Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pub was loud, too loud for Simon’s taste, but it was better than sitting in the flat staring at the walls. The rest of his unit had spilled out into the streets hours ago, already well on their way to blackouts and regrets. He’d stayed behind, nursing a pint in the far corner, half in shadow, where no one would notice him.

He was halfway through it when a voice—bright, Scottish, annoyingly confident—cut through the din.

“Hey, handsome. Drinkin’ all by yourself?”

Simon looked up, already prepared to ignore whoever thought that was a good idea. The man standing over him wasn’t what he expected. Not a soldier, not even close—civilian clothes, messy dark hair, grin that looked like trouble and meant it.

Simon rolled his eyes and turned back to his glass. “Not interested.”

But instead of slinking away, the stranger slid into the empty seat across from him like it had been saved. “Didn’t ask if you were,” he said easily, settling in with his own pint. “Place is packed. You’re the only one with a spare chair. Consider it a public service.”

Simon huffed through his nose. That should have been the end of it. But the man kept talking—little observations about the pub, the crowd, a snide remark about someone’s dreadful singing near the jukebox. Against his better judgement, Simon’s lip twitched. And when the Scot caught it—caught him—he lit up like he’d won the lottery.

“There it is,” he said, pointing his glass at Simon like it was evidence. “Knew you had a laugh in you somewhere.”

Simon shook his head, a faint chuckle betraying him anyway. “You’re relentless, mate.”

“Aye, and proud of it. Name’s John. You?”

Simon hesitated, then muttered, “Simon.”

“Simon,” John repeated, as though testing the weight of it. Then he grinned wider. “Well, Simon, looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight. Don’t think I’ll be satisfied ‘til I’ve got you laughin’ proper.”

And damn it all, Simon found he didn’t mind the sound of that.

John leaned his elbows on the sticky table, eyes bright in the dim light. “So, Simon, what’s the occasion? Can’t be drinkin’ all serious on a Friday night without a reason.”

Simon shrugged, tilting his glass. “Not much of an occasion.”

“Mm.” John cocked his head, watching him. “You’ve got that look. The kind folk wear when somethin’ big’s happened but they don’t want to make a fuss about it.”

Simon gave him a side-eye. “You always this nosey?”

“Only with handsome strangers,” John shot back, quick as a whip.

Simon rolled his eyes again, but the edge of his mouth betrayed him, twitching like he was fighting a smirk.

John pounced on it. “Ah, there it is! Knew you weren’t made of stone. Thought I was gonna have to tell you my whole tragic life story to get a reaction.”

“Wouldn’t recommend,” Simon muttered.

“Oh, you’d love it. It’s got everything—weepin’ mothers, a dog that ran away, my tragic addiction to chips ‘n curry sauce. Rivetin’, I promise.”

That earned him a quiet chuckle, the sound muffled in Simon’s chest. John grinned, triumphant.

“You’re a hard man to crack, Simon.”

“Maybe you should stop trying.”

“Not a chance. You’ve got a good laugh, and I want more of it.”

Simon shook his head, but he didn’t tell him to leave. He didn’t even mind when John nicked a chip off his plate a few minutes later, or when he started rambling about some neighbourhood feud back home like they’d known each other for years.

Somewhere between the second pint and the third, Simon realised he wasn’t thinking about the uniform folded in his duffel, or the noise of the pub, or the shadows of everything that came before. He was just…listening. To John. To his stories, his accent, his endless, unashamed enthusiasm.

And when the night ended, John clapped him on the shoulder, warm and sure. “See you round, aye? Don’t go disappearin’ on me.”

Simon should’ve said no. Should’ve brushed him off.

Instead, he found himself nodding. “Yeah. See you round.”

The second time, Simon walked into the pub and froze when he saw John already there, pint in hand, grin spreading like sunshine through smoke.

“Well, well,” John said, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Simon eyed him. “You campin’ out here waiting for me?”

John gasped, scandalised. “Me? No! Just a humble man enjoyin’ a pint. Total coincidence, promise.”

Simon didn’t believe a word of it, but he sat down anyway.

The third time, John didn’t even bother hiding it. He waved Simon over from across the room like they were old mates. “Oi, big lad! Saved you a seat.”

Simon sighed, but his lips betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.

By the fifth time, Simon was already scanning the room as soon as he walked in. And when he didn’t see John, something in his chest tightened. Then John came bursting through the door, hair wild from the wind, cheeks pink, and Simon had to force himself not to look too pleased.

“Thought you weren’t comin’,” Simon muttered when John plopped into the chair.

“What, and miss your delightful company?” John teased. Then, softer, “Never.”

A week later, John shoved his phone across the table. “Right. This is daft. We keep ‘accidentally’ meetin’ like this, might as well make it easier. Gimme your number.”

Simon hesitated, staring at the device like it was a weapon. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

John only smirked, leaning forward, stubborn to the bone. “Not askin’ for state secrets, Simon. Just a number. So I don’t have to risk missin’ you.”

Something unspooled in Simon’s chest. Against his better judgment, he typed it in.

John lit up, thumb tapping the screen. A second later, Simon’s own phone buzzed in his pocket.

“Perfect,” John said. “Now you’ve got mine, too. No excuses.”

Simon shook his head, but for the first time in a long time, he felt… lighter.

Simon was half-asleep on the sofa when his phone buzzed against the table. He cracked an eye open, debating ignoring it, but curiosity won. The screen glowed with a name he barely knew yet—John.

Three messages stacked on top of one another, fired off in rapid succession:

so what’s a soldier like you doin on a saturday night then 👀
don’t tell me ur just sittin home brooding
cause if u are i’ll drag u back to the pub myself

Simon huffed a laugh despite himself. Of course he was brooding. Of course John knew it.

He stared at the phone for a long moment, thumbs heavy, the idea of typing out a reply suddenly exhausting. Then he pressed call. Easier. Cleaner.

The line clicked almost immediately, John’s voice bright and warm as though he’d been waiting with the phone in hand. “Bloody hell, you do know how to use a phone! Thought I’d scared you off.”

Simon leaned his head back against the sofa, eyes closing. “You ever shut up?”

“Not if I can help it,” John shot back, laughter spilling through the line. “Knew I’d get you eventually.”

And Simon…let him.

It was another late night when his phone buzzed just as Simon was about to call it a night. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but then he saw the name—John—and found himself swiping to answer before he’d thought it through.

“...Hello.”

“Si!” Simon doesn’t remember allowing John to call him that but as it stood he didn’t really mind. 

“Knew you’d be awake.” John’s voice poured down the line, bright even at this hour, which was too fucking late to be having a phone call but here they were. “Couldn’t sleep m’self. Thought I’d bug you for a bit.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing over his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“Aye, but you like it,” John teased, then carried on without waiting for a reply. “So listen—there’s this wee corner shop down the road from me, right? And the lad workin’ there swears blind he can make the best fish supper in Glasgow. Which is bollocks, obviously, but I was too polite to argue. Tried it tonight. Nearly broke my teeth on the batter.”

Simon made a low sound—something between a grunt and a chuckle.

John picked up on it instantly. “Don’t laugh! Was a near-death experience, I’ll have you know.”

Silence hummed between them for a beat, comfortable. Then John cleared his throat. “...You still there?”

“Yeah,” Simon said softly. “I’m here.”

The words weren’t much, but John grinned into the receiver like he’d been given the world. “Good. Just makin’ sure. Hate talkin’ to myself.”

Simon shook his head, lips twitching, and let John ramble on—about the weather, about a neighbour’s terrible dog, about nothing at all. And for the first time in a long time, Simon didn’t mind the noise.

One afternoon, John insisted on tagging along to the grocery store. Simon didn’t argue, though he gave him a look when John immediately claimed the buggy like it was a chariot.

“Don’t give me that face, Si. You handle the soldierin’, I’ll handle the trolley.”

And he did—pushed it down the aisles while chattering about everything and nothing. Complaints about rising prices, stories about his mates, dramatic retellings of his own disastrous cooking. Simon found himself… listening. Even laughing now and then, though he’d never admit it. By the time they reached checkout, John had snuck three packets of biscuits into the cart.

“Don’t say a word,” he warned. “They’re essential rations.”

Simon only shook his head, but there was warmth behind it.

Another day, coffee. They tucked into the back corner of a small shop, John leaning forward on his elbows, Simon staring into his cup.

“You ever gonna tell me?” John asked gently.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you’re in the army. Don’t gimme the line about servin’ queen and country. I want the real answer.”

Simon’s jaw worked, silence stretching long enough that John nearly dropped it. But then—quiet, almost too quiet—Simon said, “My dad was a bastard.”

John blinked, thrown by the sudden weight in Simon’s tone. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward, letting the silence open space.

Simon’s fingers curled around his coffee cup. “Drank too much. Had a mean streak. And I—” he faltered, jaw tight. “I couldn’t keep being his punchin’ bag. So I left. Joined up. Seemed like the only way out.”

For a moment, the café noise carried on around them—dishes clattering, milk frothers hissing. John’s gaze didn’t waver.

Finally, he nodded once, sure and steady. “Makes sense.”

Simon glanced at him, almost surprised at the lack of pity.

John sipped his coffee, then set the cup down with a soft clink. “Listen, big lad. If the nights ever get too heavy, I’ll be over before you’ve even put the kettle on. No questions, no fuss. Just… me.”

That pulled a quiet chuckle out of Simon, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good.” John’s grin returned, warm and unshakable. “And I like my tea strong, so don’t forget.”

Simon shook his head, but the promise lingered, unspoken between them.

It becomes a pattern. Simon lets John push the buggy, lets him prattle through entire shopping trips. He listens on the phone until he falls asleep with the line still open. He starts talking back—small things at first, then heavier ones, and John just holds them without flinching.

Piece by piece, Simon realises he’s not just tolerating John. He’s relying on him.

It was movie night, or that’s what John said when he turned up at Simon’s flat with two bags—one clinking with bottles, the other filled with crisps and takeout containers.

“You can’t watch films on an empty stomach,” he said matter-of-factly, shoving past Simon into the living room. “It’s practically illegal.”

Simon arched a brow. “You invited yourself?”

“Aye. And you’re welcome.”

They ended up on the sofa, lights low, some action flick playing in the background. Halfway through, John was already narrating every ridiculous plot twist, pulling exaggerated groans out of Simon. At one point, when the hero punched a helicopter, Simon actually laughed—loud, unguarded. John just looked smug.

Simon wasn’t much of a cook, but John insisted on trying. One night, they cobbled together something resembling pasta. John spent more time talking than paying attention, nearly set the sauce on fire, and Simon had to take over.

When they finally sat down, John twirled the spaghetti around his fork and said, “See? Domestic bliss.”

Simon snorted. “You’re hopeless.”

But when John leaned back, satisfied, Simon realised he hadn’t hated it. The mess, the warmth, the shared table—it felt… normal.

On a rare free afternoon, Simon found himself sitting on a park bench with John, sandwiches in hand. John talked about his childhood in Glasgow, about daft schoolyard fights and the music he loved, words flowing easy.

“You’re quiet,” John said after a while.

“Always am.”

John nudged him with an elbow. “Don’t mind it. Just means when you do talk, it’s worth listenin’ to.”

Simon stared at him, caught off guard, then nodded once.

John was rambling again, voice soft over the line. “…and I swear, the man was tryin’ to sell me milk past the expiry date. Nearly fought him right there in the shop.”

Simon lay back on his bed, eyes closed, just listening.

“Oi,” John said after a pause. “You asleep?”

“No.”

“Good. Hate talkin’ to myself.”

“You don’t,” Simon murmured.

John chuckled, low and pleased. “Maybe not with you.”

It was supposed to be just another movie night. Takeout boxes on the table, a stack of DVDs John had insisted were “essential cultural education,” Simon slouched deeper into the sofa than he ever let himself in public.

By the time the credits rolled, John was yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. “It’s late. Don’t make me walk home in the dark, Si. I’ll get kidnapped.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “No one wants to kidnap you, Johnny.”

“Rude. But fair. Still—” John leaned his head back against the cushions, grinning lazily—“let me crash here?”

Simon hesitated, but the thought of John disappearing into the night tugged at something in his chest. “…Fine.”

The sofa wasn’t much, and Simon knew it. Before he could think better of it, he muttered, “Bed’s bigger. If you don’t mind.”

John’s grin widened, cheeky and bright. “Oh, scandalous. Lead the way.”

They didn’t talk about the way their shoulders brushed beneath the blankets, or how John’s knee knocked against Simon’s. Eventually John’s breathing evened out, warm and steady beside him. Simon lay awake far longer, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of every point of contact.

When he finally drifted off, it was to the sound of another heartbeat close to his own.

Morning light spilled across the room. Simon blinked awake to find John tucked against him, head on his chest, one arm slung over his waist. For a moment, Simon froze. Then, without meaning to, he let himself breathe into it. The weight, the warmth, the quiet. Not alone.

John stirred, mumbled something incomprehensible, and rolled away. Neither of them mentioned it as they shuffled through breakfast—toast, coffee, easy chatter. But the silence between them was different. Softer. Charged.

Later, driving to base, Simon gripped the wheel tighter than he meant to. He tried to focus on the road, on the day ahead, but the thought kept circling back, relentless:

How fucking fantastic it had been to wake up and not be alone.

The next time they met up, neither said a word about it. John turned up at Simon’s door with takeaway again, grinning as though nothing unusual had happened.

“Hope you’ve not eaten,” he said, waving a paper bag in the air.

Simon stepped aside to let him in. “You’re relentless.”

“Aye. You’d waste away without me.”

Dinner. A film. Laughter that came easier than it used to. And when the night grew late, John stretched out on the sofa, feigning a yawn.

“Well, it’s awfully dark outside…”

Simon gave him a look. “You live ten minutes away.”

“Ten dangerous minutes,” John corrected, eyes glinting with mischief. “Best I stay here.”

Simon grumbled, but when he found John climbing into his bed again, he didn’t argue.

It happened again the week after. And again. Sometimes after a film, sometimes after a bottle of whisky split between them, sometimes after nothing more than a long conversation that neither wanted to end.

Each morning, Simon woke with John tangled against him. Each morning, John slipped out with a grin and a quip. And neither of them—neither of them—said a bloody word about it.

But something had shifted.

Simon noticed it in the way his flat felt too quiet after John left. In how the smell of coffee lingered longer than it should. In the way his chest ached, stupid and fierce, remembering the weight of an arm draped across him.

And John…John noticed it in the way Simon had stopped protesting. How he’d begun setting out an extra mug without thinking. How he leaned closer when they spoke, as though he’d grown used to John filling the empty space.

They were circling something unspoken, both too proud—or too scared—to touch it. But it kept happening, again and again, until “accident” wasn’t a believable excuse anymore.

They had a new rhythm now. John would arrive with food or a film or just because he wanted to be a bother, Simon pretending to be put-upon, and then—hours later—the familiar routine of him sighing and muttering, “Go on then, stay.”

The first few mornings, John scrambled out of bed fast, like he’d been caught red-handed. But lately… lately, he lingered.

The sunlight leaking through the blinds was soft, hesitant. Simon blinked awake slowly, instinctively aware of the weight pressed against him before memory caught up. John. Again.

The man had wriggled halfway on top of him sometime in the night, head tucked beneath Simon’s chin, arm thrown across his chest in a loose, claiming sprawl. Simon’s first thought should’ve been to shift him off, to put distance where it belonged. But instead he lay still, listening to John’s even breaths, watching the lazy flutter of lashes against his cheek.

John smelled faintly of smoke and soap, warm and human in a way Simon hadn’t let himself have for too long.

When John finally stirred, stretching like a cat, Simon cleared his throat. “Dangerous journey home, was it?”

John’s mouth curved into a grin without even opening his eyes. “Treacherous. Didn’t dare risk it.”

Simon huffed, the sound more fond than he’d like. “Mm. Can’t have you meeting a grisly fate ten minutes from mine.”

John cracked an eye, looking at him through a sleepy squint. “Exactly. You’re doing a public service, keeping me alive like this.”

And then—he didn’t move. Didn’t get up, didn’t roll away, didn’t mutter something about being late for work. He just stayed there, stretched against Simon’s side, warm and stubborn.

The minutes ticked by. Usually, by now, John would be at the door with a cheeky parting shot, and Simon would be telling himself he preferred it that way. But today, John dragged his feet.

“Y’know,” John said finally, voice low, “you make a mean pillow.”

Simon should’ve shoved him. Should’ve scoffed, should’ve made some cutting remark. Instead, he let the silence hold, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than he meant. “Could get used to it.”

That shut John up for once.

Breakfast was slow, lingering. John yawning over toast, his hair a mess, grumbling about the weak tea like he hadn’t brewed it himself. Simon sat across the table, watching him chatter about some nonsense at the shop yesterday, nodding in all the right places, secretly basking in the ordinary weight of it.

And then, too soon, John was shrugging into his jacket.

“Well, soldier,” he said with a grin, “try not to miss me too much, aye?”

Simon grunted, standing with him, walking him to the door like always. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

John laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and was gone—out into the brisk morning, whistling under his breath.

The door clicked shut.

Silence fell heavy. Too heavy.

Simon stood there a moment, hand still on the knob, staring at the empty space John had just filled. The flat seemed colder already, the rooms too quiet, the smell of coffee lingering like a ghost.

And it hit him. Sharp. Ugly. Unavoidable.

He didn’t want John to leave. Not anymore.

He let out a low curse, dragging a hand down his face. Bloody hell. What was he supposed to do with that?

He tried to settle back on the sofa, the one John always claimed, and found it hollow. Tried to focus on the telly, but every noise sounded wrong without John’s commentary running alongside it. The silence pressed in, suffocating, until Simon realised with a grim sort of clarity that his flat wasn’t just his anymore.

It had been claimed—bit by bit, laugh by laugh, excuse by excuse—by the man who couldn’t seem to stop “accidentally” staying over.

And Simon didn’t know if he wanted it back.

Simon’s day had been hell. Training gone wrong, superiors barking, that simmering edge of violence that made the barracks feel like a cage. By the time he got home, every nerve in his body was screaming.

Normally, John would’ve been there. With takeaway, or some daft story, or just that stupid grin that somehow made Simon unclench his jaw. But tonight—nothing.

No knock at the door. No familiar voice spilling through the hall. No text.

Just silence.

Simon sat on the edge of his sofa, staring at his phone like it had betrayed him. He told himself it didn’t matter. John wasn’t his keeper. He had a life, things to do. He wasn’t obliged to show up every bloody night like clockwork.

But the silence thickened. Pressed. His chest tightened until breathing felt impossible, memories crowding in—the slam of a door, his father’s shadow, the suffocating certainty that he was alone.

His hands shook. His lungs locked. He couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop.

He grabbed his phone out of instinct, thumb clumsy, dialing before his brain caught up. One ring. Two.

And then horror slammed into him. What the fuck am I doing?

He hung up fast. Too fast. The screen still glowed with John’s name when Simon hurled the phone across the room, chest heaving, vision blurred at the edges.

The flat was too quiet. Too empty. Too loud with the sound of his ragged breath. He curled in on himself, trying to ground, trying to remember how to breathe properly, but his body wouldn’t listen.

Meanwhile, across town, John frowned down at his phone. One missed call from Simon. No message. No follow-up.

He tried ringing back. Straight to voicemail.

He sent a text: You okay?
Waited. Nothing.

Another: Simon?
And another: Talk to me, yeah?

Silence.

Worry gnawed at his chest. Simon wasn’t the type to reach out. For anything. If he’d called, even by mistake, something had to be wrong.

Minutes dragged. Then an hour. John tried to focus on his sketches, but his pen stuttered, lines coming out wrong. He couldn’t settle. His gut screamed at him, sharp and relentless.

Finally, he swore under his breath, grabbed his keys, and left.

The drive was a blur. John barely remembered the streets, only the way his pulse thudded, the knot in his chest pulling tighter with each red light.

When he reached Simon’s flat, he didn’t bother with ceremony. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again, harder. “Simon? You in?”

Nothing.

John’s heart climbed into his throat. He tried the knob—it gave. Simon had left it unlocked.

The sight inside made John’s stomach drop.

Simon was on the floor by the sofa, hunched over, nails dug into his knees. His breaths were ragged, shallow, broken things. His face was pale, slick with sweat, eyes unfocused like he was a thousand miles away.

“Christ, Si—” John dropped to his knees beside him without thinking, hands out but hesitant, not wanting to startle him. “Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s John. You hear me?”

No response. Just another strangled gasp, chest heaving.

John’s heart ached. Carefully, slowly, he set a hand against Simon’s arm. Solid. Warm. “Breathe with me, yeah? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this.” He exaggerated the rhythm, slow and steady, willing Simon to match him.

It took agonising minutes, but eventually Simon’s breath began to hitch less violently, his eyes flickering, finally meeting John’s.

“There you are,” John murmured, soft with relief. “Knew you were still in there.”

Simon tried to speak, but it came out cracked, broken. “Shouldn’t… shouldn’t be here.”

“Bollocks,” John shot back gently, squeezing his arm. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Simon’s throat worked, a sound escaping that wasn’t quite a sob but wasn’t far from it either. He bowed his head, shoulders trembling.

John didn’t think—he just gathered him close, one hand at the back of his head, the other gripping his shoulder tight. Simon resisted for a breath, rigid as stone, but then something in him snapped, and he collapsed into John’s hold, shaking apart against him.

John held on. Rock steady. “Got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Time blurred. Could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours. John just stayed, anchoring him, murmuring nonsense in a low voice until Simon’s breathing eased.

When Simon finally pulled back, his eyes were rimmed red, his face raw with something he rarely let anyone see. He looked at John like he’d just been caught bleeding.

“Don’t,” Simon rasped, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” John asked softly.

“Like I’m… broken.”

John’s heart twisted. He lifted a hand, brushing a damp strand of hair from Simon’s forehead. “I’m not. I’m looking at you like I’m glad you called.”

Simon flinched. “I hung up.”

“Didn’t matter. You called me.” John’s voice was steady, certain. “You thought of me. That’s enough.”

Simon’s lips parted, but no words came. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady now.

John leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “Listen. Next time the night gets too heavy? Don’t hang up. Don’t shut me out. Just… let me be here. That’s all I want.”

And for once, Simon didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. He just sat there, silent, his gaze fixed on John with something raw, something almost vulnerable.

John squeezed his hand once, firm. “Put the kettle on, soldier. We’ll make it through the night.”

And Simon, still trembling, nodded.

The panic had ebbed, leaving Simon raw, chest still tight, hair plastered to his damp forehead. John didn’t move, just sat beside him, letting the silence stretch with careful steadiness. A kettle whistled in the background, a mundane sound that somehow anchored them both.

Simon had a mug pressed to his lips now, eyes fixed on the steam curling up. John shifted, standing to put his own mug in the sink, moving with that easy, confident care that made Simon’s chest clench in ways he couldn’t name.

Simon curled in on himself instinctively, like a kid again, and John froze, heart thudding.

“Oi,” John said softly, crouching back down, hand brushing Simon’s arm. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for the night, not ever when it comes to this.”

Simon didn’t respond, just let himself sink into the floor a little more, tremors fading but awareness still sharp.

John slid back onto the sofa, settling beside him, careful and deliberate. “Come on,” he murmured, voice low, “back to bed. I’ll keep you safe. You don’t need to think about a thing.”

Simon let himself be guided, stiff and hesitant at first, before easing against John’s side. John wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, tucking him gently against his chest. Simon’s cheek pressed to John’s shoulder, breath finally evening out.

“Sleep easy,” John whispered, thumb tracing small circles across Simon’s arm. “I’ve got you. Right here. Always.”

Simon let out a long, shaky breath, muscles finally unclenching. For the first time that night, he felt it—the quiet, the safety, the simple, unspoken promise. His eyelids drooped, warmth spreading from John’s hold, and for the first time since he’d walked in, he relaxed.

He slept.

And John stayed, steadfast, a living anchor, murmuring nonsense under his breath until Simon was fully lost in dreams.

Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, soft and lazy, brushing across the bed where Simon and John lay tangled together. Simon’s chest still felt warm from John’s presence, every muscle loosened after the night of panic, every breath easier than it had been in weeks. He shifted, careful not to wake John, picking up the phone to check messages.

It rang before he could unlock it—sharp, businesslike.

“Riley? Simon Riley?” The officer’s voice came crisp over the line. “This is Captain Hawthorne. You are scheduled for a tap-out ceremony next week. It will mark the official beginning of your military career. Are you expecting anyone?”

Simon’s throat constricted. Expecting anyone…? He swallowed hard, voice tight, barely audible. “N-no…no sir.”

The officer paused. “Very well. Details will follow. Congratulations. End of line.”

The line clicked dead, leaving Simon holding the phone like it was suddenly unbearably heavy. The warmth of John beside him made the silence ache, highlighting the absence he hadn’t noticed before: the absence of family, of anyone who would stand for him.

He had survived the night, yes. He had John’s presence woven into him now, but the world outside his flat didn’t bend to comfort him. And for the tap-out… he’d be on his own.

The call left him hollow. The officer’s clipped words still rang in his ears, echoing around the flat like shrapnel.

Are you expecting anyone to attend?
…No.

He’d said it quiet, but it had still felt like a confession. Like baring a wound.

Now he sat at the edge of the bed, phone heavy in his hand, staring at the far wall. He could already see it—the line of soldiers, the families rushing forward when the order was given. Mothers and fathers with tears in their eyes, siblings shouting, partners throwing themselves into arms that had been empty too long.

And him. Standing still. Watching. Alone.

The thought was enough to crush the breath from his chest all over again. He rubbed at his face, trying to swallow the ache, but it stuck, sharp in his throat.

Behind him, the mattress dipped. John stirred, groaning softly as he stretched. Simon turned just enough to see him, hair mussed, shirt twisted, blinking blearily like he hadn’t a care in the world. For one fleeting second, Simon thought of saying something—about the ceremony, about the empty space where someone should be. But the words lodged like stones.

Instead, John rolled upright, yawning. “Bloody hell, what time is it?” He fumbled for his phone, eyes widening. “Shite. Got a meeting at the gallery, can’t be late.”

Simon nodded, forcing a smile onto his lips. “You’ll be brilliant. Go knock ’em dead.”

John grinned, lopsided, tugging his jacket on. “That’s the plan.”

He leaned in, clapped Simon on the shoulder with a warm squeeze, and then he was at the door, already halfway out. “Save me some of that instant coffee of yours, eh?”

And then—gone.

The door clicked shut.

Silence rushed in, heavier than before, pressing against Simon’s ribs. He stood in the middle of his flat, still wearing the ghost of a smile, staring at the empty space John had left behind.

It was too familiar. Too close to what awaited him at the ceremony.

Everyone else would be claimed. Embraced. Pulled into belonging.

And he would stand there, as he stood now, in the echo of someone else’s departure. Alone. For the rest of his life, perhaps.

He let out a bitter breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Bloody pathetic,” he muttered to himself, the words hollow in the silence.

But the ache in his chest said otherwise.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing the aisle in pale yellow. Simon pushed the trolley with slow, steady hands, letting the rattle of the wheels keep time with John’s voice.

John strolled beside him, a packet of biscuits in one hand, another tucked under his arm. “Now—hear me out—these are for tea,” he said, brandishing the shortbread like it was a winning card. “And these—” he jiggled the chocolate digestives—“these are for coffee. Different categories, Simon. You can’t mix and match.”

Simon huffed, the corner of his mouth threatening to betray him. “You’re full of shite.”

John grinned, triumphant at the tiny crack in Simon’s armour. He tossed both into the trolley anyway, ignoring Simon’s quiet mutter about wasting money.

For a moment—for one blessed moment—it felt like nothing at all. Just two blokes buying groceries. Ordinary. Steady. Safe.

But then the thought slashed through, sharp as glass: You’ll be alone at the ceremony. He could picture it in brutal detail—rows of men finding their people, arms thrown around necks, laughter and tears all around. And him, empty-handed. Watching. A shadow in the corner of his own celebration.

The trolley’s handle went cold under his palms. He flexed his fingers, jaw tight, staring ahead as John plucked a loaf of bread from the shelf.

“You’re awfully quiet,” John said, eyeing him sideways.

Simon gave a noncommittal shrug. “Tired.” The word came out low, clipped.

John let it hang for a beat, then smiled anyway, slipping another unnecessary item into the cart—this time crisps. “Well, good thing I’ve enough energy for both of us, eh?”

Simon almost smiled again. Almost. But it didn’t reach. He just nodded, kept walking, let John’s chatter fill the air. Inside, though, the silence roared.

The flat was too quiet.

Simon sat at the kitchen table with the bags still half unpacked around him. A packet of crisps leaned against the kettle, the biscuits John had argued for perched lopsided on the counter. He should have put them away. He should have done something—anything—but instead he sat there, hunched, staring at the grooves in the wood like they might tell him something.

His phone lay on the table, screen black. Every now and then he nudged it with two fingers, just enough to light it up. No new messages. Not that he expected one. John had gone back to his own life, his own little world, and Simon… Simon had this. Silence.

He tried to picture the ceremony again, as though running through it would dull the edges. The officer’s voice: Expecting anyone? Simon’s throat thickening as he forced out a no. Rows of men swept into embraces, laughter, tears, the noise of joy echoing all around him. And Simon—frozen, stiff, hands useless at his sides. Invisible in the middle of it all.

The air felt thin. He pressed a hand against his chest, as if he could cage the sharp rise and fall of his ribs. You’ll stand there alone, Riley. You’ll stand there like a fool. No one’s coming for you. Not now. Not ever.

He scrubbed both hands down his face, elbows braced against the table, and for a fleeting, shameful second he thought about calling John. Just to hear his voice, to feel like maybe he wasn’t going mad. His fingers even brushed the phone, unlocked it, scrolled to the name—

Then he locked it again and shoved it away, chest burning. What would he even say? Help me, I’m scared to be forgotten? Stay with me so I don’t fall apart? Pathetic.

The kettle clicked as it cooled. He hadn’t even remembered turning it on. The flat groaned in the quiet, pipes shifting, floor creaking, all of it louder than his own breath.

Simon leaned forward, buried his head in his hands, and let the silence press down until it felt like it might break him in half.

The café was warm, all golden light and low chatter, the air thick with the smell of ground beans and sugar. Simon sat in the corner booth with his hands wrapped around a mug, watching steam coil and vanish into nothing.

Across from him, John was in full swing, talking with his whole body. “So I tell her, right—I tell her, if you’re going to commission me for a bloody landscape then you’ve got to let me actually see the place, aye? Can’t paint the Highlands from memory, not fair.” His hands carved mountains in the air, eyes bright, cheeks flushed with the telling.

Simon nodded when it fit, murmured here and there. He even smirked once, quick and unguarded, when John mimed an exaggerated scowl. For a while he let the sound of John’s voice carry him, a steady current he could drift on.

But beneath it, the same thought pulsed like a bruise: You don’t get to keep this. Not him. Not anyone.

By the time John noticed he hadn’t touched his pastry, Simon had already pulled the mask back down. “Not hungry,” he said, voice flat. John frowned, eyes lingering, but let it pass.

Later, back at his flat, they’d thrown on some film neither of them really cared about. John was sprawled across the sofa, one leg hooked over the armrest, half the blanket tangled around him. He laughed too loud at the dumbest parts, grin wide and unashamed, and Simon let himself chuckle along.

And when John went quiet, eyes caught by the screen, Simon let himself look. Really look. His chest ached with the smallness of the moment—the easy rise and fall of breath, the warmth pressed into the cushion between them. It felt like safety. Like belonging.

But not for you, the thought cut through, sharp and cruel. You’ll be the one standing alone in the end.

His laugh faltered, catching in his throat, and he pressed his lips shut. John didn’t notice—still grinning at the telly, still wrapped in the moment. Simon dragged his gaze back to the screen, jaw tight, and swallowed down the ache.

The next morning, John’s jumper was draped over the back of Simon’s chair. Dark wool, stretched at the sleeves, smelling faintly of coffee and turpentine. Simon stood there too long, fingers curled into the fabric like it might crumble if he let go. For one sharp, stolen heartbeat he pressed it to his chest, as if warmth could soak through.

Then he folded it, neat and clinical, and set it aside. Out of sight. Out of reach.

Because what right did he have, really?

He’d be the one standing still while everyone else ran into waiting arms. And the more time he let himself spend in John’s orbit, the deeper that hollow inside him grew—aching, echoing, impossible to fill.

So he played along. He smiled when John teased, nodded when John rambled, laughed when it was expected. And every moment of joy carved the hollow wider, until Simon could feel himself concaving from the inside out.

The barracks hummed with energy. Boots scuffed against the floor, lockers slammed shut, laughter bounced from wall to wall. Simon sat on the edge of his bunk, tugging at his cuffs, listening.

“—reservation at that steak place, booked solid for weeks,” one man bragged, slicking his hair back in the reflection of his locker.

Another chimed in, “Taking the little ones to the park, whole bloody day planned. They’ve been bouncing off the walls for this.”

The chorus swelled—wives, children, girlfriends, fiancées, all waiting just outside the walls. All the lives his brothers-in-arms were slipping back into, warm and ready.

Simon adjusted his sleeve, let the voices roll over him, heavy as tidewater.

Then someone’s voice cut through, sharp and easy: “And what about you, Riley?”

He froze. The air felt thin in his lungs. He pictured it too clearly: the silence of his flat, leftovers reheated in the microwave, the hum of the fridge for company. Crawling into bed alone. Again. Always.

His throat tightened, but he forced the words out anyway. A shrug, casual as he could make it. “Travellin’ with mates.”

The man grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. “Sounds grand. Make the most of it, eh?”

Simon nodded, lips twitching toward something like a smile. He didn’t trust himself to speak again.

Inside, though, the lie echoed hollow in his chest.

The room emptied in a rush of chatter and shuffling boots, men spilling out toward the sunlit field beyond. Their voices faded down the corridor until all that was left was the faint echo of footsteps and the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Simon stayed behind.

He rose slowly, methodical, smoothing his uniform with hands that felt too heavy, too clumsy. His reflection met him in the streaked locker-room mirror—broad shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed.

For a long moment he just stared. The silence pressed close around him, heavy, suffocating.

“Pull it together,” he whispered, the words dry against his tongue. They fell flat in the empty room, too thin to hold the weight.

He dragged in a breath anyway, straightened his spine, and fixed his collar with deliberate precision. Soldier first, man second. That was how it had to be.

Behind him, the faint strains of cheering drifted in through the windows—families already gathered, waiting. He forced his gaze from the mirror, turned toward the door.

Step by step, he followed the sound, each footfall echoing with the hollow reminder: No one’s coming for you.

The field smelled like cut grass and sun and nerves. Voices folded over one another—laughter, cries, the slap of embraces—everything loud enough to make his head swim and quiet enough that every small thing felt like an accusation. Simon kept his chin level, palms flat against his trousers, the weight of the uniform a kind of armour he told himself still worked.

When the speaker’s words rolled out—polished, ceremonial, about young men becoming soldiers, about duty and pride—Simon let them wash over him like a tide that couldn’t reach the place inside that was hollowing out. It was ceremony, ritual, a folding of one life into another. But the bones inside his chest stayed hollow, like a room someone had forgotten to light.

Families surged forward the instant the General gave the go-ahead. Arms found arms, kisses were shared, kids launched themselves at boots and were caught like they’d fallen through the air and landed safe. Around him the world condensed into soft noises and bright colours: a tartan scarf, a woman’s laughter, a man’s barked joke, the clatter of medals. The soldiers in his line melted into those arms and became something softer, brighter, whole again.

He watched. He watched the slow choreography—hand reach, head tilt, the smile that was too big to be rehearsed. A couple met and staggered like the earth had tilted, the man’s face dissolving into tears that no one tried to hide. Another man bent down, hoisted a small child up, and the child’s arms wrapped around his father’s neck the way they always used to wrap around something that would not slip away. Simon felt each of those moments like a physical shove: a reminder that this ritual was not a private thing, it was a public reclaiming, a baptising into belonging.

Someone glanced his way, a look lingering a beat too long—a quick, involuntary pity. It stung more than pity should have any right to. He knew what they were thinking. He knew their brains were doing the polite arithmetic—no wife, no parents on the sidelines, no mate with a goofy grin. The pity had soft edges but it cut.

There were children who didn’t care about adults’ social navigation. One small boy barreled past him, shoes scuffing, hair a bird’s nest, shouting for his dad. The boy’s mother apologised, cheeks flushed, but the soldier she’d been striding toward scooped the kid up and spun him around until the child shrieked with glee. The smell of sugar and sun and belonging and happiness  all happened and left, and Simon was left with the echo.

He’d been a small, invisible thing all his childhood—an absence so ordinary the world learned to look past it. Parent-teacher evenings where he sat across from a stony-faced teacher while a phone call to his home rang and rang until they gave up, shooing the small kid out of their classroom; school plays where the other kids’ parents clapped and cheered while he watched from the wings, knowing that would never be him.

 Those old scenes ran under the new ones like a bruise. They told him this was how it would always be: a life where arrivals were for other people.

The line moved on and on. Hands were claimed one by one; faces wet or laughing or both. He kept his gaze steady, fixed somewhere over the heads of the crowd. He practiced the soldierly thing: shoulders back, eyes forward, jaw set. The world asked for outward composure and he gave it like a reflex.

Inside though, the feeling thickened into something nearly physical—a squeeze under the ribs that would not relax. His throat tightened so that when someone else’s cheers threatened to swell into something ragged and personal behind his eyes, he swallowed it. He could feel the hard little stone of shame there, the old child who’d learnt to make himself small to survive.

A family passed close enough that he caught the scent of Sunday dinners and aftershave. A woman glanced at him with that particular pity-streak softened by sympathy, a half-smile that didn’t touch her eyes. For a second his whole balance slid.

 He imagined himself at the far end of the day: keys in the lock of a flat that smelled faintly of takeaway and stale air, a television left on in an attempt at company, reheated leftovers shining under the microwave light. He imagined climbing into a bed that would fold him into a silent, obliging darkness.

When the last of the crowds had swirled into private celebrations, when someone started singing off-key and another started clapping and the noise ballooned into a kind of cruel, communal joy, Simon felt something inside him go very, very still. He had expected the knife-edge of that loneliness before; he’d practised for it. But expectation does not blunt the blade; it only gives you time to watch it descend.

He stayed where he was—uniform neat, stance measured—because this was what he had always been taught: stand steady, take what comes with the dignity you can muster. He could be stoic. He could be rigid. He could be the man who swallowed everything and walked on. That was the part of him he’d honed like muscle.

A boot scuffed; laughter rose near the hedge. Someone called a name, a cheer answered, and the sun struck bright off medals. Simon let his mouth make the shape of a polite smile and pretend it meant nothing. But under the smile there was something else: not despair exactly, not yet, but a tired refusal to imagine otherwise. He wanted—perhaps more than he’d like to admit—to think that this was not the rest of his life.

 He wanted a miracle but then again, he had never been the sort of man to expect miracles.

And then—because the world is not always as merciless as his memory insisted—he heard footsteps that weren’t the shuffle of families moving on or the polite scuff of a parent freeing a child. It was a single set of steps, not part of any tide, cutting a clean line through the noise. They were steady, hurried, and they were getting closer.

Simon’s breath caught but he kept his face schooled, hands still, but something in his chest rearranged itself, wary and electric.

He could not know yet whether the figure would be another stranger passing, another set of arms that weren’t meant for him. He could not know if this would be the moment the day folded into the same old pattern.

All he could do was stand there—soldier-straight—and let the steps draw nearer, each one a small, terrible question.

Then someone crashes into his back. For a second Simon doesn’t breathe. The weight against his back is real, warm, insistent, not the phantom pressure of memory. Hands cover his eyes, broad palms smelling faintly of tobacco and soap, and the voice—Christ, the voice—cuts through the roar of the crowd like a thread pulled clean through cloth.

“Guess who!” John laughs, cheek brushing the edge of Simon’s ear as he leans in, all boyish delight and absolute certainty that he belongs here.

Simon’s world lurches sideways. His body stiffens on instinct, because this can’t be—John wasn’t supposed to be on base, John was supposed to be anywhere but here. But the sound of him is too solid, too alive, vibrating straight through Simon’s bones.

He swallows against the lump in his throat. He should say something casual, dry, bite the moment in half before it swallows him whole. Instead his mouth goes dry, and the words scrape out hoarse, betraying him:

“Bloody hell…”

Simon’s chest aches, concaving and expanding at once, like someone finally let air into a room that had been sealed shut for years. His lips part, just barely, a sharp breath catching in the back of his throat. He can’t stop himself—he leans back, just enough to feel John’s solidness pressed against him, the only proof he needs that this isn’t some hallucination.

John chuckles again, softer now, right by his ear. “C’mon, Si. You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?”

And God help him, Simon’s eyes sting.

Simon shifts, turning around in John’s heap so they now stand face to face.

John’s hands bracket his jaw for a moment, rough thumbs brushing along the hinge like he needs to convince himself Simon’s real too. Then he drops them, grinning sheepishly, like a boy caught sneaking into a theatre without a ticket. 

“How…why…when? How??” Simon’s mind splutters. 

“Turns out,” John says, a little breathless, “if you ask enough blokes in uniforms where the tap out ceremony’s being held, someone’ll point you the right way. As for getting in…” He shrugs, that lopsided thing he does. “Gate guard liked my accent. Didn’t even check the name I gave him.”

Simon blinks. His throat works, trying to force down the knot that’s threatening to strangle him. It’s not enough—he has to turn, twist fully in John’s hold until they’re face-to-face. “Why-?” he repeats, lower, harsher, desperate.

John just looks at him, softer now. “Because I had to. Because I knew you’d never ask me to come. And I couldn’t let you stand here alone, not today.”

The unspoken why were you late? hangs between them, heavy as lead, pressing against Simon’s chest. John sees it, of course he does—he always does—but instead of flinching he leans in, presses his forehead lightly to Simon’s temple, grounding him.

“Sorry if I cut it close,” John murmurs, quiet enough so that it’s only for Simon. “But I’m here, Si. I’m here.”

Simon’s breath shudders, a sharp inhale that barely makes it past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t even mean to—doesn’t decide, doesn’t think—but suddenly his arms are crushing around John’s shoulders, his forehead pressing into the crook of the man’s neck. The first sob rips out of him raw, startled, like it’s been waiting years for permission.

John doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t loosen his grip. His arms come around Simon instantly, steady, tight, like he was made for this exact moment. He murmurs something—nonsense, soft and low, maybe just Simon’s name repeated like a prayer—and rocks him gently as the world blurs behind them.

Soldiers and their families pass by, some looking, most not, but John shields him from all of it. His chin rests atop Simon’s buzzed hair, his hand spread broad and warm across Simon’s back, and he just holds him. Holds him like no one else ever has.

And for once, Simon doesn’t have to hold himself together. He can cry, and be caught..

Simon stays folded into him for what feels like forever, sobs tapering into shaky breaths, wetness cooling against John’s neck. John never loosens his hold, never rushes him, just keeps tracing steady circles into Simon’s back with his thumb like he could anchor him there until the world stops spinning.

Finally, Simon pulls in one long, ragged breath and straightens, just enough to look at him. His eyes are bloodshot, lashes damp, his cheeks blotched from crying—but John swears he’s never seen him look so alive.

They don’t speak. They just stare. John’s grin is gone now, replaced with something raw and wide open, like he’s daring Simon to look away.

But Simon doesn’t. He can’t. His hands still linger at John’s shoulders, trembling faintly, and before he can think better of it—before fear can catch up—he leans forward. Presses his mouth to John’s like it’s the only way to breathe.

It’s messy, salt-stung, more desperation than finesse. But John kisses back instantly, firm and certain, as if he’d been waiting all along.

The first brush of lips is almost tentative, but then it shatters—Simon fists a hand in John’s jacket and drags him closer, mouth crashing against his like he’s been starving for years and just now learned what for. His teeth catch, his breath hitches against John’s lips, and the kiss turns bruising, frantic, too much and somehow not nearly enough.

John groans into it, low and wrecked, one hand flying up to cup Simon’s jaw, thumb smearing damp across his cheek while the other pulls him tighter by the waist. Neither of them care that they’re in uniform, in public, surrounded by soldiers and families—this is survival, not ceremony.

Every sob Simon didn’t let out, every lonely night, every time he convinced himself he didn’t need anyone—they all pour into this kiss. And John, wild thing that he is, meets it all with equal force, like he’d been carrying just as much weight, waiting for Simon to finally let go.

By the time they pull apart, foreheads pressed together, they’re both panting, lips swollen, eyes blazing with the shock of it.

Simon stares at John before blurting out 

“Be my boyfriend.”

Simon’s words hang there like someone’s finally thrown open a window in a stuffy room.

It leaves him raw — a tiny, reckless confession that feels too big for his chest. For half a second nothing answers but the hollow in his ribs and the distant clatter of celebration.

Then John laughs. It bubbles out, surprised and soft, like he can’t quite believe Simon actually said the thing Simon just said aloud. He leans in close enough that Simon can see the wet sheen at the edges of his eyes, the stupid, perfect grin that has become Simon’s bad habit.

“Yes,” John breathes, the word full and easy. “Of course I’ll be your boyfriend.”

They laugh at the same time — a breathless, ridiculous sound — and the laugh becomes a smile that dissolves into another kiss, hungry and fierce and claiming. It’s not quiet now; it’s a bright, jagged thing that leaves them both gasping. John’s hand slides over Simon’s shoulders, fingers threading together behind the man’s back, and Simon answers with both hands at John’s waist, anchoring himself to the man like he’s found shore.

Around them the world keeps being loud — a child shouts, someone gives a half-hearted whoop, boots drum on the grass — but it’s all background now, muffled by the closeness that’s settling over them like a blanket.

When they pull apart, foreheads touching, John’s grin is lazy and a little feral. “You know you could’ve just asked me to come, you daft git,” he teases, thumb wiping the corner of Simon’s mouth where a tear still glints.

Simon tries to be brusque. “You were late.”

“I know,” John says, honest for once. “Sorry. Meeting ran over. But I’m here now, yeah? I’m here for you”

Simon inhales, the world tilting so slightly it makes him dizzy. He lets out a shaky sound that’s half-laugh, half-relief. “Don’t ever be late again,” he says, not a demand as much as a plea sewn into a joke.

John presses his forehead to Simon’s, thumb warm against his jaw. “Promise,” he says. Then, quieter, because there’s only room for truth between them, “I’ll try my best.”

Simon doesn’t need John to be perfect. He just needs this — the person beside him, solid and present. He loops his fingers through John’s, thumb finding the quick little scar on John’s palm like it’s a secret map. They stand like that for a beat — two breaths, two steadying heartbeats.

Then they walk off the field together. John’s hand stays laced through Simon’s fingers, warm and deliberate, and for the first time that day the hollow in Simon’s chest feels like it’s filling — not with light yet, not fully, but with weight and presence and the messy, human fact of another person who chose him.

It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s battering-ram tender. It’s theirs. 

They go back to the flat and cook dinner together, then they sit down on the couch together and eat their dinner while watching TV. 

John sits on Simon's lap the entire time, head resting on the man’s shoulder once their meal is done. When it gets late enough Simon stands, carrying John with him to the bedroom.

 They shower together, just a rinse to get the day's grime off them, trading kisses between washcloth swipes, then when they settle into bed John snuggles up next to Simon. 

No more weird pillow barriers or rigid posture, just two bodies finally tangling together, the way they should.  

When Simon brings up moving in, John suggests a bigger apartment, so he can have a room for his art. Simon agrees so long as they get a semi open floor concert and then next thing they know they’re signing a lease, and then putting down a deposit, and then eventually moving. 

Their new flat smells like fresh paint and cardboard. The semi–open floor plan Simon insisted on is already cluttered with boxes: John’s canvases stacked against one wall, kitchen bits spilling out of half–taped cartons, and a pile of mismatched cushions John swears are “essential for ambience.”

Simon drops the last box with a grunt and straightens, rolling his shoulders. “You own too much shite.”

John, crouched in front of a box labelled ART in big, loopy marker, glances up with a grin. “Correction: I own too much talent. The shite is just a byproduct.” He holds up a battered tin of brushes like a trophy. “See? Priceless.”

Simon shakes his head, fighting the tug at his mouth. “A man doesn’t need fifty brushes.”

“You say that,” John teases, hopping up and coming over, “but give me time and I’ll paint you proper. Capture that broody scowl for the ages.”

“Broody’s all you’d get after dealin’ with your bloody mess.” But Simon lets himself be reeled in, John tugging at his shirt until Simon’s arms settle naturally around his waist.

For a moment, they just stand in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by bare walls and possibilities. The kind of silence Simon used to dread — back when it meant loneliness — now softened by John’s presence, by the sound of his breathing, steady and close.

It’s later, over takeaway cartons perched on unopened boxes, that John says casually, “Oh — by the way. I rang my mum. Told her about you.”

Simon nearly chokes on his noodles. “You what?”

John’s grin is all teeth and no apology. “Aye. Said I’d be bringing you round soon. She’s dying to meet you.”

“Johnny…” Simon rubs a hand over his face, nerves prickling under his skin. “What if—”

“What if she doesn’t like you?” John cuts in, leaning closer, eyes bright with mischief and something gentler beneath. “Not possible. She’ll love you. My sisters too. They’ll eat you alive, but you’ll love them for it.”

Simon huffs, but John’s hand is warm on his knee, grounding. He wants to argue, to say he doesn’t do families — but then again, he never did boyfriends either. Yet here he is.

The motorway stretched on forever, grey ribbon cutting through the hills, rain spitting against the windscreen in lazy bursts. John had the radio on low—some old rock station humming under his breath—and one hand on the wheel. The other reached across the console, fingers curling easy around Simon’s wrist where it rested on his thigh.

Simon kept staring out the window, jaw tight, pretending the blur of green and grey was fascinating. In truth, his stomach was a knot.

“You’re quiet,” John said eventually, glancing sideways with that cheeky half–grin. “Even for you.”

Simon huffed. “Dunno what you’re on about.”

“Don’t play daft. You’re nervous.” John gave his wrist a squeeze. “It’s just my family, Si. They don’t bite.”

“Don’t have to bite to tear a man apart.” The words came out harsher than he meant, sharp edge masking the truth underneath. He didn’t know how to be in a family. Didn’t know what to say, what to expect. The last time he’d been at a table that called itself family, it had been fists and silence, not stew and laughter. 

John softened, grin gentling. “They’ll love you. You’re broody and polite and built like a bloody tank. Mum’ll feed you until you can’t move, and my sisters’ll make you play cards until you regret every life choice. You’ll be grand.”

Simon muttered something noncommittal, but John’s thumb tracing slow circles against his wrist helped. Just a little.

The MacTavish house sat at the end of a narrow lane, stone walls worn smooth with weather, flower pots crowding the steps. The moment the car pulled up, the front door burst open. A woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her dark hair hurried down, apron still tied at her waist.

“John!” she called, arms already outstretched.

“Mum,” John groaned fondly as he was enveloped in a hug. Looking back over his shoulder, he shot Simon a grin that was part mischief, part reassurance. “Brace yourself.”

Simon didn’t even get the chance to. John’s mum turned, eyes sweeping over him, and before he could so much as nod, she’d folded him into the same fierce hug.

“You must be Simon,” she said, pulling back just enough to cup his face in both hands. “My boy’s written about you. Welcome, son.”

The word son lodged somewhere deep in Simon’s chest. He swallowed hard, managing only a rough, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Inside was chaos. Two sisters—loud, laughing, relentless—immediately pulled him into conversation, demanding to know everything from his favourite food to his opinion on their brother’s haircut. The table groaned under the weight of stew, bread, and more sides than Simon could name. Every time his bowl emptied, John’s mum refilled it with a smile that brooked no refusal.

At first, Simon sat stiff, answering in short bursts, unsure where to put his hands, how to relax. But then John slipped his knee against his under the table, gave him that look—the one that said you’re safe here. And slowly, the knot began to loosen.

By the time dessert appeared, Simon was leaning back in his chair, lips quirking at one of the sisters’ stories, the ache in his chest dulled by warmth he didn’t know he’d been craving.

He caught John looking at him then—soft, smug, a touch awed. And Simon thought, Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ll be grand

The laughter inside was still going strong when John nudged Simon’s knee beneath the table, then jerked his chin toward the back door. No one noticed as he tugged Simon through the kitchen and out into the cool night air.

The garden smelled of damp earth and flowers, the grass still slick from earlier rain. They sat down side by side, knees brushing, the kitchen light glowing behind them while the house buzzed with warmth and noise. Out here, it was quiet.

John flopped back onto his elbows, head tipped toward the stars. “Bit much, eh?”

Simon huffed, dragging a hand over his face. “They’re… a lot.”

“Aye, they are.” John’s grin curved sly. “Good lot, though.”

Simon nodded, gaze fixed on his boots. “Yeah.” His voice dropped softer. “Better than I deserve.”

John turned then, propped himself up enough to stare, really stare, until Simon looked back. “Don’t say that shite. You deserve every bit of it.”

For a moment, Simon couldn’t find words. His chest felt too tight, his throat raw from holding everything in. Finally, he managed: “Thanks. For bringing me here. For… sharing it.”

John’s grin softened into something quieter. “Thanks for lettin’ me.” He reached out, rough fingers curling around Simon’s hand where it rested on the grass. “You’ve no idea how much you’ve changed my life, Si. I was coasting. Half–arsed paintings, too many pints, not much else. Then you walked into that pub looking like the loneliest bastard alive, and I thought, Well. There he is. That’s the one.”

Simon’s breath hitched. He squeezed John’s hand, not trusting himself to speak.

John shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder, voice dropping to a murmur. “So don’t thank me. Just stay. That’s all I need.”

And Simon, who once thought he’d never belong anywhere, leaned into John’s side, let his head tip just enough to rest against John’s, and whispered, “Alright.”

For once, alright meant more than survival. It meant home.

They lingered in the garden until the chill started seeping through Simon’s shirt, John rambling about constellations he probably made up, Simon humming along just to hear the lilt of his voice. Eventually, John clapped his hands against his knees and stood, tugging Simon up with him.

Inside, the house was quieter—his mum had gone off to bed, the sisters tucked into their rooms. Just the tick of the old clock in the hall, and the hush that settles over a house full of people after midnight.

John led him upstairs, past family photos lining the walls, into the little guest room at the end of the hall. The bed was neatly made, sheets smelling faintly of lavender. Simon hesitated at the door, unsure if he should take the armchair, unsure of anything.

But John just toed off his shoes, tugged his shirt over his head, and flopped onto the mattress with all the ease of someone who’d slept here a thousand times. He patted the space beside him. “C’mon then. Don’t overthink it.”

Simon huffed, but the tension in his chest eased. He stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, slid in beside John. The mattress dipped, the air warm with the faint scent of stew and soap.

Almost without thinking, John rolled onto his side and pressed in close, arm draping over Simon’s middle, cheek nudging against his shoulder. “Night, Si,” he murmured, words already slurring with sleep.

Simon lay there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, every nerve taut. But slowly, slowly, he felt himself loosen. His body fit to John’s like it had been waiting for this, like the space had always been reserved for him.

He let his eyes close. Let the noise of the day fade, the weight of belonging settle over him like a quilt. For the first time in his life, Simon Riley fell asleep in a family home—not as an outsider looking in, but as someone held

Chapter Text

The first night, Simon came home to find John asleep on the couch, a game show buzzing on the telly. He flicked it off, shook his head, and bent down to scoop his boyfriend up. John stirred just enough to nuzzle into Simon’s chest as he carried him down the hall, tucking him into bed. Only then did Simon go about his own routine—eating, showering, brushing his teeth—before sliding under the covers beside him. John rolled instinctively into his arms.

The next night, Simon opened the door and stopped short. A brand-new shelf had been installed in the living room, already groaning under the weight of clutter—knickknacks, trinkets, bits of glass and wood John must’ve picked up throughout the week. Simon just sighed, pressed a kiss to John’s head as he walked past, and muttered, “Yer gonna turn this place into a bloody museum.” John only grinned.

The next night, Simon came home and found John on the couch, cradling a fat pumpkin-coloured cat in his lap. Simon froze in the doorway. “Johnny—” he started, already resigned, but John looked up at him with wide, shining eyes.

“Please, Si? His name’s Gizmo.”

Simon sighed again, but when he crossed the room and stroked the cat’s ears, Gizmo purred and pressed into his hand. John beamed. Simon muttered, “Bloody hell,” but he didn’t stop petting.

The next night, Gizmo bolted to the door before Simon could even set down his keys. The cat meowed and meowed, weaving frantic loops around Simon’s legs until Simon sighed and scooped him up. Gizmo purred loud enough to rattle his chest.

The next night, Gizmo sprinted to the door before Simon even had his boots off. Winding between his legs, meowing like he’d been abandoned for years instead of hours. Simon scooped him up with a grumble that fooled no one, muttering about spoiled cats, but he still pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead . 

The night after that, there was another surprise. Simon stepped in, already expecting Gizmo, only to find a second cat perched on John’s shoulder—sleek, black, green-eyed. John grinned sheepishly.

“Pickles,” he said, like that explained everything.

Simon stared. “Pickles.”

“Aye, don’t judge-.”

The kitten leapt down, padding straight for Simon. Within minutes, she was curled against his boots, purring like she’d always been there. John’s groan echoed from the couch.

And so it went, night after night. Sometimes Simon came home to the cats racing to greet him, sometimes to John sprawled on the couch under a blanket, sketchbook balanced on his knees. Sometimes it was both—John dozing with Pickles on his chest and Gizmo snoring beside him.

The apartment changed with them. More trinkets on the shelves, more mugs in the cupboards, more fur on the cushions. Photos crept onto the fridge—blurry shots of Simon cooking, John laughing, cats tangled in blankets. Boots by the door. Scarves slung over chairs. A life being built in the clutter.

And every night, without fail, Simon walked through that door and thought: this is home.

The flat smelled faintly of pine and cold air, the scent carried in with Simon’s coat as he shut the door. He was greeted not by John at first, but by chaos: a black blur darting across the living room floor, dragging a stream of silver tinsel like a victorious hunter. Pickles skidded into the leg of the coffee table, bounced off, and kept running, wild eyes gleaming in the fairy lights John had already strung along the wall.

“Oi!” John barked a laugh, crouched by the half-assembled tree. “You’re meant to help, Pickles, not tear the place apart.”

Simon tugged off his boots, gaze sweeping to the orange lump sprawled on the armchair. Gizmo was perched high, glaring at Simon with the wounded pride of a king left unattended. The moment Simon stepped closer, the cat let out a deafening yowl.

Simon sighed, long-suffering, and scooped the fat beast into his arms. Gizmo immediately went limp, rumbling with smug purrs, tail flicking in victory.

“Every bloody day,” Simon muttered, though his hand smoothed over soft fur without thinking.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” John called, untangling a string of baubles. His cheeks were flushed pink from the chill outside and the effort of wrestling with the tree. “C’mere, help me hang these before Pickles eats ‘em all.”

Simon carried Gizmo over, still purring like a tractor, and set him on the sofa only to have the cat crawl back up his chest the moment he bent to take the box of ornaments. John snorted, shaking his head as Simon worked one-handed.

The next half hour was a blur of glitter and pine needles. John insisted on playing Christmas music, and he sang loud, off-key, and obnoxious—while Simon tried (and failed) to keep things orderly. Pickles darted in and out, swiping at dangling baubles, while Gizmo cried indignantly every time Simon put him down to reach higher branches.

At last, the tree stood finished. Not elegant, not uniform, but warm—full of mismatched baubles, crooked tinsel, and the star slightly askew on top. John stepped back, hands on hips, grinning like a kid.

Simon slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “Looks like the cat decorated it.”

“Oi, that’s art, that is,” John said, smug, before tipping up to kiss Simon’s cheek. “Our first tree.”

Simon’s chest tightened at the words. Their first tree. Their first Christmas. He looked at John—soft eyes, messy hair, laughter still on his lips—and thought, if every December looks like this, I’ll be alright.

The weeks slipped by in a blur of frost and fairy lights. John thrived in it—he loved Christmas with the kind of loud, wholehearted joy that made the whole flat hum. Every day another parcel turned up at the door, John ushering Simon away before he could peek, scolding him with a wagging finger. “No snooping, Si. You’ll ruin the magic.”

Simon wasn’t worried about snooping. He was worried about keeping up.

Because John had a list. He had presents for his mum, his dad, both his sisters, his nieces, their cats. He even had something stashed for the neighbour who watered his plants last summer. And Simon—Simon had nothing.

He stood in the middle of a crowded shop one evening, shoulders tight, phone in hand with a half-finished list of names. John’s family. John himself. Gizmo. Pickles. Every option felt wrong, too impersonal, not enough. Simon thought of John’s wide grin, his bright laughter, the way he loved with both arms open. How the hell was Simon supposed to fit that into wrapping paper?

In the end, he bought too much. Far too much. A leather-bound sketchbook John had eyed once. Fancy paints he didn’t think John would ever splurge on himself. A ridiculous mug that said World’s Best Boyfriend. Jumpers for the sisters. A basket of biscuits for his mum. Something silly and practical for his dad. And for the cats—well. Gizmo got a plush bed shaped like a fish, and Pickles got a tower with dangling toys and three separate perches. Simon had to ask the shop to deliver it, because there was no way he could haul it home himself.

By Christmas Eve, the flat was drowning in gifts. John cackled when Simon came in lugging the last of them. “Jesus, Si, you been shopping for the whole block?”

“Don’t start,” Simon muttered, ears pink, setting down the bags.

But John didn’t start. He just threw his arms around Simon, kissing him so hard Gizmo yowled in protest from the sofa. “You daft man,” John murmured, forehead pressed to Simon’s. “This is perfect.”

Christmas Eve was upon them before Simon knew it, and John was dragging him back out to the family. Well drag was a bad word, Simon wanted to see the family again but he was just so nervous. He still wasn’t use to…everything that came with John’s family.

When they pulled up John kissed Simon once more, telling him he’ll do great, and then they were walking to the door.

The smell hit Simon before he even got through the door: roasting meats, mulled wine, the tang of pine needles from a tree so tall it nearly bent at the ceiling. Voices overlapped from the kitchen and living room, laughter loud and bright. Simon’s gut twisted. He wasn’t used to this. Not the noise, not the welcome.

John’s hand slipped into his, steady and sure. “C’mon, big man. You’re safe here.”

Safe. The word snagged in Simon’s chest. Still, he let John tug him into the chaos.

Introductions flew fast—He got introduced to sister and brother-in-laws, cousins, aunts and uncles, little children shrieking and screamed as they played in the living room. Everyone hugging, everyone pressing drinks into his hand, everyone acting like he was supposed to be there. He kept a polite smile on his face, nodded in all the right places, but the noise pressed against his ribs. Too much.

John spotted it. Of course he did. With a little nudge, he steered Simon out the back door. The garden was crisp with frost, the stars sharp in the black sky. They sat on the steps, side by side, breath puffing white.

“You holding up?” John asked, voice low.

Simon exhaled, long and shaky. “…Thank you. For bringing me here.”

John leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. “Thank you for changing my life.”

And just like that, the ache in Simon’s chest shifted. For once, he wasn’t an outsider looking in—he was part of something.

When the day was over, John and Simon loaded back up in their car with enough stuff to fill an entire other apartment. The drive back was silent, John was passed out in the passenger seat and Simon was lost in his mind. Thinking of everyone there, everyone who was so happy to see him, to be around him. How John’s mum asked for his help peeling potatoes, how he just seemed to click into their family. It was…weird.  A good weird though. He liked it. 

The day started with yelling. Not human yelling—Gizmo, yowling at the bedroom door like the world was ending. Simon grunted and pulled the pillow over his head. John laughed, rolling out of bed with his hair sticking up at every angle.

“Merry Christmas, Si,” he said, voice husky with sleep.

“Merry Christmas.”

By the time Simon shuffled out and put the kettle on, John was already on the floor in front of the tree, cats climbing all over him. Pickles was nose-deep in a stocking, Gizmo trying to tear off the ribbons. The lights twinkled off John’s grin, soft and ridiculous.

The gifts took hours. John was impatient, tearing into his with the glee of a kid, squealing over the sketchbooks, paints, and the mug Simon had slipped in as a joke. He kissed Simon after each one, quick and messy, leaving Simon flushed and pretending to grumble.

Simon’s pile felt different. Thoughtful. Heavy with meaning. The watch, engraved Come home to me. A jumper softer than anything he’d ever owned, a nice deep navy blue, John insisting it made his eyes pop. A stack of books Simon had once muttered about in passing, and—at the very bottom—a keychain shaped like a skull, initials pressed into the metal.

Simon sat there, staring at it in his palm. His throat was too tight to speak.

“D’you like them?” John asked, suddenly hesitant.

Simon tugged him into his lap, kissed him like he might never stop. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Simon rasped, “Best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

Gizmo screamed at them until Simon scooped him up, the cat instantly purring, Pickles already climbing John’s shoulder like a parrot.

The rest of the day blurred into comfort. A slow roast in the oven, the flat filling with the scent of herbs and garlic. John padding around in fluffy socks and that stupid apron Simon secretly loved. Simon chopping vegetables while John hummed Christmas tunes off-key.

They ate at the little table, cats circling their ankles, wine warming their bellies. Later, they sprawled on the sofa, Simon stretched long, John draped over his chest, Gizmo curled between his legs, Pickles tucked in the crook of his arm. Some film played in the background, though neither of them were really watching.

At one point, John tilted his head up, eyes glassy in the glow of the tree lights. “Feels like we’re building something good, yeah?”

Simon kissed his hair. “Yeah. It feels like home.”

And that was how Christmas ended—wrapped in warmth, cats snoring, the whole world kept at bay by the quiet, perfect cocoon they’d made for themselves.

The flat smelled faintly of takeout and pine from the leftover decorations, a reminder that Christmas had only just passed. Simon kicked off his boots at the door, carrying the small bag of snacks and two unopened bottles of champagne.

John was already sprawled on the sofa, Pickles draped across his lap like a scarf, Gizmo sprawled half on the armrest, half on the cushion. He looked up and grinned, hair sticking up in every direction. “Took you long enough, mister.”

Simon dropped the bags by the kitchen and shook his head. “Someone had to feed the cats before they started gnawing on the furniture.”

“They’re fine,” John said, voice full of mock indignation, “but thank you for checking.”

By 11:30, the champagne was open, the snacks arranged on the coffee table, and the cats had claimed their thrones—Gizmo sitting on Simon’s lap, tail flicking, Pickles curled against John’s chest. Simon picked up his glass, the bubbles catching the light from the fairy lights strung along the wall.

John lifted his flute, clinking it against Simon’s. “Alright,” he said, smirking, “a toast. To the best year ever, to surviving the chaos of the cats, and to making the exact same ridiculous mistakes in the next year.”

Simon laughed, shaking his head, and sipped. “And to the fact that you’ll never finish that massive painting you’ve been whining about since July.”

“I will finish it,” John said, pointing a finger, “and you’re totally going to stop spoiling the cats.”

Simon snorted. “Not a chance.”

They laughed again, leaning across the coffee table to bump their glasses together as the clock ticked down. When the first chime of midnight rang through the flat, they kissed—slow, soft, and a little messy—while the cats mewled indignantly at being ignored.

“Happy New Year,” John murmured against Simon’s lips, brushing a strand of damp hair back from his face.

“Happy New Year,” Simon replied, tugging him closer, feeling the warmth of him, the cats, the flat, the life they’d built together.

They spent the next hour talking softly about goals they’d never actually keep—John insisting he’d finally start the painting that had been haunting his sketchbooks for months, Simon promising he’d stop overfeeding the cats (a promise he knew would be broken before sunrise).

Outside, fireworks cracked faintly in the distance, but in the flat it was quiet, full of laughter, soft mews, and the gentle bubble of champagne. It was perfect.

The flat was always warmer when John was around. Even when the frost pressed against the windows, the two of them curled up on the sofa with a blanket draped over their legs, Gizmo stretched across Simon’s chest, Pickles perched on John’s shoulder like a tiny, black parrot.

Weekend mornings became sacred. Pancakes smothered in syrup, flour dusting the countertops, cats attempting to steal bites at every turn. Simon would grumble, picking up Pickles mid-pounce, while John laughed until he nearly choked on his coffee.

Evenings were quieter. Simon would bring John tea while he worked on sketches, and John would hum softly while the tip of his pencil scratched the paper. Sometimes Simon would read aloud, mostly from books John didn’t care about but Simon loved anyway. And the cats? They always found a way to wedge themselves into the small triangle of warmth, demanding pets and attention with an insistence only Simon could resist.

But one day was more special than the rest 

The morning started with Simon tiptoeing into the kitchen, still half-asleep, carrying a mug of steaming coffee and a carefully wrapped present. He set it on the counter, muttering under his breath.

John stirred on the couch, where he had fallen asleep mid sketch after swearing up and down that he’d make it to bed before falling asleep. He failed.Pickles was curled across his chest, Gizmo already clawing at a chair leg. “Mmm…what’s all this?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

Simon grunted. “Happy birthday, Johnny.”

John blinked at him, then grinned. “You didn’t forget?”

Simon crossed his arms, trying to look grumpy. “Of course I didn’t.”

Breakfast was a chaotic mix of waffles, spilled syrup, and cats swiping at the plates. John laughed the whole time, showering Simon with kisses between bites.

Later, Simon handed him the present. John tore the paper off, revealing a sketchbook with a leather cover, already filled with little notes Simon had slipped between the pages—memories, doodles, tiny illustrations, quotes only John would get.

“Oh my god,” John breathed, eyes misting. “Si…”

Simon shrugged, trying to seem casual, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Happy birthday.”

That evening, they went for a quiet walk, snow dusting the streets, Gizmo and Pickles safely home but in spirit through the chaos of little paw prints left in the melted snow. John laughed at Simon’s bundled-up face, leaned against him, and whispered, “You really are ridiculous sometimes, you know that?”

“And you love it,” Simon murmured.

February brought drizzle and endless gray skies, but the flat stayed bright. On nights when the rain ran in rivulets down the windows, Simon and John would walk hand-in-hand through the puddle-speckled streets, coats pulled tight, boots splashing lightly in every puddle.

John would talk, rambling about sketches he wanted to make, colors he wanted to try, dreams he didn’t even tell Simon half the time. Simon listened, sometimes teasing, sometimes silently marveling at how loud and full John’s mind was. And when the rain turned into a downpour, John would laugh, shoving Simon into a doorway, and they’d run home, soaked and breathless, cats mewing at the door like they’d been waiting an eternity.

Hints of spring crept in, soft golden light through the windows. John got obsessed with succulents; Simon had no choice but to indulge, watering the tiny green army of pots while Pickles batted at every leaf and Gizmo stalked the edges like a furry sentinel.

Movie nights became more experimental. Simon started letting John pick—sci-fi, rom-coms, and John even let Simon play the occasional horror flick. Simon teasing mercilessly about John’s grim reactions. They’d argue over snacks, accidentally knock over the popcorn bowl, laugh, and clean up together, warm bodies brushing, fingers lacing as they worked.

April brought small celebrations. John’s sketches were growing, Simon’s confidence with domestic life blossoming. Birthdays came and went, wrapped in gifts, laughter, and those tiny, hidden love notes they left for each other: tucked into books, under mugs, inside cat beds.

Simon made John dinner for the first time all on his own—messy, imperfect, but entirely from the heart. John, naturally, praised him until Simon’s cheeks went pink, Gizmo yowling indignantly from the counter because Simon wasn’t giving him bites. Pickles tried to climb the table to inspect the progress, causing more chaos, and Simon couldn’t help but laugh.

By late April, the domestic rhythm was solid. Yet Simon’s thoughts often drifted to May 7th—the anniversary of that first tap out ceremony. He remembered the ache, the loneliness, the hollow feeling of standing alone on the barrack floor. Now he had John, and a home, and a life so full of light he couldn’t even imagine how lonely he once was.

They took a weekend away, even if just for a day. A small coastal town, the cats safe with a neighbor, the two of them wandering the windy streets, John’s hand warm in his, laughter carried away by the breeze. They talked about everything and nothing: their hopes, their plans, the mundane details of daily life that now felt so miraculous.

And in quiet moments, Simon caught himself just staring at John—grinning like an idiot, hair mussed, eyes sparkling. He thought: I want forever. I want this life. All of it.

May brought brighter mornings,  light spilled lazily through the curtains, warm and golden across the flat. Simon stirred first, stretching like a cat, one hand brushing the damp curls from his forehead. He caught movement across the room—John, still half-asleep on the sofa, Pickles draped across his chest, Gizmo sprawled on the armrest.

Simon smiled softly, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. Breakfast was a quiet affair: two mugs of steaming tea, toast with butter and jam, and a small plate of scrambled eggs. When John finally came to the kitchen, hair mussed, eyes bleary but shining, Simon handed him a mug with a grin.

“Happy anniversary,” he said, voice low and gentle.

John blinked, then laughed softly, curling his fingers around the mug. “You remembered,” he murmured, leaning into Simon, shoulder brushing against his.

“Of course I remembered,” Simon replied, trying to seem casual, but his chest tightened in the familiar way. One year. One year of this—of laughter, chaos, tiny stolen moments, soft kisses, and all the ordinary magic that had built itself around them. He thought briefly of last year’s tap out ceremony, standing alone, watching other families and partners come together while he remained empty-handed. That memory, once heavy with ache, now felt distant, softened by John’s presence.

John nudged him, teasing. “You made breakfast without me? That’s… impressive.”

Simon shrugged. “Someone has to take care of you while you’re useless in the mornings.”

John laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re ridiculous. I love it.”

After breakfast, they wandered down the streets hand-in-hand, clouds soft and springlike overhead. The pub where they had first met was quiet, only a few regulars at the bar. Simon paused outside the window, catching his reflection beside John’s smiling face.

“Do you remember this place?” John asked, squeezing his hand.

Simon nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “How could I forget?”

They lingered there for a moment, watching the tiny world of that day, laughing softly about their awkward first conversations, the accidental flirtations, the way fate—or chaos—had pushed them together.

Later, back in the flat, they exchanged small gifts. John handed Simon a leather-bound scrapbook, its cover soft and worn from careful handling. Simon blinked at it, uncertain, and then let John guide it into his hands.

“It’s… a lot,” Simon murmured, flipping the cover open.

John grinned, sitting beside him. “I wanted to… you know, capture the year. All of it. The chaos, the quiet, the cats, the… us.”

Simon’s fingers traced the edge of the first page. There were Polaroids from movie nights, receipts from takeout dinners scrawled with tiny notes, sketches John had doodled of Simon holding Gizmo or pretending to look annoyed while Pickles climbed his shoulder. Handwritten captions ran along the margins, messy but heartfelt: “Lazy Sunday with my favorite human”, “Si laughed so hard he snorted”, “Don’t let him eat the tinsel”.

As Simon turned each page, he discovered little envelopes tucked between them: pressed flowers, ticket stubs from walks in the drizzle, a dried leaf from that weekend getaway in April. Every page overflowed with memories—some silly, some tender, some small moments that only they could understand.

Simon looked up, eyes soft and misty. “John… this is… incredible. How… how did you…?”

John shrugged, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I just wanted you to have it. So that when you feel lonely—or remember that first ceremony—you’ll have proof. Proof that… you’re never alone. That… this year was ours.”

Simon pulled him into a tight hug, burying his face in John’s shoulder. “Thank you. I… I love it. I love you.”

John kissed the top of his head, squeezing him back. “I love you too. Every bit of you.”

And Simon, turning the pages one more time, felt the quiet certainty bloom in his chest: that whatever the next year held, they would face it together.

“Thank you,” he whispered again. “For…changing my life.”

John grinned, brushing a hand through Simon’s damp hair. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve changed my life too. Maybe more than I even realised.”

The rest of the day passed in quiet intimacy: lounging on the sofa, cats curled around them, snacks and tea at their fingertips. They held hands while talking about the future, small dreams, silly goals, and sometimes just stared at each other, content in the steady presence of the other.

Before bed, Simon found himself resting his head against John’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “One year,” he murmured. “Feels…amazing. I never thought—”

“You’d have this?” John finished for him, voice soft and sure. “Neither did I. But here we are.”

Simon smiled, nuzzling closer. “Here we are.”

And for the first time since that lonely ceremony a year ago, Simon felt a quiet certainty: he would never stand alone again. Not while John was here. Not ever.

The first day of June broke warm and fragrant, summer bleeding in with sunlight spilling across the balcony. John had already thrown open the windows, letting in a breeze that rustled through the curtains and carried the smell of the city mixed with freshly brewed coffee.

Simon had woken before dawn, restless, pacing the kitchen with the weight of something burning a hole in his chest. He’d rehearsed a thousand different ways to say it, none of them right. But today felt like the day—no parade, no spectacle, just them, their life, their love.

John padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair sticking out in all directions, Gizmo weaving between his ankles with a pitiful mewl. Simon looked up from where he was leaning against the counter, and for a long moment, he simply stared. The sight of John—sleep-soft, so ordinary, so entirely his—took the breath from his lungs.

“You’re up early,” John murmured, rubbing his eyes, then grinning. “Plotting what you want done for your birthday I hope”

Simon snorted, shaking his head. “Not even close to my birthday John.”

“Then what’re you brooding about? You look like you’re about to interrogate me.”

Simon rolled his eyes, pushing off the counter. His hands were clammy, which annoyed him—soldiers weren’t supposed to get clammy. But his heart was racing in a way it never did on the field. He walked over, gently tugging John into the living room.

“Sit,” Simon said. His voice came out low, almost a growl, but softer.

John blinked at him, confused, but flopped onto the sofa anyway, Pickles immediately climbing into his lap. “Alright,” he said slowly. “You’re scaring me, Si.”

Simon dropped to one knee before him, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. John gasped, a hand flying to his mouth, eyes widening with a shimmer of tears already building.

“John MacTavish,” Simon began, throat tight. He swallowed hard, gaze flicking up to meet John’s. “This last year with you… it’s been the best thing I’ve ever had. You’ve made my life—bloody hell, you’ve made me live again. I don’t know how else to say it except… I can’t picture the rest of my life without you in it. So…” He flipped the box open, revealing a simple silver band that caught the morning light. “Will you marry me?”

John let out a choked laugh, tears spilling freely now. “You absolute bastard, you couldn’t even let me brush my teeth first?”

Simon smirked, shoulders loosening a little. “Figured you’d say yes either way.”

John launched forward, nearly knocking Pickles off his lap, and kissed him hard, messy and tearful and so full of joy it almost bowled Simon over. “Yes,” John whispered against his lips. “God, yes. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Simon slipped the ring onto his finger, hands steady now, then pulled him close until John was straddling his lap right there on the living room floor. Gizmo meowed indignantly from the arm of the sofa, but neither of them cared.

They spent the rest of the morning wrapped around each other, laughing, kissing, whispering little promises into the sunlight. The world outside kept turning, but here—in their cluttered flat, with cats prowling at their feet—they had made their own kind of forever.

By September, the flat smelled faintly of cinnamon and apples—John had insisted on buying candles “for the season” and now there was one lit in every room. Simon grumbled about the expense, but he never blew them out. The soft flicker of light suited their evenings in, cats curled against his legs while John sprawled across the sofa, sketching in the glow.

Simon came home one afternoon to find a fat pumpkin perched proudly on the kitchen counter.
“Too early,” he said flatly, shrugging off his jacket.
“Never too early,” John shot back, already carving goofy faces into it. By the end of the week, the balcony looked like a pumpkin patch, each one with a different expression. Simon never admitted he liked it, but he caught himself smiling every time he passed.

Then when October finally rolled around, their weekends were claimed by the ritual of autumn. Walks through parks littered with gold and red, John crunching every leaf underfoot while Simon pretended not to care. Gizmo and Pickles sat pressed against the windowsill, tails flicking as they watched the leaves spiral down outside.

Movie nights became sacred. John queued up Coraline, Corpse Bride, Practical Magic, wrapping himself in a blanket cocoon and dragging Simon down beside him. Simon made hot chocolate, the real kind with whipped cream, grumbling about “children’s films” until John rested his head on his shoulder, and then Simon didn’t grumble anymore.

Halloween itself was a comedy of errors. John tried to put a bat costume on Gizmo, who yowled like he was being murdered, while Pickles zoomed through the flat in a tiny pumpkin jumper. Simon leaned against the doorway, arms folded, shaking his head. “You’re mad,” he said, but his voice was warm.

When trick-or-treaters came to the door, John answered every time, handing out sweets with a grin. Simon watched from the sofa, chest aching in that quiet, terrifying way—it wasn’t loneliness anymore, it was belonging.

Later that night, with the flat quiet and the pumpkins flickering out on the balcony, John nestled against him under a pile of blankets. “Best season,” John murmured sleepily.
Simon pressed a kiss to his hair. “Aye,” he agreed. “Best bloody season.”

The pumpkins still glowed faintly on the balcony, their carved faces softened by candlelight. The movie credits rolled, half-forgotten, while Gizmo snored against Simon’s thigh and Pickles batted lazily at the corner of John’s blanket.

John shifted, propping his chin on Simon’s shoulder, eyes distant as he gazed out the window at the tangle of amber leaves swirling down the street. His voice came quiet, almost offhand, but laced with something deeper.

“I wanna get married in this season,” he confessed.

Simon blinked, looking down at him. “Aye?”

John hummed, still staring out at the night. “All of it—the colours, the air, the way it feels like everything’s settling in. Feels right.” He glanced up then, eyes glinting with that mischievous smile Simon had long since stopped trying to resist.

“Well,” Simon said, tone steady but his chest softening, “we can make that work.”

John’s grin broke wide, bright and certain, like he’d been waiting for that answer all along. He tucked himself closer into Simon’s side, sighing in contentment.

“Good,” he murmured.

Simon pressed a kiss into his hair, the taste of cinnamon and cider still clinging to the night, and thought—yeah. It’ll be bloody perfect.

October faded into November and the air was starting to bite with that chill of December. In the midst of all that, it was someone’s birthday. 

Simon had always treated his birthdays like any other day. A number ticked forward, nothing more. Most years, he worked through it without mentioning the date at all—easier than admitting it was just another reminder of how invisible he’d been growing up.

But this year was different. This year, he woke to the sound of John whisper-swearing in the kitchen.

Simon dragged himself out of bed, hair sticking up in every direction, and padded down the hall. The smell of frying bacon hit first, then the sight of flour dusted across the counter like snow. Gizmo sat proudly in the middle of it, tail flicking, while Pickles was attempting to paw open a bag of bread rolls.

“Johnny—” Simon began, but John spun around, eyes wide.

“Oi! You weren’t supposed to be up yet!” John rushed forward, flour streaked across his cheek, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon. “Go sit, Si. It’s your birthday.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Looks more like a bloody battlefield.”

John grinned, unrepentant. “Worth it. Breakfast’ll be ready in a tick.”

Simon obeyed, slumping onto the sofa where the cats quickly piled onto him, Gizmo curling against his chest while Pickles nestled on his lap. He stroked them absently, listening to the clatter and occasional curse from the kitchen, and for the first time in years, his chest felt light on this day.

When John finally emerged, he carried a tray loaded with bacon, eggs, toast, and a lopsided pancake with a single candle stuck in the middle. “Happy birthday, love,” he said, beaming.

Simon stared at the ridiculous sight—the crooked pancake, John’s hopeful grin, the cats already circling like vultures—and something in his throat tightened. He managed a gruff, “Thanks,” before blowing out the candle.

John plopped down beside him, tucking himself into Simon’s side. “Got plans for you today,” he said, stealing a bit of toast.

“Oh aye?” Simon muttered, feeding a scrap of bacon to Gizmo.

“Aye. Lunch with my mum and sisters—don’t argue, they’re buzzing to see you—and then dinner’s just us. I’m cooking, so brace yourself.”

Simon huffed, pretending to scowl, but he didn’t argue. He’d grown used to John’s family, the way they welcomed him with easy warmth, never pressing when he grew quiet. It was still overwhelming sometimes, but less like drowning now, more like standing in the sun too long.

Lunch was noisy, full of chatter and laughter. John’s mum insisted on hugging Simon twice, pressing a wrapped gift into his hands. His sisters teased him mercilessly until John smacked one with a tea towel. Through it all, Simon found himself… smiling. Not the polite mask he’d worn in the past, but something softer, realer.

Dinner that evening was calmer. The flat smelled of rosemary and roasted chicken, candles flickering low. John served it proudly, and Simon didn’t have the heart to tell him the vegetables were slightly burnt. They ate, they laughed, and after, they curled on the sofa with the cats sprawled between them.

When the clock crept toward midnight, John shifted, pressing a small box into Simon’s hand.

“Another?” Simon asked, brow raised.

John shrugged. “Not from me. From Gizmo and Pickles.”

Inside was a keychain—cheap, silly, shaped like a little skull. Simon snorted, shaking his head.

“They thought you’d like it,” John said with a wink.

Simon chuckled, pocketing it. And for the first time he could remember, as his birthday faded into another day, he wasn’t waiting for it to be over. He wished it could last just a little longer.

With December comes the first snow of the month. It had dusted the city overnight, soft and thin but enough to send John into a frenzy of scarves and hot chocolate. He bustled around the flat, Gizmo perched on the windowsill chittering at the falling flakes, Pickles batting at the ends of John’s scarf.

Simon sat at the table, sipping his tea, watching with half-hidden amusement. That’s when John dropped it casually, like it wasn’t about to lodge itself deep in Simon’s chest.

“So—mum invited us to stay for Christmas.” John was untangling a string of fairy lights, voice light. “Says she wants to celebrate our engagement with everyone since she didn’t get to when it happened. I think it’ll be fun, yeah? We’ll have our own room and everything. I can take you round to the places I grew up, you can see my childhood town.”

Simon blinked. The words sat heavy, not with dread but with weight. Family. Childhood. Belonging. Things he’d never really had, not like this. And John was offering them like they were the simplest things in the world.

He set down his mug, watching as John wrestled with the fairy lights, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“Yeah,” Simon said finally, voice rough but sure. “Of course.”

John glanced up, grin breaking wide across his face. “Yeah?”

Simon’s chest softened, some knot deep inside unravelling. He nodded. “I’d do anything for you, Johnny.”

John flushed, dropping the fairy lights entirely so he could wrap his arms around Simon’s neck, pressing their foreheads together. “You big sap,” he whispered, though his voice shook with happiness.

Simon chuckled, low and warm, and thought—Christmas might not be so bad this year after all.

The drive north was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The heater hummed softly, and John kept one hand on the wheel while the other draped lazily across Simon’s thigh, thumb brushing against his jeans. They didn’t need to talk — not really. The radio did enough of that, Christmas classics spilling like syrup into the car. Simon stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, their branches bare, dusted white in patches where frost clung.

John’s family home came into view just as the sky began to bruise pink and gold, and Simon felt his stomach pull taut. It wasn’t nerves about meeting them — he’d done that already. But the idea of staying, of sharing in traditions that weren’t his own, made his chest feel hollow and strange. He glanced at John, who only grinned like this was the best gift he’d ever been given.

Inside, it was chaos in the way only family could be — warm coats thrown onto banisters, laughter spilling out of the kitchen, the scent of mulled wine and roasted meat hitting Simon like a wall. John’s mum crushed him into a hug before he could even step properly into the living room. His sisters chattered endlessly, dragging him into their orbit, and his dad clapped him on the shoulder like he’d always been one of them.

That night, after dinner and after wine, after his cheeks had warmed from both, Simon found himself tucked into John’s old room. The posters were long gone, but the bones of boyhood were still there — faded wallpaper, a scuffed desk, a window that looked out onto the same quiet street John had grown up on. Simon sat on the bed and unlaced his boots slowly, staring at the floor while John leaned against the doorframe, watching him with soft, knowing eyes.

“You’re thinking too much,” John said lightly.

Simon huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Always do.”

John crossed the room, tugged him down until Simon was resting against his chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here. With me. That’s all anyone cares about.”

And that, Simon realised, was true.

The next day, John pulled him along through the town. He showed him the chip shop where he’d bunk off school with mates, the corner where he’d nicked his first kiss, the field where he’d broken his arm playing football. Simon listened to each story, the corners of his mouth quirking, but mostly he just watched — watched John glow in his own skin, watched him point and laugh and gesture wildly, watched him belong.

Christmas Eve came with another round of noise — baking, music, cousins dropping by. Simon sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes while John’s sisters argued over who got to stir the gravy. Gizmo and Pickles, spoiled as ever, made themselves at home under the table, winding between Simon’s boots.

Later that night, when the chaos finally settled and only the fire in the living room kept burning, Simon found himself sitting with John’s mum. She handed him a mug of something steaming and said, very gently, “He’s happy, you know.”

Simon glanced at her, surprised, but she only smiled. “Hasn’t stopped smiling since you came into his life. I just thought you should know that.”

Something in Simon’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t pain. He ducked his head, murmured, “Aye. Same here.”

Christmas Day broke loud — wrapping paper ripping, laughter echoing down hallways, dogs barking from the neighbours’ yard. Simon let himself be folded into the chaos, let himself hand out gifts and accept his own, let himself be fussed over by John’s sisters and teased by his dad. It was overwhelming, yes — but it was warm, too.

That night, when they finally returned to their flat, it felt almost too quiet. The cats twined around their ankles, meowing for attention. John laughed, dropping bags by the door. “Home sweet home, eh?”

They exchanged gifts again, just the two of them this time. More thoughtful, more private. Simon unwrapped a leather-bound journal and a set of expensive pens he knew John couldn’t really afford. John unwrapped a framed photograph Simon had secretly ordered — the two of them together, caught mid-laugh, taken by John’s sister weeks ago.

They didn’t talk much after that. They didn’t need to. The fire was fake, electric, but it threw enough warmth to fill the room, and when John leaned into him, Simon pulled him close. Gizmo sprawled across Simon’s lap, Pickles curled at his side, and the world outside was nothing but snow and silence.

For once, Simon thought, he didn’t mind the noise. He didn’t mind the chaos. Because now, he had somewhere to belong.

The flat is warm with the smell of cake. Simon had gotten up before dawn, grumbling under his breath about icing sugar and ruined piping bags, but he’d refused to let John wake up without something sweet waiting. When John comes padding into the kitchen, hair mussed, one of Simon’s t-shirts hanging off him, he finds Simon trying to light candles while Gizmo bats at the matchbox and Pickles crouches ready to pounce on the ribbon around the present bag.

“Happy birthday, Johnny,” Simon mutters, embarrassed but grinning, holding out the small cake with six crooked candles (the shop was out, and Simon figured one candle per decade was close enough).

John beams, kisses Simon right there in the kitchen, nearly knocks the cake out of his hands. Later, they bundle up and go out — John drags Simon ice skating at the outdoor rink, laughing until Simon threatens to drop him on the ice. They end the day with takeaway curry, champagne, and the cats curled up between them on the sofa.
The days slip into routine. Winter melts away, the snow replaced by stubborn patches of rain and the first green buds on the trees outside their window.

Simon comes home to find new trinkets appearing on the shelves almost weekly. A carved wooden owl, a second-hand snow globe of Glasgow, a stack of mismatched mugs John swears they need.

Gizmo develops the habit of sleeping draped across Simon’s chest; Pickles prefers curling in the laundry basket. John insists it’s proof that Simon is the cats’ favourite. Simon only rolls his eyes but secretly buys a softer blanket for the basket.

Phone calls from base grow less stressful. Simon starts leaving his uniform jacket draped over the back of the chair instead of locked away in the closet.

In March, John paints a massive canvas — bursts of red and grey and shadowed blue. Simon doesn’t say it aloud, but he sees himself in it, the way John does.

They take a weekend trip to the coast in April. John collects shells like a kid, pockets stuffed full, while Simon buys them both fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. They sit on the pier, greasy fingers brushing together, watching gulls dive for scraps.

By the time May creeps close, Simon realises the year has bent itself around John’s laughter, John’s clutter, John’s endless warmth. The flat isn’t quiet anymore. And he doesn’t want it to be.

It was May. The month of their anniversary and Simon had thought a takeaway and a film would do. Maybe champagne if John insisted. Something simple, something quiet. But John was having none of it.

“Nope. Absolutely not. We’re goin’ out, Simon Riley, and you are not wearin’ that jumper,” John declared, holding up the offending grey knit like it was evidence of a crime.

Simon groaned from his spot on the bed. “It’s fine.”

“It’s tragic,” John countered, tossing the jumper aside and rifling through Simon’s wardrobe. “C’mon, love. Two years. You’re takin’ me out proper. Shirt and all.”

When John turned, he held up a dark button-down — one Simon had barely worn. John smirked, satisfied. “This one. Makes your shoulders look criminal.”

Simon rolled his eyes, but he let John fuss, let him straighten the collar, smooth the fabric over his chest. John’s hands lingered longer than they needed to, fingers brushing his throat, then sliding down to pat his stomach. Simon swallowed hard, pretending not to notice the heat creeping up his neck.

The restaurant John picked was tucked away on a quiet street, all soft golden light and the low hum of piano music drifting from a corner. Simon felt out of place at first, tugging at his cuffs, but John reached across the table and caught his hand.

“You look incredible,” John said simply, like it was fact.

Simon grunted, embarrassed. “You’re dressed fancier than me.”

“That’s the point,” John teased, giving his fingers a squeeze. “I’m the eye candy. You’re the mysterious soldier. Works a charm, aye?”

Dinner was warm and easy, John ordering for both of them, keeping the wine flowing. They traded stories — some old favourites, some new — and Simon found himself laughing so hard at one point he nearly spilled his glass. John’s grin softened into something quieter then, his thumb brushing over Simon’s knuckles where their hands still rested together.

When dessert came, John fished something from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table — a small velvet box. Simon froze.

John chuckled at the panic in his eyes. “Relax, Si. Not that kind of box.”

Inside were a pair of cufflinks, simple silver with tiny engravings of their initials. Simon thumbed the metal, throat tight.

“Happy anniversary,” John murmured.

Simon reached under the table and pulled out his own gift — tickets to an art exhibition John had been going on about for months. “For you,” he said gruffly.

John lit up like the bloody sun. “You listened.”

“’Course I did.”

They stumbled home tipsy, John’s arm looped around Simon’s waist, laughter echoing down the quiet street. By the time Simon had the key in the lock, John was kissing him, messy and insistent, hands fisting in his shirt.

Inside, the door barely clicked shut before Simon had John pinned against it, their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing hard.

“Two years,” John whispered, lips brushing his. “Feels like I should get somethin’ special tonight, don’t you think?”

Simon huffed a laugh, kissed him again, rougher this time. “You’ll get it.”

Simon followed John into their bedroom, still buzzing with the warmth of wine and affection. As John slipped out of his suit jacket and tie, Simon couldn't help but admire the way the soft light played across his fiancé's form. The tailored lines of John's clothes always made Simon appreciate how John's body moved between masculinity and femininity, strong and soft in all the right places.

Crossing the room, Simon pulled John close, pressing their lips together in a slow, deep kiss. One hand trailed down John's back to palm his rear through his slacks while the other began to unbutton his shirt. John hummed into the kiss, his own hands mapping the contours of Simon's back before tugging his dress shirt from his waistband.

They broke apart just long enough to shed their clothes, shirts and pants puddling on the floor in their wake. Simon took a moment to drink in the sight of John's bare skin, his gaze lingering on the swells of his breasts and the strong line of his jaw. There was a vulnerability in John's unclothed state that always stirred something deep in Simon's chest.

Gathering John into his arms again, Simon guided him back onto the bed, following him down until they were pressed together from chest to hip. He rolled his hips, his erection sliding against John's thigh. A breathy sigh escaped John's lips at the contact and Simon echoed it, relishing the heat of his body.

"Happy anniversary," Simon murmured against John's neck, nipping lightly at the tender skin there. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," John replied, tipping his head to give Simon better access. "So much."

He slid a hand between their bodies to wrap around Simon's shaft, stroking him slowly as he arched into Simon's touch. Simon gasped at the contact, hips jerking forward into John's grip. He palmed John's breasts in return, thumbs circling his nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch.

"Bed," Simon managed to say between increasingly frantic kisses. "Need you."

John nodded, guiding Simon's hand down his body to the damp heat between his legs. Simon groaned at the first brush of his fingers against John's slick folds, more than ready to lose himself in the man he loved.

Simon took his time lavishing attention on John's body, mapping every inch of his skin with lips and tongue and hands. He sucked dark marks into the side of John's neck, just below his jawline, where he knew they would show beneath his collar in the morning. John gasped and arched into him, fingers scrabbling at Simon's shoulders as he worked his way down his fiancé's front.

Simon paused at John's breasts, rolling the hardened nipples between his lips and teeth until John was writhing beneath him. The breathless moans spilling from John's mouth sent heat pooling low in Simon's belly and he could feel himself growing harder against John's thigh. He took his time exploring every inch of John's chest before continuing his path downwards.

When Simon finally settled between John's legs, he looked up to meet his fiancé's gaze. John's eyes were dark with desire, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed. He bit his lip as Simon settled in, anticipation written in every line of his body. Simon maintained eye contact as he leaned in, dragging the flat of his tongue along John's slit in a long, slow lick.

"Oh fuck," John breathed, head tipping back against the pillows as Simon began to work him over with lips and tongue. Simon smiled against John's heat, doubling his efforts. He focused on John's clit, flicking the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue before closing his lips around it and sucking gently. John's hands flew to Simon's hair, tangling in the strands and holding him close as he worked his fiancé higher.

The wet sounds of Simon's mouth on John's pussy echoed through the room, punctuated by John's breathy moans and the creak of the bed frame. Simon could feel the heat building between his own legs as he pushed John closer to the edge, the drag of his hard cock against the sheets driving him wild.

When John came, it was with a sharp cry, his thighs clamping around Simon's head as he shuddered through his release. Simon gentled his touch, working John through the aftershocks before lifting his head to smile up at his fiancé.

"You're beautiful," Simon murmured, pressing a kiss to John's inner thigh. "I love seeing you like this."

John reached for him, drawing Simon up into a messy kiss. He could taste himself on Simon's lips and tongue and it made him groan, hips rolling forward to seek more friction. Simon rocked against him, the head of his cock catching on John's entrance with each thrust.

"Need you inside me," John panted against Simon's mouth. "Please, Simon."

Simon needed no further encouragement. He reached between their bodies to slick himself with John's release before pressing forward, sinking into the tight heat of his fiancé's body in one smooth thrust. They both gasped at the sensation, fingers digging into shoulders as they adjusted to the feeling of being joined so intimately.

John's back arched as Simon filled him, a low moan spilling from his lips. His walls stretched around the intrusion, clenching and fluttering as he adjusted to the sudden fullness. Simon paused, giving John a moment to catch his breath before starting to move.

He began with slow, deep rolls of his hips, each thrust dragging his hard length along John's inner walls. The delicious friction had John gasping, his hands scrabbling at Simon's back as he tried to pull him impossibly closer. Simon obliged, shifting his weight to press John more firmly into the mattress as he picked up the pace.

The headboard began to bang against the wall in time with Simon's thrusts, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin filling the room. John could feel the tension coiling tighter in his belly with each pass of Simon's cock over his prostate and he knew it wouldn't be long before he flew apart at the seams.

"Fuck, just like that," John panted, wrapping his legs around Simon's hips to draw him deeper. "I'm close."

Simon dipped his head to capture one of John's nipples between his teeth, biting just hard enough to have John's walls clenching down around him. It was enough to push Simon over the edge and he thrust twice more before spilling inside his fiancé with a low groan.

John followed shortly after, his orgasm crashing over him in waves as Simon's release painted his inner walls. He clung to his fiancé as he shuddered through the aftershocks, basking in the closeness of their bodies.

Finally, Simon lifted his head to meet John's gaze, a lazy smile spreading across his face. "Happy anniversary," he murmured, pressing a kiss to John's nose.

John laughed breathlessly, returning the sentiment with a tender kiss. "I love you," he whispered against Simon's lips.

"Love you too," Simon replied. He shifted to the side, pulling John in close as they both basked in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking. "Think we can make this a tradition?"

John snorted, nuzzling into Simon's chest. "Only if you promise to keep going all night," he said with a mischievous grin. "It is our anniversary after all."

Simon threw his head back with a laugh, squeezing John tight. "Deal," he said. 

The sun crept through the thin curtains, spilling warm light across tangled sheets. Simon stirred first, groaning softly as he shifted — every muscle in his body reminded him just how enthusiastically they’d celebrated last night. He cracked one eye open to find John sprawled half on top of him, hair a wild halo, lips parted in sleep.

Simon huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb along John’s temple. Beautiful daft bastard.

John stirred with a little murmur, blinking blearily up at him. “...mm. Why’re you staring?” he croaked, voice rough from sleep.

“Because you’re loud when you sleep,” Simon teased, though his hand never left John’s cheek.

“Oi,” John muttered, burrowing closer into Simon’s chest. “Loud when I sleep, loud when we…” he trailed off, smirking without opening his eyes.

Simon rolled his eyes, chuckling. “You’ll be the death of me.”

John hummed contentedly. “Worth it.”

They stayed like that for a while, drifting in and out of soft half-sleep, until Gizmo’s pitiful yowl echoed from the kitchen. Simon groaned. “Your son’s calling.”

“Our son,” John corrected, finally sitting up and stretching like a cat. “Pickles’ll be screaming next.”

Simon reached out and caught his wrist, tugging him back down for one more kiss before reluctantly letting go. “Happy anniversary, Johnny.”

John’s grin softened, eyes bright even in the sleepy morning light. “Happy anniversary, Si.”

The two of them stayed cocooned in bed longer than either cared to admit, drifting in and out of quiet conversations and lazy kisses. John eventually propped himself up on an elbow, hair sticking up in every direction, and said, “Think they’d judge us if we rocked up to brunch lookin’ like we just rolled out of bed?”

Simon smirked, tugging the duvet back up around John’s shoulders. “They’d be right. We did just roll out of bed.”

“Exactly,” John grinned. “Authenticity. We’re trendsetters.”

When they finally peeled themselves away from the warmth of the duvet and the offended mews of their cats, they dressed and slipped out into the crisp June air. Brunch was just a corner café — nothing fancy, but the kind of place that knew how to make eggs properly and served coffee in mugs the size of John’s head.

Halfway through a plate of pancakes (John) and something more sensible (Simon), John leaned across the table, eyes shining. “Okay, so… we’ve got the venue, right? The barn with the vines on the walls? And we’ve got the photographer and videographer sorted.”

Simon nodded, sipping his coffee. “Mhm. Next?”

By the time the server refilled their coffee mugs for the third time, John was leaning so far over the table his pancakes were in danger.

“Alright so flowers, definitely autumn ones. Big bouquets — wait, not big, big, not like funeral big, but like… bold. Messy. Maybe with vines? Or those twiggy things — what are they called? Branches? Twigs? Whatever. Like texture, yeah? Ooh, and pumpkins — little ones! Not on the tables, but, like, scattered round the venue. Very fall, very rustic.”

Simon cut into his eggs, calm and methodical. “You’re not scatterin’ pumpkins all over the floor. People’ll trip.”

“Fine, on hay bales then.”

“No hay bales.”

John huffed dramatically, shoving a bite of pancake into his mouth before talking again, words tumbling. “Okay no hay bales, but candles then? Like lots of candles, everywhere. Fairy lights too, the tiny little ones, strung across the rafters. And maybe lanterns outside? Like when it gets dark? God it’ll look so good in pictures—oh! Photos! We need to do engagement photos. We could bring the cats. Matching jumpers. Christ, Si, imagine Pickles in a jumper.”

Simon’s mouth twitched — almost a smile, almost. “Cat’s not wearin’ a jumper.”

John snapped his fingers, undeterred. “Okay but imagine Gizmo in a little waistcoat. Dapper as hell.”

“Still no.”

“Ruin my dreams why don’t you,” John muttered, though he was grinning ear to ear. He stabbed another piece of pancake, chewed, and launched straight back in. “Cake. We said we’d test cakes. We could do tiers, yeah? Like three, no—five. One chocolate, one red velvet, one lemon, one—”

Simon finally set his fork down, slow and deliberate. “We don’t need five tiers, Johnny.”

“Yes we do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Simon met his gaze steadily until John wilted into laughter, covering his face with one hand. “Fine, compromise. Three tiers. But with cupcakes on the side.”

Simon sighed, long-suffering but fond. “Cupcakes are acceptable.”

“Ha! Victory!” John crowed, pumping a fist before gulping more coffee. Then, quieter, with a softness that cut through all his rambling: “It’s gonna be beautiful, y’know. I can already see it.”

Simon reached across the table again, steady fingers curling over John’s jittery ones. He didn’t need many words — just a quiet, grounding, “Aye. It will.”

John twirled his fork through the syrup, eyes shining. “Okay, picture this. First dance. Everyone’s watching, the lights are low, some cheesy love song playing—actually no, not cheesy. Something cool. Something dramatic.”

Simon arched a brow. “Cool.”

“Yeah! Like… not Ed Sheeran, not that kind of soft, but—” John snapped his fingers again, searching. “Frank Sinatra. Fly Me to the Moon. Classic. Romantic. Old-school suave.”

Simon chewed his toast slowly, considering. “Mm. That’s acceptable.”

“Acceptable,” John repeated with mock offence, hand clutching his chest. “That’s your bar? Acceptable? You wound me, Si.”

Simon smirked, just barely. “Wouldn’t want t’get ahead of myself.”

John rolled his eyes but barrelled on. “Okay fine, if not that, then something Scottish. Bagpipes.”

“No bagpipes.”

“Alright, alright, no bagpipes,” John said, grinning, then softened. “But really—first dance. I wanna do it properly. You, me, a little twirl—”

“I don’t dance.”

“You will dance. I’ll make you.”

Simon hummed, noncommittal, but didn’t argue further.

John squeezed his hand across the table, the weight of it anchoring him. Then his voice gentled, lost some of that playfulness. “And vows. We should write our own, yeah? Personal ones. I want to tell everyone—hell, shout it—that I love you. That you saved me.”

Simon ducked his head, throat working. “You don’t need t’ shout. Just tell me.”

“I will tell you,” John promised, earnest and fast, the words spilling over. “I’ll tell you a hundred times, a thousand—till you’re sick of hearing it. And then I’ll keep going.”

Simon’s lips twitched into a smile he couldn’t quite suppress. “Doubt I’ll ever get sick of it.”

They sat quiet for a moment, the noise of the café rushing around them, their little table holding steady in its bubble.

Then John perked again, mind racing ahead. “Invites! Right. We should start thinking about who we want there. My family obviously—Mum, my sisters. A few mates from school maybe? And your… um.” He trailed off, hesitating.

Simon didn’t look up from his mug. “Not many for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” John said quickly, squeezing his hand tighter. “Could be just one guest for you, and that’d be enough.”

Simon finally looked up, eyes steady. “One guest, eh? Who’d that be then?”

John grinned, cheeky and wide. “This absolute nightmare of a bloke named Simon Riley. Think he’s stuck with me.”

That pulled a laugh out of Simon at last, low and rough, and he shook his head. “Bloody nightmare indeed.”

But he didn’t let go of John’s hand.

John was still rattling off names, practically vibrating with ideas, when Simon finally cut in. “Price.”

John blinked. “Hm?”

“If I’m bringin’ anyone,” Simon said, shifting his mug in his hands, “it’ll be Price. Man’s been circling me for a while. Wants me on his task force. Always said he’d back me, no matter what I chose.”

John’s grin softened into something warmer, a smile meant only for Simon. “Then we’ll have him. He’ll be there. He’ll clap the loudest when we walk down that aisle.”

Simon huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Doubt that. He’s not the type for clappin’.”

“No, but he is the type for raising a glass and saying something dead serious that makes everyone in the room tear up,” John said, his grin curling back with mischief. “You’ll see.”

Simon only hummed, though he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

John leaned across the table, conspiratorial. “So, that’s it then. Family. A couple mates. Price. Just the people who matter. That’s all we need.”

Simon looked at him, really looked at him, like he was trying to memorise every line of John’s face. His voice came quiet, almost reverent. “Aye. That’s all we need.”

The flat smelled faintly of garlic and rosemary when Simon came through the door, shrugging out of his jacket. He raised a brow at the sight of John in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back messily, a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice on the counter.

“What’s all this?” Simon asked, setting his keys down.

John turned, wooden spoon in hand, grin bright. “Engagement Day, obviously.”

Simon blinked, then huffed a laugh. “Engagement Day?”

“Aye,” John said, waving the spoon like a sword. “One year ago, you asked me to marry you. And I said yes. That’s a bloody landmark, Riley. Worth celebrating.”

Simon shook his head, but the fond smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He crossed the kitchen, stealing a kiss before plucking the spoon from John’s hand to stir the pan. “You’ll find any excuse to open champagne, won’t you?”

“Maybe,” John admitted, eyes sparkling. “But also — look at us, Si. A year ago we were still tripping over each other, and now we’ve got a home, two spoiled little goblins—” as if on cue, Gizmo yowled from the couch — “and in four months, you’ll be my husband.”

Simon’s chest tightened, warmth flooding through him in a way that still caught him off guard. He kissed John again, softer this time. “Not bad for a year, eh?”

“Not bad at all,” John said, voice thick with affection.

They ate by candlelight at the kitchen table, John chattering about cake tastings and final suit fittings, Simon listening with that quiet intensity he always did. After dinner, they curled up on the couch with champagne flutes and old photos pulled up on John’s phone, laughing over the shaky video of the actual proposal — John’s squeak of surprise, Simon’s muttered “well? say somethin’ then.”

By the time the clock crept toward midnight, John was tucked into Simon’s side, eyes heavy, smile soft. “Happy Engagement Day, love,” he murmured, barely awake.

Simon kissed his hair, voice a low rumble. “Happy Engagement Day.”

Summer settled in heavy and golden, days stretching long into nights. Their flat grew warmer, cluttered with open windows and the hum of fans, John forever complaining about the heat until Simon shoved an ice cube down the back of his shirt just to shut him up.

July meant cake tasting — John dragging Simon to three different bakeries in one weekend, Simon pretending to be grumpy but secretly enjoying every bite. John insisted they had to try them all “for research,” while Simon grumbled, “We’re not feeding a regiment, Johnny.”

August brought flower trials, Simon standing patiently in a shop filled with roses and lilies and carnations, arms crossed, gaze flicking over vases until he muttered, “Heather. White roses. That’s it.” John beamed, declaring it “perfect,” and Simon pretended not to feel proud.

Most nights, though, were simple. Dinner together, John sketching at the table while Simon read on the couch, cats sprawled across both of them like they owned the place. Some evenings they wandered out into the cooling air, hand-in-hand, watching the sky bruise with sunset.

It was ordinary. It was perfect.

The evening slipped into a dusky glow, the kind of golden-pink that made John linger at the window before they left. He glanced back at Simon, already dressed and waiting by the door, and grinned.

“Our last date night as fiancés,” he said dramatically, sliding on his jacket. “Better make it count before you’re stuck with me forever.”

Simon huffed, pulling the door shut behind them. “You say that like it’s punishment.”

John bumped their shoulders together as they walked down the street. “You’ll see. I’ll get unbearable once there’s a ring on my finger.”

Simon shot him a sidelong look, quiet but with the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mask. “Unbearable, hm? Been a year already. Survived it.”

John laughed, head tipped back, his breath misting in the cooling air. “Aye, but now you’ll be contractually obligated to put up with me.”

Dinner was simple — their favourite tucked-away place with a corner table just for two. John did most of the talking, hands flying as he told stories, ideas, half-formed plans about the wedding, about their honeymoon, about nothing at all. Simon sat and listened, eyes soft, interjecting only when John’s excitement demanded it.

When the waiter brought dessert — two spoons and a plate they absolutely didn’t need after the mains — John dug in first, then pointed a spoonful at Simon. “You’ve got to eat some. For luck.”

Simon arched a brow. “Luck?”

“Course. Last date night, remember? Don’t want to jinx it.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Simon leaned forward and accepted the bite. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” John said, grinning like he’d just won the world.

Later, they walked home slowly, hand in hand, the city quiet around them. John’s thumb traced circles on Simon’s skin, restless energy grounding itself there.

“You nervous?” John asked softly, eyes on the pavement.

Simon thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not nervous. Just… ready.”

John’s chest tightened in the best way. “Me too,” he whispered. “God, me too.”

Back home, the cats twined around their legs like they hadn’t been gone at all. They kicked off their shoes, collapsed onto the couch, and curled together beneath the same blanket.

John tilted his head, lips brushing Simon’s temple. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, the weight of it settling between them, warm and steady.

Simon let out a low hum, arm tight around John’s waist. “Tomorrow.”

And with that, their last date night as fiancés faded into the comfort of silence, their future waiting just beyond the sunrise.

The first light of dawn crept through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. Gizmo had claimed his usual spot against Simon’s ribs, purring like a tiny engine, while Pickles was sprawled across John’s feet.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Just breathing. Just letting the quiet sink in.

Then John stretched, his hair sticking up in ridiculous tufts, and blinked sleepily at Simon. A grin tugged at his mouth.
“Morning, Mr. Almost-MacTavish.”

Simon snorted, voice still gravel-rough from sleep. “That’s not even a thing.”

“Sure it is. You’re not officially stuck with me till this afternoon,” John teased, rubbing his eyes. He rolled over to press his face into Simon’s shoulder. “You nervous yet?”

Simon stared at the ceiling for a long beat, then shook his head. “No. You?”

John’s laugh was muffled against his skin. “Terrified. But like… in a good way. Butterflies, not bats.”

Simon shifted, pulling him closer until there wasn’t any space left. “Good. I’ll handle the nerves. You just have to look pretty.”

“Piece of cake,” John said, smug. “Speaking of cake, you’re not allowed to see it till later.”

Simon hummed, amused. “Rules, rules.”

They lingered in bed longer than they should’ve, Gizmo demanding attention every time Simon tried to get up. Eventually John peeled away to make coffee, padding around in his socks while humming something tuneless. Simon leaned against the counter, watching him, committing every little detail to memory.

Their wedding day had finally arrived — and yet, here in their kitchen, with mugs of coffee warming their hands and two needy cats circling their ankles, it felt like just another morning. Ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

The house was chaos in the best way. John’s mum was fussing with his boutonniere, one of his sisters snapping candids with her phone while the other tried (and failed) to get Gizmo out of the suitcase he’d crawled into. Pickles sat primly on the dresser like a shadowy little supervisor.

John, in the middle of it all, looked flushed but radiant, his tie dangling loose around his neck. “Oi, careful—don’t crease it!” he whined when his mum tugged his lapel straight.

Meanwhile, Simon was sequestered in another room, stuck with Price, who had apparently appointed himself best man whether Simon liked it or not. Price clapped him on the back. “Relax, mate. You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

Simon adjusted his cufflinks for the sixth time. “Feels like it.” His throat was already tight, and the bloody ceremony hadn’t even started.

They had arranged the first look privately, out in the garden where the autumn leaves littered the ground in gold and red.

Simon stood with his back turned, fists flexing at his sides. He heard footsteps—John’s laugh drifting closer—and then:

“Okay, Si. Turn around.”

He did.

And the air left his lungs. John stood there in his suit, the colour flattering his skin, eyes shining brighter than Simon had ever seen. He was grinning nervously, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Simon’s vision blurred before he even realised he was crying.

“Bloody hell,” he choked out, swiping at his face. “You—fuck—you’re beautiful.”

John softened instantly, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Don’t cry, babe, you’ll set me off too.”

Too late. They were both laughing and crying, clinging to each other like they’d fall apart otherwise.

The ceremony had finally started. Gizmo was the first out, rings tied to his collar. He ran down the aisle towards Simon. Pickles pranced alongside like she owned the place, tail held high. When he reaches Simon, Gizmo yowles loudly till Simon scoops him up, Pickles just struts off to sit on Price’s lap. Simon takes the rings off his baby's collar and then sets him down just as the music starts and John appears at the end of the aisle. Simon’s knees nearly give out. He cried through the entire walk, Price steadying him with a firm hand on his shoulder. John winked at him as he approached, and that just made it worse.

Their vows were a mess of laughter and tears, John going off-script halfway through to tell Simon that loving him felt like “finally breathing right.” Simon’s reply was short and shaky—because he couldn’t manage more than a few words—but raw enough that everyone in the audience dabbed at their own eyes.

Simon cried again when John pulled him into their first dance. Gizmo and Pickles tried to join them but Price held the cats back till the dance ended, and then let them run over to their owners. 

Simon cried again cutting the cake, Gizmo once again trying to eat the entire cake. He cried again when John whispered “husband” in his ear, testing the word like it was sacred.

John teased him endlessly, of course. “You’re supposed to be the stoic one,” he laughed, brushing Simon’s damp cheeks.

“Yeah, well,” Simon muttered, holding Gizmo tighter, kissing the cat’s face, “you ruined me.”

Instead of rice or petals, John’s family handed out little paper fish toys, tossing them in the air as Simon and John made their exit. Gizmo lunged after one, and Simon had to scoop him up. Pickles rode on John’s shoulder, smug as ever, surveying the crowd like she was the true star of the show.

At the car, John turned, breathless and glowing, and said softly, “We’re married, Si.”

Simon kissed him, forehead pressed against his. “Best bloody thing I’ve ever done.”

Epilogue — Three Years Later

The house was bathed in sunlight. Autumn again, though gentler this time—amber light pooling through the wide kitchen windows, dappling the wooden floor where tiny feet pattered and cats lounged in sunbeams. The walls were painted soft cream, the air thick with the smell of pancakes and coffee and something faintly floral from the open garden door.

John hummed absently as he flipped pancakes, hair falling into his face. The hoodie he wore was Simon’s—grey and worn thin, practically swallowing him. Gizmo was curled up on the counter, keeping guard over a small plate of cooling bacon, while Pickles lurked beneath the table, waiting for crumbs or chaos (whichever came first).

Joseph, three years old and full of mischief, was at Simon’s feet with a wooden spoon, whacking it against the cupboards like he was calling the sea to battle.

Simon leaned down, scooping the boy up with one arm and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Oi,” he muttered, mock-stern. “That’s not what that’s for.”

Joseph just giggled, gripping the spoon tighter. “Daddy, loud!”

John turned, spatula in hand, eyes crinkling. “He’s not wrong.”

Simon smirked, setting Joseph on his hip. “Wonder where he gets it from.”

“Oh, clearly me,” John said with a grin, turning back to the stove.

Simon watched him for a moment—the slope of his back, the faint curve of his belly under the hoodie, the soft hum under his breath. His chest felt too full. He still couldn’t believe this life was his.

“Y’alright?” John asked, glancing over his shoulder, brow raised.

“Perfect,” Simon said simply.

After breakfast, they wandered into the garden. The air was crisp but pleasant, leaves tumbling lazily from the old oak that stood in the corner of the yard. Joseph toddled after Pickles, who darted away with her tail held high, while Gizmo followed at a dignified distance, pretending not to care.

Simon sat on the porch steps, coffee mug warm between his palms. John joined him, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

“He’s so big now,” John murmured, eyes on their son. “Feels like just yesterday he couldn’t even hold his head up.”

Simon hummed. “Next thing you know, he’ll be nickin’ the car keys.”

John snorted, elbowing him lightly. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“’M serious,” Simon said, deadpan, though there was a soft smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll be old and grey before we know it.”

John turned to look at him, eyes bright. “Grow old with me then, yeah?”

Simon met his gaze, reached out, and brushed his thumb against John’s jaw. “Already am.”

John leaned into the touch, pressing a kiss to Simon’s palm. “I still can’t believe we did it. The wedding, the house, the little gremlin over there.” He laughed softly. “And now another one.”

Simon’s hand drifted down to rest over John’s bump. “Another gremlin,” he said. “Couldn’t ask for better chaos.”

They sat like that for a while—just breathing, just existing. The quiet hum of home around them, the sound of Joseph laughing somewhere in the grass. The sun dipped a little lower, the air sweet and cool.

That night, the house fell quiet. Joseph asleep, cats curled at their feet, the world still. Simon and John lay tangled in bed, facing each other. The lamp cast a soft amber glow across the room, painting gold into John’s hair.

Simon traced idle circles on his shoulder. “You think the new one’ll sleep as easy as Joseph?”

“Doubt it,” John murmured with a tired smile. “You didn’t.”

Simon chuckled lowly. “Cheeky.”

John’s laughter faded into a quiet sigh. “I love you, Simon MacTavish.”

Simon’s throat went tight in that way it always did when John said his new name—his real name. The one he’d chosen, built a future under.

“Love you too, John,” he whispered. “More than I ever thought I could.”

Outside, the wind stirred the leaves. Inside, the cats purred softly, the baby kicked once, and the house felt alive with warmth.

Simon kissed John’s forehead, tucked him closer, and let the night carry them both away—safe, home, and utterly loved.