London is the fucking same. Walsh isn’t making moves there.” He points at the picture of Felixstowe. “This is the only plausible of the three. Privately owned. Recent docker worker strikes.” Simon drops his arm. “But I don’t fucking believe that for a bloody second.”

There are other ports marked across Europe and the United States. Walsh likes to move around, never staying in one place too long. Sometimes he’s moving drugs. Sometimes he’s moving weapons. Using the same place of entry is risky with dangerous cargo.

"We have surveillance," replies Captain Price.

Gaz hands Soap a laptop. Johnny takes a seat and taps away at the keyboard, bringing up several video feeds.

"This one is for Felixstowe." Johnny allows the feeds to run for a bit before clicking over to a new set. "Liverpool." He switches again. "And London."

Simon shakes his head, noticing nothing in the grainy footage. "It's too close to home. Too busy. Too regulated."

Price's face remains impassive. “Look closer." He glances at Soap. "Roll them again."

Simon steps up directly next to Johnny's shoulder. Placing one hand on the table, Simon leans in. Johnny pulls up the surveillance feed near Felixstowe first. As it plays, a tiny twist of anxiety curls in his stomach. Are his eyes going to shit?

"You see it now?" asks Price.

"No," says Simon sharply.

Johnny loops the feed and points. "Here, Lt."

Squinting helps but hardly makes things any clearer. "Zoom in."

Johnny pauses the feed and enlarges it enough to give a more focused picture but not enough to render the pixels worthless. From the back of an SUV emerges a man that looks like Walsh. With him is—a woman?

Like a punch to the solar plexus, the wind is knocked out of Simon.

Is that you?

"You see it, Lt?"

"I see it," growls Simon. "Show me the next one."

Johnny repeats each surveillance feed, pausing and zooming in. There is a woman emerging from an SUV in each one, that is unmistakable, but is it you? That part is unclear. The videos aren't distinct enough to show details.

"We think this is her," says Price.

"In three different places?" asks Simon, skeptical.

Hope is a fragile thing. He wants to cling to it, to imagine that this is you he's seeing in all three feeds, but he cannot allow himself to latch onto an idea that may not hold any reality.

The middle of Price's brow creases. "You need to look again, Simon."

Simon slowly straightens himself. All of this feels like a game—Walsh's game.

"The timestamps don't make sense," growls Simon. "They're not even hours apart!"

"Exactly," says Price, stepping closer. "All of them are the same. Except one." Price lightly squeezes Johnny's shoulder. He brings up the first video feed again, the one from Felixstowe. "This one is different," murmurs Price, his gaze focused on the computer screen.

The feed plays and Johnny pauses the image. A small light flicks on in the dark recesses of Simon's mind.

"You see it now, Simon?"

"I see it, Captain."

Of the three, the woman is always alone in the Liverpool and London feeds. In Felixstowe, she isn't. In Felixstowe, there's a man grabbing her upper arm. A man that looks very much like Simon's enemy.

"We don't have confirmation," continues Price, already seeming to know exactly what Simon is thinking.

It doesn't fucking matter if they have confirmation or not. This is a lead. This is something.

"We've already sent recon teams," adds Kyle, breaking his silence.

The pity isn't there anymore. There is only grim determination. They've seen Simon at his lowest, and yet that doesn't matter. They're doing this to take Walsh down but they're also doing it for him.

Gaz glances at the map but he addresses Simon. "Walsh wants us to focus on Felixstowe." He turns attention to Simon. "Which is why we sent recon."

"And recon said different," replies Simon.

Kyle winks. "Exactly."

"Felixstowe is staged." Price moves toward the map. "But Liverpool?" Price turns back to Simon, with a smirk. "Want to know who funded that little transfer for Walsh?"

Walsh has always moved behind the scenes. He always lurks in the dark. Pockets are lined and Walsh obtains what he wants. At its core, big business is greedy. They’ll happily look the other way if they can get what they want and get away with it.

Some of the earlier unease melts, adrenaline replacing the anxiety.

Simon’s question is immediate “Did you bag the fucker?”

“I have a tail on them as we speak.”

“Good,” growls Simon. “Walsh with them?”

“No.”

Even better. It means Simon can deal out his own justice.

Simon exhales, trying to find a sense of calm amongst all this new information. "All I want is Walsh.”

I just want her back.

Simon wants that fucking wanker alive. He wants Walsh to squirm. To suffer. To feed the man his own teeth before making him choke on them.

But even that won’t satiate what Simon truly desires.

You. Only you.

In his arms again. Warm and safe and all his. To know that you will never come to harm again.

Price’s smirk becomes a genuine smile. They’ve been after this man for fucking years, and now Walsh is truly in their grasp.

Nodding toward the map, Price gestures toward it. "Our best guess is this warehouse near the Port of Liverpool."

"Why?" asks Simon. “It’s a haven for tourist.”

“It caters to tourist and occasionally houses the Royal Navy just as much as it brings in and sends out goods.” Price exhales. “It’s busy, yes. But it’s unsuspecting.”

"It's also the only place we've seen Walsh arrive to and leave from," adds Kyle.

Simon shrugs. “Could be a distraction. Make it obvious so we aren’t looking at other possible targets.”

“Could be,” replies Price casually.

“We’ve got him, Lt. And not on surveillance footage.”

"The recon team did," continues Gaz. "Real subtle, too. Like he didn't want to be seen."

Diversion has always been Walsh's specialty. His most devoted followers will do whatever he asks from shooting up a corner store to acting as a body double. The man is a manipulator. A friendly face that says exactly what you want to hear to reinforce your own confirmation bias.

He does it all in the name of power and personal superiority.

Simon turns toward Price. "Are we going after that warehouse?"

Price nods. "Tomorrow."

Darkness is a friend.

A companion. A trained beast. A silent killer.

Simon looks into his scope, checking and rechecking the perimeter of the building. Soap has already disabled the surveillance camera on the western side of the building. To the person watching, they're seeing a continuous loop of nothing.

The building itself isn’t one of those boxy metal buildings you find all over the States. This warehouse is old, made from brick and stone, built when ships were still only made of wood. Marked as a historical location, and yet currently closed to the public.

How bloody fucking convenient.

While the night is cold, the port isn’t empty. There are no cargo ships unloading but there’s a docked Destroyer all lit up across the River Mersey. Tourists and locals move along pedestrian areas, and the nearby arena is awash with light as some musical artist performs.

Life moves. Uninterrupted.

As it should be.

And not one of those souls realize what lurks in the dark.

“Soap. We ready to breach?” comes Price’s voice over comms.

Johnny’s answer is laced with slight static. “You have five minutes until the loop ends.”

Price turns back to look at Simon and Kyle, silently pointing in the direction of the door they’re entering the building through. Johnny is on the roof with two members of the recon team sent earlier.

With rifles raised, the trio move silently across the concrete. Price forms the front while Gaz and Simon take the sides and back. They stay on a swivel, watching Price’s rear as he approached the door.

“Three minutes, Captain,” comes Johnny’s voice over comms.

Behind Simon, there’s a clink of metal meeting metal. Something rattles. Then a soft creak as the service door opens.

“We’re in,” replies Price.

Price eases the door open. He keeps his gaze forward, hand coming up to signal that everything is clear. Simon enters behind Price with Kyle on his heel.

“There are three down the hall,” crackles Johnny’s voice over comms.

Price, Gaz, and Simon move silently down the tight hallway. One side is solid brick, the other treated wood. They pass breakers and switches but no doors. There are a few wall hangings but they’re for the workers who would handle the upkeep.

At a tight turn, Price presses himself against the wall. Simon and Kyle crouch as Price eases a small handheld mirror around the corner. There are only a few feet of hallway remaining before it meets a door that says “EXIT.”

“Where are they, Soap?”

A pause. “Just outside the door. Left.”

Price turns the corner and stops at the door. They form a line, switching off night vision. The door opens, and Price is moving. Simon is right behind him, blood roaring in his ears as he follows his captain.

Simon’s finger hugs the trigger.

A muted pop leaves the chamber.

Dark red bursts in the dim light, painting the wall and nearby mounted lamp. The three men never had a chance. They don’t even make a sound as the lead penetrates their heads and explodes in their skulls.

Price’s voice greets Simon in his earpiece. “Clear.”

“Two near the entrance. Follow the lights.”

The building is utterly silent. It’s all exposed brick and pipes. Distantly, Simon hears water dripping, but it is otherwise quiet like a slumbering monster.

Walsh is here. He fucking has to be. Simon senses it in his gut.

Price takes the two out near the entrance, Simon following behind with an extra bullet for each just to make sure.

“We’re coming up on your right, Captain.”

Johnny appears with one member of the recon team. The other remains on the roof, keeping an eye for any incoming vehicles.

“The bunker is through here,” says Johnny, aiming his weapon at the floor.

“The door is in the bloody floor?” asks Kyle.

Johnny crouches, his gloved hand gently probing the wood. They all watch until his hand pauses, his fingers lightly pressing downward.

There’s a hiss, and then Johnny is lifting, revealing a ladder and a dimly lit hall that Simon cannot see the end of.

Price squeezes the shoulder of the soldier from recon. “Keep a lookout here. Radio if you hear or see anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Price releases his shoulder and descends first. Johnny heads down next followed by Simon and then Kyle.

They’re going in blind. They do not have the plans or layout of this part of the building. The strangest thing is that it looks brand fucking new. It doesn’t make any sense.

Walsh doesn’t build. He utilizes what’s available and goes from there.

There’s only just enough light to see by and there are no doors except the one at the end of the short hall. They might find a maze. They might find a singular room. There could be walking into a trap or nothing at all.

Simon isn’t sure what worries him more.

But you have to be here. Somewhere.

Price counts down starting with three fingers. At one, he raises his rifle and kicks in the door, charging forward. Heartrate spiking, Simon heads in after him, finger tight on the trigger, ready to burst skulls and shatter bone.

The adrenaline peaks, swarming Simon’s senses.

And then it comes crashing down.

As if falling from a great height, Simon is presented with an entirely different outcome.

The firing end of the rifle drifts downward, his gaze focusing on the singular object in the entire room. It’s a box. A metal tackle box like you’d take on a fishing trip. Above it is a bulb hanging from the ceiling. The light it emits is warm and low like it’s been on for years and is just about ready to give out.

Price, Johnny, and Kyle all walk the perimeter of the room.

“It’s solid fucking concrete!” shouts Johnny, his steps increasing as he drags one gloved hand along the wall.

Price slowly spins. “What the fuck is this place?”

“It’s not a storage warehouse,” says Kyle. “There’s nothing here.”

“A hideout, then?” suggests Johnny. “A bunker?”

“Then where’s the bloody bed?” replies Kyle, voice rising slightly. “There isn’t even a table!”

Simon’s focus is narrowing to a pinpoint.

The tackle box is a deep forest green, the handle black, the latch gold.

He takes a step toward it.

“Don’t touch that, Simon.”

Simon ignores Price’s command. He moves closer.

“Simon!”

“Lt! Don’t touch it!”

It’s a game. This is all Walsh’s game.

Simon comes down to one knee beside the tackle box. It’s old—a little banged up. Somehow, he recognizes it.

His gloved thumb brushes over the metal latch.

“Simon!”

It’s Johnny, but Simon is already moving—already releasing the latch and lifting the lid.

Memory resurfaces, and cold dread twists Simon’s stomach. Scratched into the interior of the lid is a name.

It’s Simon’s father’s name.

The tackle box is his father’s, a relic from a time when there was no abuse and no alcohol. Simon remembers going on fishing trips as a young boy carrying this exact box even though he was far too small to hold it properly. He’d always walk leaning to one side due to the weight.

Then it collected dust in a closet as his father became a monster.

But the box isn’t empty.

There are no fishing hooks or plastic dividers. All of that is gone.

In its place is your hair.

Not much, just a cleanly cut portion no larger than Simon’s pinky. It’s neatly tied with red string. Beneath it is a filmy scrap of paper.

The words face him. Clear and obvious.

She’s not here. Try again, friend.

“Simon.”

A crater in the Earth opens up, swallowing Simon whole. He is descending, falling through an endless hell. Spiraling down, down.

“Simon.”

Johnny’s voice is a distant thing. It’s trying to penetrate, to worm inside and pull Simon out but his mind is flipping.

She’s not here.

Your lock of hair is delicately tied, a regretful solace that rings out into Simon’s subconscious.

Try again, friend.

“Simon!”

Following his name is a rattling of gunfire. It’s not distant. Just over his shoulder. In Simon’s earpiece, someone is rattling off a series of numbers and positions, but Simon isn’t paying attention.

You are not here.

You are—elsewhere.

Lost.

In a place where Simon cannot tread.

An instant passes. Then another. The darkness around him transforms, flipping end over end until everything that Simon knows about himself slips away.

You were supposed to be here. He’s supposed to find you. To bring you back.

But this is a task that Simon clearly cannot handle.

Fingers claw up his esophagus, creep over his tongue, and press against his teeth. It emerges, breaking joints, allowing the darkness Simon feels to burst forth and wrap around him, enshrining him in a bloodlust he hasn’t felt in years.

The rifle tip rises. Simon is running on autopilot, allowing Ghost to take over, to consume every ounce of sanity.

Price, Soap, and Gaz are holding down the door, firing at an enemy that Simon cannot yet see.

His feet are not his own. His hands belong to someone else.

Charging forward, the firing end of the rifle explodes. The enemy on the other side are surprised by his sudden appearance. They faulter for a second, their eyes widening slightly in fear. But it’s enough.

It’s enough.

They are cut down, reaching out, hands pressing against the holes in their bodies as blood pools on the floor.

Simon unloads until he’s empty. Reloads. Empties again.

“Simon!”

The rest of his team follow, but Simon is hungry. A blood beast.

When the lead isn’t enough, he uses his hands.

There are bodies all around him, a trail for Price, Gaz, and Soap to follow.

On he moves, devouring. Slicing and gutting until the blood of his enemies begins to soak into his clothes.

He doesn’t remember ascending. Doesn’t remember resurfacing only to dive right back into the void. With ears ringing and a hint of metal on his tongue, Simon destroys everything in his path.

He is aware of Price, Johnny, and Kyle. They move around him, guns high, picking off everyone they can. Simon moves from enemy to enemy, uncaring of how he kills them. He breaks bones. Breaks teeth. Breaks soul. He stabs and slices, relishing in every anguished sound they make.

It is only when so many have fallen that Simon digs in, wanting to draw out a final blow as if the man before him is Walsh and not a nameless crony. The man sobs, his eyes replaced with Simon’s burrowing thumbs.

“Where is she!” screams Simon. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice. “Where the fuck is she!”

The sob becomes a garbled cry. Bloody. Crimson pools and dribbles from the man’s open mouth.

“Tell me where she is!”

Unresponsive. Dead.

Simon slams the man’s head against the floor.

But it isn’t enough. It will never be enough.

A strangled scream is ripped from Simon as he repeatedly bashes the man’s head into the floor.

Hands are on him, grabbing at his arms, tearing him away. Simon swings, clipping Johnny in the chin.

“Enough!” Price wrestles Simon to his feet, pushing him hard against the wall. “They’re dead, Simon.”

His head pounds, the balaclava moving rapidly into and out of his mouth as he gasps for air.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

It’s all slipping away. Piercing and sharp and yet so dull that Simon begins to feel numb.

“Simon,” murmurs Price, the middle of his brow creasing.

Try again, friend.

Chapter Text

Two Months Later

Numbness is an affliction.

It burrows deep like a nesting animal. There it slumbers. Reproduces. Expands.

Simon is full of holes. He oozes apathy.

Life is meaningless. Directionless.

Cracking his neck, Simon rolls his shoulders and adjusts his posture. The woman in the tattoo chair, Rebecca, is leaned back, legs extended as Simon tattoos a floral piece onto her thigh. It's an intricate web of color and shading.

Four hours in and Simon is still hollow. His art was his lifeblood. Every tattoo and piercing felt special no matter how small.

This is just skin rubbed raw.

Broken bones.

Shattered teeth.

Simon switches hands, flexing his fingers to expel the tightness. Every muscle aches with weariness and it's not from being hunched over for hours. There is a deeper chasm and gnawing teeth that chew chew chew away at the folds in his brain.

Maybe he just needs to get laid. A quick, dirty, hard fuck with a stranger that won't mean shit after it's said and done. Maybe, Simon needs to just get you out of his system. To move on.

To fucking move on.

Simon dips back into the ink and thinks of nothing but the lines and the color and the shading. He hears the soft chime of the door, but Simon does not glance up. If he only remains focused, then maybe this will pass.

Footsteps approach. A bit heavy. A man’s stride.

"Be with you in a minute," says Simon, keeping his attention on the tattoo in front of him.

He ignores the footfalls, knowing that if he does, they’ll circle back and pop a seat in the waiting area.

But they do not halt. Nor do they retreat.

Closer they come until the visitor’s body casts a long shadow over Simon, obscuring the light, and fracturing all of his patience. With as much calmness as Simon can muster, he switches off the tattoo gun and places it on the rolling cart next to him.

Sighing, Simon turns, ready to tell this fucker off. "If you'd go have a seat—”

As Simon's gaze sweeps outward, the remainder of his words are snatched from his lungs. A memory stands before him. A distant reality.

This is not love or comfort. This is dark tidings.

A grease fire made worse by adding water.

Whatever numbness lurks in Simon’s bones is quickly giving way to rage—blinding, immovable rage.

Simon stands abruptly, nearly knocking over both the rolling chair and cart. Rebecca jumps, startled by the sudden movement.

“Hello, Simon,” grins Kit Walsh. “Good to see you, mate.”

Simon's vision narrows like a train tunnel. Everything about the man in the same from his crow-like features and black hair to his weight and build. It’s the burn scars on the side of his neck and lower portion of Walsh’s face that are different. Even the smug fucking smile on Walsh’s face is the same.

The instinct to immediately swing on Walsh lurches through Simon’s muscles.

"Careful," murmurs Walsh with a hint of a giggle, as if knowing Simon's impulse. "Don't want any nasty surprises."

Simon straightens his shoulders, willing the rage down down until it resembles nothing more than a controlled burning.

"I'm with a client," replies Simon slowly. "We can do this after."

"Aces," shrugs Walsh, hands in his pockets. "I'm next on the list anyway."

Walsh winks at Rebecca and struts backward toward the sofa. Bravo is on edge, ears perked up, fur standing on end as he carefully observes Walsh’s retreat.

I’m next on the list.

Simon removes his gloves. "Let's take ten," he says to Rebecca, not caring if his tone is sharp.

Tossing the gloves into the nearest rubbish bin, Simon heads for his laptop. Awakening the screen, Simon looks over his client list for the day. After Rebecca’s is a man's name. Generic. Nothing out of the ordinary. But of course, Walsh wouldn't use his actual name. And the appointment has been booked for almost four months.

What the fuck are you up to, Walsh.

As Rebecca drinks some water and taps away at her phone, Simon heads to Walsh, keeping his voice low.

“Are you—”

“The very same,” interrupts Walsh, that smug smile still cleanly in place.

"You're lucky I haven't ripped your goddamn face off," whispers Simon.

Walsh leans back against the couch. "Don't threaten me with a good time," laughs Walsh with a flirtatious bite.

With a slowness that’s almost comical, Walsh opens up the side of his coat, revealing enough explosives to demolish the entire street.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Insurance," shrugs Walsh, closing his coat. "In case the life of your sweetheart isn't enough of an incentive."

Two months and only silence.

"She's alive?"

"Course she is, mate," replies Walsh, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Why would I kill her?"

"Because you're a fucking bastard, Kit,” hisses Simon. “And I don't bloody trust you."

Walsh casually withdraws a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. As he goes to light it, Simon snatches the cigarette right out of Walsh's mouth.

"You're no fun," mutters Walsh, pocketing the lighter.

"Why are you here?"

"To talk," says Walsh. "And to get some of that award winning art on my body." He glances over Simon's shoulder. "Looks like those ten minutes are up."

Simon scowls behind the balaclava. "This isn't over."

Walsh holds up his hands placatingly as Simon steps back and returns to his current client. His focus is scattered—fractured. Each time Simon brings the tattoo gun to skin, he glances over at Walsh, making sure the man hasn't moved.

Walsh remains seated, relaxed, legs spread wide and arms stretched over the back of the couch. Bravo sits between Simon and Walsh, facing the man, licking his chops like he's just waiting for Walsh to act up.

This has to be a fucking joke. A prank.

"What do you think?" Simon asks Rebecca.

She sits up, and then slowly stands, admiring Simon’s work in the full-length mirror. "Better than I imagined. This is amazing."

Payment is exchange, and Rebecca disappears with a light skip in her step. If this were any other day, Simon might feel a bit of joy at a client’s happiness. But not when Kit Walsh is sitting just a few feet away.

"You're talented," says Walsh. "Never took you for the artsy type.”

"There's a lot you don't know about me,” mutters Simon, removing the black disposable gloves and tossing them into the nearby bin.

Walsh sucks his teeth and then stands, removing his coat, revealing the explosives. Simon sprays down the tattooing chair with sanitizer, observing the wiring. All that time with Johnny and you pick up a few things you didn’t before.

From what Simon can tell, there is no detonator in either of Walsh’s hand, but it could be anywhere. If it’s not on him, it’s likely in the hands of one of his cronies. Either they’re watching or listening in, waiting for the cue to blow the entire street.

"I'm think something large,” sighs Walsh, tossing his coat onto the sofa. “To cover up the burns. Just like you did."

Simon pauses, hand hovering for a moment before he continues cleaning the chair. “Most of my scars are blacked out. Solid ink.”

“No fancy designs?” asks Walsh, rolling up his sleeve slowly to reveal his bare arm.

Simon tosses the disposable rag into the bin and then washes his hands. “Wanting something fancy?” he asks over his shoulder, shaking his hands before drying them off. “That’ll cost extra.”

Walsh whistles lowly. “Drive a hard bargain. But you know I’m good for it.”

"Not if it's cash," replies Simon, turning on him. "I have no use for weapons or smack. And don’t even think about offering me a credit card. They’re always fucking stolen."

"Pity," sniffs Walsh. "You were always fond of a good blade."

Simon changes out the needles, opening a fresh set and placing a second on the rolling cart. “How’s that chest wound treating you, Kit?” asks Simon, glancing over at Walsh only to find a sneer. “Sorry, mate. Did I hit a spot?”

"I could give the order, you know,” murmurs Walsh. “Have her strung up. Severed. Delivered in pieces to your front door."

Some of Simon’s fire recedes. At his silence, Walsh chuckles as if he didn’t just threaten your life. “No jokes now, Riley? No death threats?”

"Tell me what you want and then get the fuck out of my shop."

Walsh grins, leaning in. "I want a tattoo."

"Fuck. You."

Walsh leans away, resting the back of his head against the chair, settling in like he’s just another customer. “And to talk.”

Simon doesn’t reply. He continues to set up his cart with everything he needs.

Walsh twiddles his thumbs before breaking the silence. “Missed you.”

“Piss off,” mutters Simon, grabbing two black disposable gloves.

Picking up a purple marker, Simon rolls over to the tattoo chair, observing Walsh's bare arm. It's riddled with burn scars. Though healed, it's clear he never underwent surgery to correct some of it. Simon remembers those surgeries, remembers the skin grafts. Walsh's skin is all puckered and raw but healed. It'll be hell on the needles as much as it'll be on Walsh's skin.

With more gentleness than Walsh deserves, Simon makes two marks with the marker. A start point, and an end.

"Blacking it out?" asks Walsh.

"You don't get anything extra just because you booked under a false name,” retorts Simon. “And with your scars it’ll hurt more. Take a bit more time.”

Walsh’s gaze is assessing, moving over Simon’s upper body. “Will it be like yours?”

“Yes,” answers Simon.

Walsh sighs contentedly. "It'll be just like the old days."

Simon grinds his teeth, swallowing back every nasty thing he wants to say. He clicks on the gun and the familiar buzz fills the air. Dipping the point into the ink, Simon brings it to Walsh's skin. Just before it makes contact, Simon pauses, some of that rising rage returning.

Part of him wants to jam the thing into Walsh’s eye, but Simon has to think of you.

Of your safety.

Simon takes a deep breath, and draws from memory, picturing your face. It comes in pieces. Fractures. There are blank details. He's already forgetting what you look like—and that in and of itself is a crime.

Clenching his jaw, Simon makes contact. A vein in Walsh's neck pulses but he makes no comment about the sting. Depending on the burn scars, tattooing can be difficult but possible. Sometimes they don’t absorb the ink well and multiple sessions are needed. But it’s not like Walsh is ever coming back after day.

After a few minutes of silence, Simon takes the bait. "You came here to talk." He dips the tip back in the ink. "So fucking talk."

Walsh snorts. "Why jump all in? We have hours."

“I’m not one for small talk,” mutters Simon.

“No,” muses Walsh. “You never were.” Walsh turns his head in Simon’s direction. “That’s what I liked about you. Always to the point. Blunt. No one else spoke to me the way you did."

"And why do you think that is?" counters Simon.

Walsh grins. “We're the same. You and I. It's why we got along so well."

We are gardens now. The two of us.

"You're delusional.”

"No,” says Walsh with utter confidence. “I know you. Always have."

Simon’s jaw aches from clenching it. He retrieves more ink, and this time, uses more force than necessary. The rage is building again, becoming thick and potent like molasses.

"We're not the same,” growls Simon.

He’s changing. Fracturing. Shifting.

Walsh laughs, and rubs at his chin with his other hand. "We both care about our country."

"You don't care about anyone but yourself!" Simon turns off the tattoo gun and places it on the cart. "We're fucking done. Get out."

"We're only talking,” says Walsh casually.

His words are fucking sour to Simon. Dead.

Simon leans in. "That's what you always say." The rage becomes cold. Icy. “The first time we met, you had no idea that we had crossed paths before.”

Walsh’s charm fades slightly.

Simon forges ahead, not giving him a chance to speak. “You don’t remember. But I do. I remember every little detail about that night.”

Crossing his arms, Simon rests them on the edge of the tattooing chair, never taking his gaze off the man he’s been hunting for years.

“I tracked you to a little pub in Manchester. For surveillance. You rented out the room upstairs. Stood up on a makeshift stage and addressed a room full of men.” Simon licks his lips, the fabric of the balaclava scratching his tongue. “I knew you were shit then, but I didn’t know just how fucking awful you were until you opened your mouth.”

Walsh’s shell is cracking. Piece by piece.

“You had the biggest smile on your face. Proud of the words coming out of your mouth.” Simon leans in even closer, lowering his voice until it drips with disdain. “The shit you said that night. That red pill bullshit about women. About the queer community. About anyone who didn't fit your idea of superiority.”

That coldness solidifies. Becomes steel.

“I saw how those weak, pathetic men ate up every word. And I’ll wager you don’t remember any of their names. Faces, maybe. But not names.”

“What’s your bloody point?” growls Walsh, all that cheerfulness now gone.

“I remember them,” says Simon. “I remember because your words fueled them. Sent them out into the world only craving violence. They stabbed. Drove cars into crowds.” Simon leans back, but keeps his hands on the chair. “And then you fucked off to America. Said the same shit there because their gun laws are looser.”

“Simon—”

“And you had a fucking blast there, didn’t you?”

“Simon,” warns Walsh.

“A fucking blast!” Simon slams his hand against the leather and Walsh flinches. Fucking flinches. It’s all the fuel Simon needs.

“You feed them your bullshit.  You shat out your manifesto and they worshipped you like God. And then they picked up their guns and walked into shopping malls, and churches, and schools. Fucking schools, Kit.”

The rage is boiling. Every part of Simon is on fire. Screaming.

“And while those same wankers quoted you while in custody, you were across the other side of the world trading drugs for guns. Helping fuel civil wars and moving warheads because you sweettalked some politicians too drenched in cash to care about the consequences.”

A laugh catches in Simon’s throat.

“You’re a terror,” whispers Simon. “The worst kind because you don’t even fucking believe any of it. Do you?”

Walsh is no longer smiling, and for a brief flicker, Simon thinks Walsh might set off those explosives. But no—Walsh likes the long game. If he wants to talk, Simon will fucking talk.

Simon chuckles, and it almost sounds manic. “I was ready to follow you home that night. To crawl in through your window and fucking suffocate you.” He sighs heavily. “I should have. Instead of listening to my orders.”

“How romantic,” sneers Walsh.

“And then after all that chatter in that pub—”

“The pub, Simon? Really? You were just taking the piss about the schools. Now you want to go off about the pub? Tell me how you really feel?”

“We’re only talking,” says Simon, repeating Walsh’s words right back at him.

Walsh shakes his head. “I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“No. You didn’t,” agrees Simon. “But you were the scope. You showed those weak men where to point.”

Walsh’s face is bright red. Simon’s only seen him like this once before. The rain fell that night but a fire raged.

“After your grandstanding you went downstairs with the rest of your lads. You never noticed me. But I noticed you, Walsh. Saw you corner a woman. Saw the fear in her eyes as you didn’t take no for an answer. And when she left and a few of your new friends followed her, I made sure she was the only one who got home safe.”

"Did you kill them?"

"I did,” affirms Simon. “And I enjoyed it."

Walsh sneers. "You're just like me. You follow your impulses.”

"You're pathetic, Kit. A shit stain." Simon gestures at Walsh's arm. "And this is all you're getting from me. Now, get out."

"I could take us out right now.”

"Please. You’d do the world a fucking favor.”

"Finish the tattoo, Riley."

"Choke on my dick, Kit."

Simon shoves away from the tattooing chair, intended to put some distance between them. But just as the wheels on Simon’s stool begin to move, Walsh reaches out, snagging Simon’s forearm in a vice grip. The reflex comes immediately.

The back of Simon’s hand across Walsh’s face is a deafening crack. Walsh’s head snaps to the side. Dark red bursts outward in an arc.

They both hang in the silence. Simon, with his arms still slightly outstretched. Walsh, hanging limply to the side, bloody drool dripping off his face.

This is it. Simon fucked up. Either it’s your body in pieces or this entire street is flattened.

Slowly, Walsh pushes his hair of his eyes, revealing his red-drenched face. His tongue runs over his teeth, and spits. A glob of blood hits the floor followed by a tooth.

Walsh sits up, grinning. Dark red against off-white.

“There he is,” laughs Walsh. “There’s the Simon I know.” He doesn’t wipe away the blood. “And don’t apologize. Knew the blow was coming.” Seemingly unfazed, Walsh hops off the tattooing chair, strolling over to the sofa. Picking up his coat, Walsh shrugs it on. “Thanks for the shit tattoo, Riley.”

Walsh lightly tugs on the coat, smoothing the fabric.

Just like any other customer, Walsh is leaving. Services rendered.

“Oh! Almost forgot.” Walsh turns on his heel. “Keep an eye on the post.” He takes a step back and places his hand on the door. Pushing it open, Walsh pauses just before he’s swallowed up by the chill of early March.

“I’m inviting you to dinner.”

Chapter Text

A flood. A river.

Water rushing—swallowing Simon whole. Drowning.

He is cold. So...cold.

Dunked. Forced. Reaching and clawing for fresh air as his lungs fill to bursting.

Bravo whines, tapping Simon's leg with his paw, trying to capture his attention. Simon absently scratches under the dog's chin, his gaze distant and unfocused.

Around him in a circle are sketches. Charcoal on white paper.

They were meant for you—for you to browse and enjoy. Only a few months ago, Simon believed that you would eventually pick one, and from that selection, he'd design the perfect tattoo, and you'd do him the honor of inking your skin with his art.

Fuck, how things have changed. Shifted.

The stars are no longer aligned. Everything is off—and all the planets, moons, and comets are close to colliding.

Shattering. Simon is shattering.

Bravo whines again, this time with a hint of a growl in it, as if his patience is thin. That one change clicks something into place, pushing Simon toward the present moment.

"Need out of my head," mutters Simon. Leaning to the side, Simon playfully scratches at Bravo's belly until the German Shepherd collapses onto his back, tongue lolling out in contented bliss. "Up for a jog?"

Bravo is up in an instant, his claws tap tap tapping against the wood floor as he fetches his leash. Simon's gaze lingers on the sketches. A buzzing numbness begins to creep in, chilling his blood.

Two weeks since Kit Walsh walked through the door of 141 Ink. Two weeks and no letter in the post. No word. Not from him. Not from Price or Gaz or Johnny. A brief spark of shame ignites in Simon's chest. He hasn't spoken to Amelia or Evie either. They've reached out. They try all the time. Amelia even convinced Ben from Dancing Faun and a few older patrons to come check in on him.

But not bringing you back is a failure.

Simon can't face them. Can’t face fucking anyone. Can't begin to explain how all of this is entirely his fault. Kit doesn't care about you. He cares about Simon—about making him suffer.

And it's working. It's bloody fucking working.

Bravo dumps the leash in Simon's lap. A bit of drool bleeds into Simon's joggers, and he can't help but chuckle.

"Let's go," groans Simon, his bad leg acting up as he stands.

Warming up and heading out for a mile helps with the soreness in Simon's limbs but not his heart. Before heading home, Simon stops for a coffee and croissant at the bakery, giving Bravo the drier portions.

As Simon slips the key into the lock of the exterior door, he almost doesn't notice the small white envelope on the floor. Bravo steps right over it, charging upstairs to the flat as Simon releases his hold on the leash.

The buttery, flakey piece of croissant becomes ash in Simon’s mouth.

He knows that handwriting. That familiar scrawl.

And it’s Sunday. The post is never delivered on Sunday. But of course, it wouldn’t arrive in the actual fucking mail.

Walsh likes to hand deliver.

Makes it more personal. Especially when Walsh believes that someone has personally wronged him.

Simon has seen it before, back when Walsh believed Simon was on his side. Sometimes it was Simon who pulled the trigger on Walsh’s order. Not that any of those wankers were good people, but Walsh takes great joy in the one-on-one.

Simon bends at the knees, lifting the small white envelope off the ground. His greasy fingers leave behind a blemish. Bravo whines and Simon ascends the stairs, clutching the envelope tightly as if it will melt away like snow under a blazing sun.

Even as Simon enters his flat, he does not open it. He places his coffee and half-eaten croissant on the kitchen table, unlatching Bravo's leash and returning it to the holder by the front door. It isn't until Simon has the phone in his hand—the one he’s only ever used twice—while dialing the one person he knows will answer, that he flips the envelop over with shaking fingers, breaking the seal.

"Lt."

"Johnny."

Simon almost doesn't recognize himself. He sounds...broken. Rotten like forgotten food in a hoarder’s fridge. Johnny immediately notices the distress in Simon’s voice.

“What’s wrong? Did that fucker come into your shop again?"

"No," says Simon quickly, because it’s true. Walsh didn’t enter his shop. Didn’t even enter his home this time. "Not exactly."

“Simon. What’s happened?”

Slowly, Simon slides the flimsy bit of paper out of the envelope. It’s not folded. Just a once crisp piece of plain paper that Simon scrunched in his fist.

“It’s happening, Johnny. The end. I think this is it.”

“The end?” asks Soap.

Flipping it over, letters and numbers are revealed. And then words.

An address.

"Johnny,” he exhales, almost gasping as the air is ripped right out of his lungs. Simon’s thundering heart becomes silent.

"What do you need from me, Lt?"

There are words below the address. A quote, perhaps. A message.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Tears form in Simon’s eyes. "I'm not doing this alone."

"You won't be."

"You shouldn't go in alone."

Captain Price's voice crackles through the earpiece. It's a small thing, no larger than a pea pod. It sits snugly in Simon's right ear.

"I have to,” replies Simon, determined to fucking end this.

This isn't for them to decide, and it certainly isn't their responsibility. Walsh's death belongs to Simon.

He craves it. Needs it.

Lifeblood for lifeblood.

A soft static comes over the earpiece followed by Price’s voice. “We’re in position. Give the word. And we’ll enter.”

"Thank you, Captain."

Simon is dressed for dinner. It’s no suit and tie, but Walsh doesn’t really deserve the curtesy. Simon carries a pistol and a blade, but it’ll likely be confiscated. Walsh might enjoy a good game but he doesn't play fair.

What Simon did not expect, was for Walsh to bring him home. To bring him here. Of all places.

He knows this street, though it’s changed a bit over the years. He would walk home from school and stop two doors down to pet the neighbor’s dog before heading home. His mum would spend her weekends lingering out front tending her flowers. This home flourished when he was small and his little brother was nothing more but cells in his mother's womb.

It's different now. Dark.

Simon hasn't touched his childhood home in years. Not since their deaths. He couldn't bring himself to sell it, and he sure as shit couldn't bring himself to get rid of anything. He's owned it since then, and it simply exists. Empty.

But there's a light on. A small one.

The table lamp beside the window is illuminated, the one his mum liked to turn on after she put Simon and his brother to bed. The one she’d read her book by before heading to bed herself.

But that was before everything happened. Back when they were a happy family and his father was sober.

"I can come with you, Lt."

Johnny this time.

"No,” replies Simon. “It needs to be me."

It takes all of ten steps to approach the front door. Simon tries the doorknob, and finds it unlocked.

Slowly, Simon eases the door open, revealing a home that hasn’t changed. Everything is in its place, and as he steps inside, he notices the dust. Glancing down at the floor, he is greeted with the bloodstains that never came out of the carpet no matter how hard he scrubbed.

While the hall is dark, the door to his left stands open, revealing the living room. Simon can see the lit lamp and his mother’s favorite chair from where he stands in the hall. As he shifts in that direction, moving toward the light, the rest of the room comes into view.

Just inside, all the furniture has been pushed against the walls, opening up the middle of the room. There is a table, or what appears to be a table. It’s low to the ground with a bulky base that’s longer that it is wide. There are no chairs but it wouldn’t work with the table. Simon and Walsh will have to sit on the floor.

On the tabletop is a feast. An entire Sunday roast dinner. It sends Simon right back to those early days of his youth when he’d look forward to this meal. Nothing is unaccounted for. There’s the carved roast meat, roasted potatoes, an array of vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, stuffing, gravy, and all sorts of sauces. It is far fancier than anything Simon’s mum ever prepared.

It’s fresh, too. Small wafts of steam drift upward. Not only that, but the table is set for two.

“You came.”

Simon’s head snaps around, only to find Kit Walsh standing in front of the kitchen door. Simon didn’t even hear him.

“Didn’t have much of an option.”

Walsh shrugs. “True.”

“Where is she, Kit?” asks Simon.

This is Walsh’s only chance. He’ll ask nicely—politely, even. But that’s fucking it. Fuck this dinner. Fuck talking.

Walsh extends a hand, gesturing at the makeshift table. “Have a seat.”

“Kit,” growls Simon, taking a step toward the man. “Where is she?”

The corner of Walsh’s mouth twitches but his demeanor reveals nothing. He’s completely calm, and that scares Simon. Walsh is at his worse when he appears perfectly apathetic.

“Food is going cold,” replies Walsh, and the chilly blandness in his voice sends Simon over the edge. “Never known you to pass up a Sunday roast.”

The pistol is in Simon’s hand, the firing end of the barrel pressed to Walsh’s forward in a matter of seconds.

“I won’t ask again, Kit. Where is she?”

Walsh’s sigh is like that of an annoyed parent. “Sit down, Simon. Eat.”

Simon adds pressure behind his grip, pushing the barrel harder against Walsh’s skin, forcing his head backward. The man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away either. Walsh stares Simon in face, unblinking.

“You fucking done?” he asks.

“No,” snaps Simon. His fingers curls around the trigger. “You tell me where she is, Kit. I’m not fucking around.”

“Then be done with it, mate. Put some lead in me. Make me bleed.” His smile is slightly off, like he’s begging for Simon to do it.

And Simon wants to. Badly.

“I won’t hesitate.”

“I know you won’t, Riley. You’ve always been a great shot.”

Slowly, Simon eases the gun away from Walsh’s head. It leaves behind a round mark in the middle of Walsh’s forehead.

“Have a seat,” coaxes Walsh. “Let’s talk.”

Simon is sick of talking. It’s all they ever do. Back and forth and back again until everything is twisted and torn and wrong.

“You’ll talk out of your ass the whole time,” says Simon, backing away from Walsh. The gun is still clutched in his hand, but it’s lowered.

“You can keep the gun,” sighs Walsh, heading for the nearest table setting. He takes a seat at the makeshift table, crossing his legs.

It reminds Simon of primary school. And that only makes it hurt all the more.

He wants to resist, but instead, Simon goes to the opposite end of the table, taking a seat. Playing Walsh’s game is his only chance, even if Simon doesn’t want to participate. He prefers things clean. Recon. A quick shot to the head.

But all that old violence didn’t involve someone Simon cares about. Killing Walsh now may end any chance of you returning to him.

Simon places the gun on the table next to his plate. He stares out at the feast, not wanting to take anything.

“It’s not poisoned,” says Walsh, already reaching for the food. He grabs a large slice of roast before dishing himself up one of everything else. When Simon doesn’t move to put food on his plate, Walsh chuckles. “Do I need to eat some first? Would that convince you?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Walsh shrugs. “Shame.” He cuts off a piece of the roast and dunks it in the gravy before popping it into his mouth. He points at the roast with his fork. “Missing out.”

With each bite Walsh takes, Simon continually grows uneasy. There’s no quickness in the way Walsh eats. He savors everything, complimenting the flavor, attempting to make small talk with Simon whose plate remains empty.

“I just want to know where she is, Kit. I don’t fucking care about anything else.”

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s a bloody lie. You fucking hate me.”

“Didn’t say that I didn’t.”

“You should really try this, Simon.” Walsh slowly chews a potato. “Banging meal. Missing out.”

“Fucking shut up.”

Walsh glances up, the middle of his brow curved in. “Fucking eat it, Simon. I’m not asking.” When Simon doesn’t move, Walsh sets down his silverware. “You want your woman back? Then fucking eat.”

Simon’s fists are clenched in his lap. It takes everything in him to unfold those fingers—to relax the muscles enough to move. Like a robot with a singular purpose, Simon starts filling his plate. He can smell it all. The food is fragrant and luscious. His stomach growls yet there is no meal that could fill that hole that sits in Simon’s stomach.

As Simon returns his plate to the table, Walsh returns to his own meal.

“This is our last supper,” sighs Walsh. “Sad to end it here.”

Simon stares down at his plate. Part of him wants to eat it, to remember the nostalgia of sitting at the dining table on Sunday afternoons. “One of us isn’t leaving here.”

Walsh frowns. “Suppose that’s true.”

Simon answers immediately. “It’ll be you.”

“Will it?” Walsh glances around. “This is your childhood home. Your mum died just out there.” Walsh gestures toward the entrance. “Didn’t your father bash her head in?”

He asks the question like the death of his family is polite dinner conversation.

“Don’t talk about my mum, Kit.”

Walsh tuts. “And then to off your baby brother like he did?” He pauses to chew a piece of roast. “All while you were on your first deployment? Fucking mental that one. Bet you’re glad he’s dead.”

“They’re all dead. You know that.”

Simon remembers that night like it was yesterday. He came home from his first deployment expecting to be greeted by his mum and baby brother. They weren’t there in London. Simon didn’t understand why until he made his way back to Manchester and walked through the front door.

“How’d it feel killing your father? You enjoy it?”

“Fuck off.” Simon’s voice is cold. Distant.

Taking his plate, Walsh piles on another helping of potatoes and meat. “And for Captain Price to get those charges wiped? Bloody lucky you are, Simon.” He snags another Yorkshire pudding. Adds more gravy to his plate. “I mean—he made you his fucking patsy on that,” Walsh gestures vaguely in the air, “fucking task force. Had you murdering everyone the government deemed a ‘threat.’”

“Should look at yourself, Kit.”

“Why? Because I played the same game?” Walsh shakes his head. “I took their money. I spent it. I made them happy, and then I tossed them in the fucking rubbish when I was done with them.”

“And yet, they all still have their heads. For someone who hates the government, you’ve hardly fucking touched them.”

Walsh shrugs. “Most. But not all.”

Simon’s jaw clenches. “Just tell me where she is, Kit. Tell me and let’s be fucking done with this.”

“I don’t think I’m done. And you haven’t touched your food.”

Simon scoffs. This wanker is unbelievable. “You fucking think—”

There’s a thump. It immediately silences Simon and gives Walsh pause. That can’t be the boys. Simon didn’t give them the go ahead.

A lull of silence follows.

“Kit—”

“Don’t fucking start.”

Another thump. This one rattles the table. Coming from—

Simon flattens his hands on the tabletop, starting to rise.

“Don’t fucking move, Simon.” Walsh’s voice is deathly cold. He’s bent forward, hand poised like he’s ready to draw a weapon.

“Where the fuck is she?” growls Simon.

Another thump. This one is louder. Stronger. Shaking the entire table.

Simon is up and raising his gun just as Walsh draws his. The pistol fires, the sound loud. Walsh jerks, his shoulder hitching to the side. Simon keeps his finger on the trigger, each round leaving the chamber a melody to his ears.

Charging forward, Simon lungers for the man.

In is ear, Price’s voice is a pulsing thing, calling his name. Simon is hardly paying attention. Walsh is right there. Within reach.

There is already blood. Bright. Bold. Spreading over the floor.

Simon falls to his knees, uncaring of the pain. “Where is she, Kit?” He fists the front of Kit’s shirt, lifting the man from off the ground.

"Did you not enjoy the meal?" asks Kit, his eyes glassy and distant. "Spent months on it."

A sour dread floods Simon’s stomach. He never took a bite of the food. But the roast…

“Where is she!” screams Simon, shaking him.

Walsh’s head flops about even as he laughs.

"A feast," chuckles Walsh. "Over flesh."

With a raging cry, Simon slams Walsh's head against the wood floor. There's a loud crack, and Walsh's laughter cuts off.

But Simon doesn't notice. He is elsewhere—drifting in blood hunger, wanting only vengeance.

Only wanting marrow. Only wanting dirt.

Simon grasps Walsh by the neck, smashing the back of his head against the floor again.

"You."

Smash.

"Fucking."

Walsh's skull cracks.

Opens up.

"Wanker!"

Busted brain matter mixes with the red, spreading outward.

"Simon!" It's Johnny's voice but it's not in his ear this time. It's just over his shoulder. It is present. It is loud. "Simon!"

Hands are on him. Strong ones. They tug at his shoulders, drawing him away from the gore. From the mess. Simon does not relent. Like a boulder, he collapses, pressing his forehead against the wood floor, sinking further into darkness.

You have to be here. You have to be.

A feast over flesh.

Simon turns his head to the right, staring at the large, makeshift table. It's boxy. Big. More like a storage bin rather than a table.

More like—

Simon flattens his hands, pushing up enough to half-crawl, half-drag himself toward the table. There's something odd about it, the shape. And the thudding. The fucking thudding.

"Simon. Don't—”

Simon knocks Johnny's hands away. With one wide swing of his arm, Simon knocks away the food and tableware. It crashes to the ground.

At first, Simon tries to lift the flattened top, but it doesn't budge. It's been nailed on. This isn't a commercial build. This is custom made. Not a table at all.

"Johnny,” breathes Simon. “Get a crowbar. And a hammer. In the garage."

Johnny doesn’t question. He just goes, disappearing into the house. Distantly, Simon hears the banging of doors and heavy footfalls.

Simon bends forward, examining the underside.

The tabletop is just a piece of large, finished wood nailed onto an open box. When he was standing, he couldn’t tell, but now he sees that it’s not just a box.

It’s a bloody coffin. A nice one. One you’d bury a family member in.

"Johnny!" yells Simon, his voice breaking at the end.

He appears with the crowbar, presenting it to Simon, clutching the hammer in his other hand. The two of them work together, removing nails and breaking away pieces of the wood.

Captain Price enters seconds later with Kyle on his heel. They kick away plates, discarded food, and broken pieces of wood. The rest of the team moves through the rest of the house. Simon can’t see them but he can hear them overhead, shouting from other rooms.

Simon hooks the crowbar under a corner, pulling hard. The wood groans, creaking loudly as it starts to pull away.

"Get those bloody nails up!”

Walsh’s lifeless body is ignored. Left where Simon released him.

Johnny pops out the final nail, the wood bending under Simon’s weighted leverage, lifting away from the base. All four them grab on, guiding it off and away.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Price, staring down at what’s inside.

Simon drops to his knees, hands dipping into the coffin. It's soft, black velvet on the inside. Your head is turned, resting on a small pillow. There is a sickly quality to your skin, but you otherwise appear completely unharmed.

Your eyes are closed. You appear peaceful. You appear...dead.

How long have you been in here? How long have you been trapped?

Simon's hands cradle your face. Though your skin is a bit cold, there is still plenty of warmth. There is no stiffness, just an easy loll that speaks to unconsciousness. Did you hear Simon’s voice? Did you manage enough strength to alert him of your presence?

“He has her fucking drugged.”

Price gently lifts a bag out of the coffin.

“It’s just saline,” says Gaz. “Look at the label.”

It’s marked as such—something standard in every hospital for hydration. But that doesn’t mean Walsh didn’t tamper with it.

“Saline doesn’t do this,” says Price, gesturing at your limp body.

Simon whispers your name, thumb stroking over your cheek.

Price turns into his walkie. “I need medical in here. Now.”

Simon whispers your name again. There's a twitch in your jaw. A quiver in your brow. You're not aware. Not yet. But you're alive, and as far as Simon can tell, you're whole.

But even then, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter if Walsh had taken fingers and toes. If he'd taken an arm. If he'd scarred your body or blinded you. All Simon wants, all he's ever wanted these last three months, is to hold you in arms again.

Your eyelids twitch. Flutter.

As Price holds the bag, Simon slides his arms under your body, lifting you from the coffin and onto the floor beside it. Gaz kneels beside Price, examining the arm where the IV is inserted.

Simon leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, both hands on either side of your face.

"Come back to me," he murmurs, as the others rush and move around him. "Come back to me."

Chapter Text

Three Months Later

Healing isn’t linear. It is not kind or forgiving. The strangeness of therapy is how it resembles a spiderweb, beautiful at a glance but a lie. There is nothing beautiful in facing what you wish to leave behind. Sticky and lethal and pure carnage rehashed over and over again until talking it out becomes a numbing dullness.

Hope therapy goes well today. Love you.

Evie’s text stares up at you from the phone screen. She’s been a good friend through all of this, giving you space yet standing by your side. How the roles have reversed, become opposite from where it all started.

Bravo’s wet nose pushes into your palm, forcing your attention away from the phone screen.

“Hello, Bravo,” you croon softly, scratching the underside of his chin. “You good boy. Best boy!” His tail whips around in a circle, kicking up a breeze.

Simon’s dog has attended every therapy session with you. At first, you thought is strange that Simon insisted on it, but now you can’t imagine not having the German Shepherd there. Nearly all of your appointments occur during 141 Ink’s business hours. Simon cannot join you in person, but he can send a piece of himself along.

“Where’s your dad?” you tease. “Do you see him?”

Bravo stretches his neck, glancing around for Simon. It lasts only a moment. He is clearly far more interested in the attention you’re giving him.

“He is right here.”

Simon’s voice wraps around like a warm hug. You went without it for so long that now it’s a treat every time you hear him speak.

Bravo pivots out of your touch, taking a step forward to situate himself between you and Simon.

Simon’s eyebrows rise slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest. The body language stands in stark contrast to his massive grin. “Protecting her, are you? Even from me?” Bravo half-whines, half-barks. Simon chuckles. “That’s my boy.”

He gives Bravo a quick pat on the head before stepping around the dog. You immediately lean into Simon, one hand pressing into his chest as he cups the side of your neck, his thumb resting on the front of your throat. There is a protective, nearly primal quality to the way Simon’s features shift as his attention turns to you

“Am I late?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No.” Presenting your mouth, Simon descends slowly, meeting you with a serenely sensual kiss.

All the quiet, simmering anxiety that sits in the back of your mind melts away like a last snow, leaving behind a plethora of green grass that reaches for the sun. Simon is your beacon in the dark, the candle flame that lights your way.

One kiss is not enough. You need a second. A third.

The old flame of desire snakes upward, slithering between your bones to settle in your chest. It is asking for the thing you’ve denied yourself the last three months—an intimacy you had with Simon before everything happened.

A fourth kiss. A fifth. Desire tightens its languid body, constricting until your breath catches.

“Get a room!”

The voice of a passing stranger breaks the enchantment, the building desire retreating to hide amongst brown leaves and sticks.

Your cheeks grow hot just as a scowl appears on Simon’s face. Shoulder’s straightening, Simon is gearing to tell the interloper off, but you grab at Simon’s hand the second he begins to turn. A light tug is all it takes. Just your touch, and Simon’s scowl recedes to a soft smile that he only ever gives to you.

With a quick shrug of his shoulders, Simon clears his throat and takes Bravo’s offered leash, wrapping it around his tattooed knuckles. He places his hand low on your back, ushering you toward his parked car.

“How was therapy?”

Simon asks every time—a loaded question.

You exhale through your nostrils, briefly glancing away from him because telling the truth is fucking hard, especially when it involves him. You settle on a half-lie.

“Fine,” you reply. “Productive.”

Fine? Yes. Productive? No.

Simon’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing like he doesn’t entirely believe you. “Up for company today?”

This you can appreciate it. Simon may always ask how therapy went but he never pushes further than you’re willing to give.

“Not really,” you answer, this time truthfully.

Evie’s unanswered text is as much a reminder as Simon’s questions. Things are different now. Normal cannot be what it once was. There are fractures you hold in your heart, memories that you wish you could erase with a quick snap of the fingers.

Simon nods, apparently content with your answer. “Then we’ll go home.”

It’s a short walk to the car, but you savor every second, leaning against Simon with each step. He talks your ear off about nothing, filling the air with what he did at the shop today, and the customers he had even as he helps you into the car.

It’s a lovely distraction. Which is why Simon is doing it at all. He knows. He understands. Simon is not a chatty person, he’s usually blunt with his words, more to the point than anything else. He prefers fewer words than long-winded nothings, and him keeping you distracted like this goes against everything he’s comfortable with.

But Simon doesn’t know what you talk about in those sessions with the therapist, and you refuse to share it with him. He also doesn’t ask, and for that, you’re fucking grateful. You’re still coming to terms with it yourself, shuffling through the two and a half months you were gone.

Sometimes, you think things would be easier if Kit had just hurt you. That’s the expected thing, to be mutilated in unforgiveable ways. You think about his choices often, what was going through his head, and why he never raised a single hand to you. The silence you received instead is almost worse somehow. Kit refused to speak with you, and the only other person who saw was the man that brought you your meal. He refused to say anything to you—refused to even glance in your direction. It wasn’t until the coffin that you heard the first human voice other than your own in two months.

And the voice was Simon’s. Not Kit’s. Simon’s.

Today, you talked about the coffin.

Not that you actually remember it. You only saw it after you were released from the hospital. Simon took you to some military base because Captain Price thought that seeing it in person might trigger a memory. He was firmly against it, insisted that you didn’t have to do this, but you pushed back, wanting to see what that monster put you in. Simon backed down, but setting your gaze on the thing that you nearly died in turned your limbs to stone and your mind to smeared jelly.

Simon was fucking furious. You’ve seen him upset—and you thought you knew what anger looked like on him. How wrong you were. Kyle stepped in and escorted you out of the room. You might have been on the other side of the wall but it only damped the screaming match that happened. Their words were heated, the exchange loud, and though you didn’t catch all of it, you picked up pieces.

Don’t involve her again.

This is my price to pay.

She’s suffered enough.

Kyle, while leaning against the wall next to you and fidgeting with his watch, had given you a solemn smile, an attempt to reassure but only left you feeling hollow.

“Don’t fret over it,” he had said. “Simon loves you is all. Price knows that.”

“They’re screaming at each other,” you murmured.

Kyle shrugged, the smile becoming more sincere and genuine. “Price will hug him after he’s done yelling. Simon will grunt.” He winked. “All good, love. Promise.”

Simon never brought you to another military base or anything to do with what happened again. If anyone reached out to him to insist, you never heard about it.

But of what you do remember, it’s of what happened before the coffin, how Kit smiled when he brought you your meal. You didn’t know it was drugged then. He hid it well, disguising the taste and texture. You should have known something was wrong when Kit sat on the floor across from you and watched you gobble up every bite. But you had been hungry, and having another person near felt so comforting in the moment.

“Movie sound good?”

You inhale sharply, turning toward Simon’s voice. He’s standing next to you, passenger door open, the middle of the brow creased with concern by your reaction. The two of you are already home.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “What did you ask?”

The corners of his lips turn downward. You’ve slipped off again—left reality for a bit.

“A movie,” repeats Simon. “After dinner. Thought we could stay in tonight.”

Bravo shoves his face between the front passenger seat and the interior of the car. His dark eyes dart between the two of you, impatience clear in the way his tail thump thump thumps against the backseat.

“Great,” you reply, slipping out of the car.

Simon’s gaze remains impassive, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes your hand, Bravo trotting along behind the two of you.

Inside, Simon takes your coat, hanging it up next to his before heading into the kitchen to start the kettle. It’s April now, but the weather is still chilly on occasion, and you could go for a tea.

“The new visa should arrive soon,” says Simon, flipping the tap on the electric kettle. “Price made a few calls.” Grabbing two mugs from the cupboard, he sets them down on the counter before turning around to face you. “Could get you a different one. A longer stay.” He pauses, a hopefulness twinkling in his eye. “Citizenship even.”

With everything that’s happened, Simon still wants you here, with him. Hands clasped in front of you, you meander into the kitchen, almost sauntering in the way you approach him. Simon’s eyelids grow heavy, that earlier desire forming in his gaze. The two of you have touched and kissed, but the few times any further intimacy has been initiated, it’s been by Simon. You weren’t committed then, still confused and dripping with a sense of being unclean.

When you’re ready. No rush.

Respect for you outweighs his desire. Simon made you aware in other ways—subtle glances and touches, gentle compliments—but never pushed, never made you feel like sex is an expectation. He handed you the ball and bat with the only request that you swing when ready.

“Is that what you want, Simon? For me to stay?”

As you draw closer, Simon’s hands instinctually reach out to you. You do not shy away but step into his embrace. Those large, tattooed hands of his clutch your waist, pulling you closer until you’re nearly flush against him.

“There are few things I want more.”

“Only a few?” you tease, and you’re greeted with a warm smile.

“Nothing, then.”

The kettle starts to boil, but Simon ignores his, all of his attention focused on you.

“I don’t want to watch a movie. Think I’d like to do something else.”

Simon shrugs. “Course, love. Whatever you want.” He shifts slightly to plop a teabag into each mug and then carefully pours the water over the top. “We can watch the next episode of that show—”

“No,” you interject, and Simon sets the kettle down. “I mean—” You lick your lips, unsure of how you want to approach this. “I want to…try.”

Simon blinks. “Try,” he says slowly. “Try…what?”

It takes every ounce of control to not laugh at Simon’s confusion. Placing your hand on his chest, you slide it lower, and lower still until the confusion on his face melts away and realization dawns. Without breaking eye contact, Simon grasps your wrist and draws your hand away as it falls dangerously close to brushing against his groin.

“Only if you’re ready,” he murmurs, though you hear the hunger. “Don’t do it on my account.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m right here, love.”

As you press into him, Simon’s resolve splinters. Your face is upturned, lips slightly parted in offer, and Simon’s mouth is just shy of connection. You breathe him in just as he does you. There is nothing you want more, to be consumed by him, to reconnect in the one way you’ve been without.

Simon lightly grasps the bottom-half of your face. “After dinner,” he says, and the curling need pooling low in your belly squirms with discontent.

“Now,” you breathe, a demand.

Simon’s eyelids flutter. Close. He takes a deep, steadying breath before opening them again. “If I sink inside you right now, I won’t last.”

The admission only enflames the already burning embers. You desperately need to cross this hurdle, to find this intimacy with Simon again. With one hand free, you gently cup him through his jeans, rubbing, finding him hard and wanton.

Simon growls, and then you’re being lifted. He shoves everything out of the way, hot water spilling into the sink and onto the floor. The tea is forgotten, the bags briefly floating in the sink before the water disappears down the drain.

“I’m not taking you like this,” says Simon, forehead pressing against yours. “We’re having tea. Dinner. And only after will I indulge you.”

“Think the tea is ruined, Simon.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, closing the distance to seize you in a fierce kiss.

Everything about it is honey-drenched. Sticky. Slightly sweet. You open for him, and he goes for a taste, his hand on your throat like a collar. This is the passion you remember; the wanton need you crave.

It is not gone. Only buried.

As your hands roam, the kissing only becomes more desperate. Your thighs trap his waist, but he makes no move to retreat. Not like you could stop him. He’s far stronger than you, and even in that strength he’s aware of it, not grasping too tightly.

Fingers delve, and in seconds you have the front of Simon’s jeans open, slipping your hand inside to find his warmth. As your fingers brush his skin, Simon breaks the kiss, nearly choking on his next breath as he draws back.

“Dinner first,” he groans, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand from his pants. “Food first.”

“You’re a tease, Simon Riley,” you whimper.

He chuckles, low and knowing. “Like making you squirm.”

Dinner is a much longer affair than you’d like, as if Simon has an eternity to feed you. Every time you try to help, he shoos you off, telling you to relax and enjoy your cuppa. You eventually give up, curling up with Bravo on the sofa watching reality television as Simon putters about.

When he finally hands you your plate, you scarf it down in record time, promptly setting it aside to stare at Simon longingly.

“After,” he repeats.

“Buzzkill.”

Simon reaches over and squeezes your thigh, returning to his meal, gaze locked on the television. You try to refocus, but your mind is locked on a singular goal like you’re a man thinking with his dick and not his brain.

With a final scrape of his fork across his plate, Simon clears it, sighing with contentment. Reaching for your plate, he starts cleaning up, still insisting that you don’t move from the couch at all. This time, you don’t put up a fight, deciding it is better to snuggle with Bravo.

“Bed, Bravo,” snaps Simon. The German Shepherd grumbles as he lifts his head from your lap and dramatically slides off the couch. “To think you used to sniff out bombs,” mutters Simon, shaking his head. “Off with you.”

Bravo disappears down the hall, and then Simon is turning to you, holding out a hand in offering. “Come here to me.”

The delivery in his voice leaves no room for denial. Pushing off from the couch and reaching for his hand is easy. You want this—need this.

Simon’s arms go around you, holding you close. That soft smile returns and you answer it with one of your own.

“Still want to do this?”

“I’m sure.”

Simon’s thumb lightly grazes the line of your jaw. “Tell me if you want to stop. Promise me.”

“Promise,” you murmur.

“That’s my girl.”

With your hand in his, Simon walks backward into the bedroom. He pulls you in as he shuts the door, teasing a kiss but not giving it to you. You try to steal one anyway, but Simon knows you too well, leaning away at the last second as he slips his hand from yours.

There is no mask. No anymore. Haven’t seen it at all unless he’s at the shop, working. His sweatshirt goes, followed by his shirt, leaving him bare from the waist up. Even in the dark with a just a hint of moonlight, you can glimpse him.

Corded muscle. Endless tattoos.

Your hands copy his movements, removing an article of clothing one at a time. All this time you’ve been rushing, and now that you’re here, the undressing is slow. Languid. Simon is done before you, and even in the dark you notice the way his hands clench and unclench with the anticipation of touching you.

You barely have your socks and pants off before Simon is grasping for you, hands groping ass and hip, mouth coming down on yours with desperation. In this, you feel utterly wanted, as if there is nothing he requires more than to be one with you.

Simon’s erection presses into your lower stomach, an insistent thing that both of you ignore. His kisses are your favorite, you want them forever, and that is all you can focus on even as your grow slicker between the thighs.

You drape your arms over his shoulders and then connect them behind his neck, clinging like he’ll disappear if you don’t. Simon’s hands slide over your back and down to your ass, filling his hands as squeezing. Angling your hips up a bit, he rubs himself against you, a low groan leaving him as the base of his erection brushes the side of your clit.

Forget slow. Forget the fact that Simon admitted he wouldn’t last.

Unlocking your arms from around his neck, you reach back and grab one of Simon’s groping hands. Bringing it between your bodies, you guide his fingers to your pussy, desperately needing him to touch you. His thick fingers slide easily over your sex, your arousal apparent.

You shiver from the contact, but Simon? Simon growls, low and feral, and utterly primal. Flattening three fingers against your sex, Simon parts you, the middle finger teasing your entrance with a soft caress. It hovers, and then starts to slide in.

Simon’s lips move away from your mouth and to your chin, then to your jaw, and then your throat. More of his finger enters.

“I missed you,” you whimper as he settles to the knuckle. Simon’s teeth graze your neck as his finger begins to slide back out. “Every. Day.”

Simon adds a second finger, pumping both in perfect rhythm. “I’m here now, love. Right here. Not going anywhere.”

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp as Simon’s palm rubs against your clit. “I—love—”

“Love, what?” coaxes Simon.

“You. I love you.”

Simon’s teeth no longer graze but they don’t bite down. They trace a line up your throat before taking a nip at your bottom lip. His fingers begin to retreat again but you grasp the back of his hand, pressing, urging him back inside.

“Don’t be gentle with me,” you murmur, rocking your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers. “Fuck me the way you want to. Please.”

Simon’s head tilts to the side. “You sure about that, love?”

You whimper, nodding, pussy clenching around his fingers as his palm lightly rubs against your clit again. It’s lovely—slowly building that orgasm you so desperately crave. But then Simon’s fingers are gone and in his mouth, sucking them clean.

Your brain short circuits, unable to comprehend the change until Simon is guiding you onto all fours on the bed. He places a hand on your upper back, urging your front into the mattress as your ass stays up in the air. Guiding your legs apart, you expect him to settle between, to mount you and rut.

His mouth finds you instead, tongue parting your pussy from clit to opening then back again. You press back against his mouth and Simon makes a feast of you. The orgasm is a slap in the face. It doesn’t arrive slowly but as a thunderous force, nearly smashing you over the head with its intensity.

Thighs quiver. Legs shake. You cry out so loud you think Simon might stop. He doesn’t. He only continues through the ordeal, urging toward another and yet another until there are tears in your eyes. Only then does he draw back, wettened lips kissing the backs of your thighs and the curve of your ass.

His strong hands rub up and down the length of your back. Soothing and comforting at first, but then demanding, helping you turn until you’re facing him. Limbs like jelly, you allow Simon to draw you into his lap, to ease your legs to fall on either side of him, to help guide you to and then onto his cock.

“Want me to stop?” he asks, voice gruff.

You vehemently shake your head. “No. Want you. Always.”

With a final effort, Simon rocks his hips up just as he presses down on your hips. Every inch is inside of you, stretching, filling. You’re full of him, but it’s not enough. You need him to move.

“Simon,” you beg.

Shifting his arms, he supports you with his hands and forearms as well as his thighs. It forces your legs up and open, ankles and feet dangling. A slice of moonlight cuts through the room, highlighting the space where your bodies meet. With your forehead resting against his cheek, you watch as Simon guides you up and down his length, disappearing and then reappearing with a shine.

Keeping one arm hooked behind his neck, you reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. You create a v with index and middle finger, parting your pussy to open you up more, to capture the place where Simon’s cock penetrates you.

He’s hardly keeping it together as you tease the base of his cock with a fingernail Simon’s whimper instinctually has your pussy tightening around him.

“I want you to come inside me,” you whisper, breath brushing over his cheek. Simon’s hands tighten, fingers digging into your flesh as he ceases sliding and starts thrusting. “Please,” you add with a hint of longing.

He cannot say no. Simon never does.

In seconds, Simon has you on your back, flattening you against the bed. With one hand above your head, fisting the sheets, he rests the other on the inner thigh of your left leg, holding it wide and open for a better angle.

Simon’s first thrust is brutal. He buries his face against your neck, and doesn’t fucking stop. Every time your bodies connect, he grunts loudly. The muscles in his back bulge beneath your palms.

This is not healing. This is carnage. This is a burial.

Simon is digging your grave but not to leave you to rot. You are to be wholly submerged, wholly undone in the dark, to be thread unspooled. You will linger in this grave, in Simon’s arm, to know only of him. And then, only then, will you be unearthed from the dirt.

In the morning, with the light, there will be a calmness that smothers all. A closing of a door that will never be reopened. There is no definition in past, only a resounding future, and you must take it—seek it.

“I love you,” groans Simon.

His words are what does it, that breaks the flood, and shows you the way forward.

“You’re mine.”

These words are not a groan, more a plea. You’re mine because he wants it so, and all you need to do is agree.

Mine.

Mine.

“Love you.”

Chapter Text

Then

“You’ll pull a muscle in your neck sleeping like that.”

Like a dog on a chain, Simon is yanked from sleep. The world tilts, and then becomes laser-focused. Inhaling deep, Simon silently tells his nerves to fucking knock it off. The danger has passed. You are safe, and this is a friend.

Captain John Price lingers at the end of your hospital bed, hat off and tucked under his arm. There is a sympathetic quality to his expression that Simon can only describe as pity. If he weren’t so concerned about you, Simon might consider it a blow to his ego.

“I’ve slept on worse,” replies Simon.

Price nods. “I know.”

And it’s true. He does. They’ve been through hell together, seen and done so much awful shit that their present, past, and future are forever tangled.

A monitor beeps, and Simon’s attention shifts to you slumbering in your hospital bed.

“I’m not waking her up,” says Simon, not taking his gaze away from you.

“Didn’t ask,” murmurs Price. “Not why I’m here.”

This time, Simon glances away, curiosity pulling at the folds of his brain, wanting to absorb whatever it is Price has come here to say.

“Can I sit?” asks Price.

With a nod, Simon indicates an unoccupied chair near the window. Price goes to it, bringing it within distance of Simon. Setting it down silently, Price eases onto the cushion, sighing as he relaxes. While Price lounges, he remains quiet, observing you in your slumbering state.

“Captain,” prompts Simon as a gnarling fist of tension grips his stomach.

Price shifts slightly, clasping his hands together, and resting them over his stomach. “We did a sweep of the house. Nothing.”

Simon grunts. “Hardly expected more.”

“But we’re not empty handed.”

“You found something?”

Price nods. “Walsh didn’t come alone.”

Simon sits up slightly. “There was someone else in the house?”

“Not when you were there. But he had help. Moving…” Price’s gaze shifts away from Simon and lands on you.

There is no further explanation needed.

“You found that fucker, didn’t you?”

“Traffic stop of all things,” says Price. “Damn lucky.”

Simon’s voice is cold with violent intent. “I want to talk to him. Just a few minutes alone. That’s all I need.”

Price is silent for a few beats, understanding that Simon isn’t interested in talking at all. “You’ll have it.”

The confirmation siphons the tension away, leaving only a pleased sense of fulfillment. Simon has always followed Price’s orders, made sure to execute each mission with extreme precision. Rarely does he deal out vengeance or justice in the way he sees fit. But Price will allow it here, and Simon is grateful.

This is not what Simon imagined for himself in retirement. Though he felt wronged in the way that SAS forced him out, he found new purpose with 141 Ink. Even when you first appeared before him like a phantom, Simon never expected this.

“But that’s not what I came to talk to you about, Simon.”

“You came to talk about Walsh.” Price inclines his head and Simon shrugs. “What about?”

“How it’s all connected. Walsh’s intentions. What he was after.”

Simon’s hand forms a fist, some of that tension returning. He quietly counts to ten and releases the fist. “Walsh was after me.”

“Yes,” agrees Price. “But I’m talking about Archibald Williams. Why Walsh put a hit on him.”

Simon frowns. “It’s politics. Nothing more to be said.”

Price smirks, but there’s little humor in it. “Partially. Goes deeper than that. Worse than you think.”

“He’s dead, Price. What more is there to say about him?”

“It’s a family matter,” says Price.

Simon goes cold, his veins freezing over. “What about the family?” he asks, because Simon might not know much, but he knows enough. The argument Simon had with you after the pub, how he had seen you with another man thinking you weren’t interested in him, but you were only trying to protect your friend.

Price inhales and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. “Remember the man you got into it with at the pub?”

“Adam,” growls Simon.

How could he forget? The man had groped your thigh without invitation and then called you a whore after. In the moment, Simon only saw blood. If Price, Kyle, and Johnny hadn’t been there, Simon might have mauled the man.

“Archie’s brother,” adds Price.

“He’s involved?”

Price’s mouth forms a thin line. “He ordered the hit.”

“You’re lying,” says Simon, almost laughing at the idea. That man was nothing more than dirt under Simon’s shoe. A wanker. A loser. “Walsh takes orders from no one but himself.”

“Unless they’re a generous donor.”

Simon shakes his head. “Walsh doesn’t do charity.”

“It’s not charity,” says Price. “It’s a business deal.” The man sighs and sits back. “Do you know what Adam Williams does for a living? What industry he works in?”

Simon snorts. “Thinking you’re about to tell me.”

Price inclines his head. “Weapons manufacturing. Private and public sector. Government contracts across multiple nations. And…others. More discreet dealings.”

“And the war machine keeps turning,” mutters Simon.

“Always,” agrees Price. “War means profit for people like Adam Williams. Like Kit Walsh.”

“Power,” adds Simon. “Advantage.” Behind the balaclava, Simon’s jaw clenches. “So why the hit on his own brother?”

Price’s face falls, his gaze turning to you for a moment before returning to Simon. “Archie met with a few members of Parliament. They planned on meeting privately with the Defense Secretary. Have him testify at a committee hearing. He knew what his brother was up to with Walsh. Had damning evidence.”

“And Adam found out.”

“He did. Told Walsh. And Walsh took Archie out.”

“What about the evidence?” asks Simon. “Why didn’t Parliament continue with the committee?”

“They only had copies of what was exchanged between Archie and those few members of Parliament. Archie planned on bringing the rest during the meeting with the Defense Secretary.”

“So it’s lost?” asks Simon.

“Partially. As far as I’m aware, it’s being recovered as we speak.”

“Fucking hell,” sighs Simon, shaking his head.

“It gets worse, Simon. It gets personal.”

A sinking feeling develops in Simon’s stomach, weighing him down.

“There’s Adam and Walsh’s business agreement which is why Archie attempted to expose his brother in the first place.”

“I don’t need the details,” growls Simon.

“But you’ll want to listen to what I say next.” Price runs his hand over his face as if he hasn’t slept in ages. “Adam Williams is the one who set Walsh on your tail.”

“Price—”

He holds up a hand. “Not directly. He wanted Walsh to go after the wife, Evelyn. Take her out too in case she knew anything. But Walsh didn’t. Never touched her. Why is that?”

The revelation is like a punch to the face. “Me,” says Simon. “Walsh must have seen me.”

Price nods. “I think so, too. Saw you. Decided to stalk instead of kill.”

“To get revenge for what I did to him.”

Price’s expression is grim but leans in the affirmative. “When we came to seek your help about Walsh, the information I was given was because of Archie. Didn’t know it at the time. But he saved us from a massive national security threat.”

“And where is Williams?” asks Simon. “In custody?”

This time, Price smiles. “Just waiting on the judge drafting the warrants.”

Simon leans forward. “You fucking get him. You hear me? You do this for me, Price.” He glances at you asleep in your hospital bed. “And for her.”

“That I can promise.”

Now

It’s Christmas in April.

Simon has one arm draped over the back of your chair, watching with an amused expression as Johnny’s mother putters about, fussing over him.

“You’ve put on weight,” she mutters, frowning over her glasses.

“I’ve put on muscle,” corrects Johnny.

She gives him a quick once over, and then squeezes his bicep. “Could use you on the farm. It would be a huge help to your father.”

Johnny’s cheeks go pink. The woman’s been trying to get him to leave SAS for years, insisting that Soap return to run the family farm.

Simon brings his glass up to his lips, smiling around the rim. Johnny’s shoots him a look for help that Simon blatantly ignores. Shifting in his chair, Simon leans toward you, lowering his head.

“All good, love?”

You nod. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

“Need to leave?”

“No,” you reply softly, placing your hand on Simon’s thigh. “I’m excited to be here. It’s just…a lot.”

Simon presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there just so he can inhale your scent and savor your nearness.

Four months.

Four months and still, part of Simon thinks you’ll disappear, that Walsh will somehow manage to return, and drag you off again just to spite him. But Walsh is dead. Simon knows this. Not because he was told but because Price showed him the corpse. At least that version of Walsh wasn’t burnt up and unrecognizable.

And it’s Christmas. In April.

Simon planned on inviting you here in December, to meet the only family he has, but Walsh got to you first. He never had the chance. Yet this gathering isn’t Simon’s idea at all. Johnny’s mother insisted because she was so eager to meet you, to make you part of the family.

Inside, it’s set up the exact way it is when Simon comes to visit for Christmas. The tree is lit up in the corner, a real one grown and felled on MacTavish land. The dining table is packed with so much food that Simon can hardly see the dark wood beneath, and music plays from an old record player.

This is how it’s supposed to be. What Simon has always wanted with you.

Plates are filled. Conversation is had. And for a while, Simon forgets about everything, living only in the moment, reaching out to you on occasion to make sure you’re still there—that you’re real.

After, you and Simon cuddle on the sofa by the fire. Johnny’s father snores in his recliner as the muted television shows the weather. Johnny is in the kitchen with his mother, cleaning dishes and putting them away for her as she badgers him about still being single. Your eyes are closed, cheek resting on Simon’s shoulder, but you’re not asleep.

Simon whispers your name, and you snuggle closer, sighing softly before opening your eyes.

“You never answered by question,” murmurs Simon.

“What question?”

“About you staying here. Permanently. With me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and then you’re smiling, an illumination of love that Simon wants to wrap himself up in.

“Are you proposing to me?” you giggle.

“No,” answers Simon, and it only makes you laugh harder.

“You are,” you reply, stifling your giggles by turning into his shoulder.

Simon shrugs. “Maybe.”

In a small gesture, you offer your hand, palm upward. Simon instinctually reaches for you, entwining your fingers with his. Lifting your clasped hands, Simon places kisses across your knuckles and then the back of your palm.

The two of you enjoy the silence, nestled together until you yawn. Simon offers up goodbyes, whisking you away to that little cottage on the edge of the property for the night.

“I can see myself staying here,” you murmur as Simon removes his coat and yours. “With you.”

“In England?”

“Yes.”

“In London?”

“Yes, Simon.”

He hangs the coats on the hooks by the door and takes a step toward you. “In my flat, or with Evie and Amelia?”

You pause a moment. Lick your lips. “Your flat.”

Simon’s stomach flips. His heart lurches. This time you match his forward movement, meeting him equally until the two of you are staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want to be with me? Only me? Forever?”

Your hand comes up to rest against his stomach. It slides upward over his chest only to come to a stop at his neck. With a gentle tug, Simon surrenders to you, closing the distance. The contact is electric and warm, and Simon cannot help wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him as he takes what he desires.

“Do you remember this place?” he asks. You nod, lips puffy from his attention. Simon goes in for one more kiss. “What we did here.” Another kiss. “In that bed.” Another. “On the table.”

“Simon,” you whimper as his hands descend to grasp and squeeze.

“Do you remember?” Again, you nod. “Say it.”

“I do.”

His lips brush over yours. “I want to recreate it. To have you like that again.”

The offer is open, and all you need to do is take. Simon desperately wants you to take it.

“I’m yours, Simon.”

This time, Simon gives in to his urges, to feed that hunger, to settle in and finally make a home with the one person he cares for the most. Cradling your face in his hands, Simon shows you his passion, reveals it openly and without barriers. He wants you to see all of him, to know his desperation, his fears, and how much he craves you. You answer in kind, and that is enough for him.

It is everything.

Chapter Text

One Year Later

Simon runs his gloved hand over the transfer paper. It adheres to your skin, the temporary stencil bleeding through the flimsy film as it sits.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing up.

Anticipation is a tightly wrapped coil. It weaves around the bones in his chest, twisting until it’s all he understands. It’s not anxiety or fear or a sense of impending doom. This anticipation is steeped in joy—of a bright future.

Your answer is a smile, one so full of affection that Simon temporarily loses himself in your beauty. Finally. Finally. He’s inking your skin in more than just his kisses and touches.

“Ready,” you affirm.

Slowly, Simon begins to peel back the paper, leaving a temporary stencil behind. “Have a look.”

Shifting in the tattooing chair, you slip off and approach the full-length mirror. You turn several times, admiring it from all angles. While he’s trying to remain professional, he’s far too distracted by how you’re beaming. Elation and excitement are clear in the way you carry yourself.

“Can I show them?” you ask.

As if Simon would deny you anything.

“Course, love,” he chuckles.

With a gleeful giggle, you rush over to Evie. “What do you think?”

Evie, engaged in conversation with Johnny, turns. Eyes widening slightly, she leans in as you show off the stencil. “I love it.”

“What about the placement?” you ask. “Should it go somewhere else?”

Evie shakes her head. “I think it’s lovely.” She glances at Johnny. “What do you think?”

And Soap blushes—actually blushes under Evie’s attention. “Looks good.”

Lillian sits on the floor at their feet, lightly tugging on Bravo’s ears. The German Shepherd remains passive, allowing her to crawl all over him.

“Dog,” she says. “Dog.”

Bravo gives her little fist a lick, sending her into a giggle fit.

Simon observers this small group of people. The family is not complete, and yet there is wholeness in Simon’s heart—a sense of relief. Contentment.

As you return to him, Simon cannot help but offer up his hand, the need to touch you—even for a moment—is far too precious a thing to ignore. When your hand slides into his, Simon’s thumb lightly brushes over your ring finger. It’s empty. For now, at least. One day soon, he’ll ink your skin there, and you will do the same for him.

“Happy with this?” asks Simon as you slide back into the tattoo chair.

“Very,” you beam.

All that work, hours of sketching, of not knowing what you might like. To drafts, references, and back to drafting again. But you’ve selected one, made a decision, following through on that offer you made all that time ago when you first arrived back into his life.

How grateful Simon is.

A treasure.

All his.

Tugging the rolling cart closer, Simon flips on the tattoo gun, the subtle buzzing filling the air. He dips it into the ink, ready to bring it to skin.

“Ready Mrs. Riley?”

Simon’s voice is a gentle tease, a soft thing that’s only meant for you. It’s a snapshot. A flash of a moment. Everything he hopes for, and the future the two of you will share together all wrapped up in a few words and a name.

You soften then upon hearing your new last name.

“Ready.”