dakilynn

[dakilynn]

In the moment

The common room was lit by the soft glow of the TV, the volume low enough not to wake anyone, but loud enough to fill the room with background noise. Someone had tossed on a movie — one of those cheesy action comedies no one admitted to liking, but no one turned off either.

You were sandwiched between Gaz and Soap on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap that had long since been picked clean. The room smelled faintly of snacks, laundry detergent, and the kind of comfort that only came with rare stretches of downtime.

Soap’s arm was stretched lazily along the back of the couch, not quite touching you — but close. Close enough that when you shifted to get comfortable, your shoulder brushed against his chest. He didn’t move away.

It was late, the movie was dragging, and your eyes were growing heavier by the second. You didn’t mean to lean against him. Didn’t mean for your head to rest lightly against his shoulder, or for your hand to end up against his side. It just… happened.

Soap froze for a second, like a soldier surprised by a truce. Then slowly, carefully, he relaxed into it — as if the weight of you against him was something he didn’t realize he needed until it was there.

He tilted his head just enough to glance down.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low and thick with amusement, “ye pickin’ me over the couch, or’s that popcorn crash hittin’ ye hard?”

You didn’t answer — not really. Just a soft, sleepy sound as you nuzzled in slightly closer, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

Soap grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. He let his hand rest gently against your arm, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking.

“Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a breath, “ye’re trouble, ye ken that?”

You didn’t hear him.

But the way your fingers curled lightly into his shirt said maybe, just maybe… you felt it.

For once, everything was quiet — no gunfire, no missions, no yelling through comms. Just the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing and the subtle weight of you against his side.

Soap let his head tip back against the couch cushion, eyes flicking from the movie to the curve of your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm, now fully around you, held you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You trusted him. Enough to fall asleep on him like this — soft and warm and unguarded.
And for the life of him, he didn’t know what to do with that.

He should’ve been teasing you already. Should’ve made some dumb comment, nudged you awake, passed it off like nothing.

But instead, he just sat there, holding you like something fragile and rare. Something he didn’t want to mess up by breathing too loud.

He looked down again, his voice a quiet murmur, almost like a confession.

“Christ… ye’re gonna wreck me, aren’t ye?”

“Aw, would you look at that,” Gaz’s voice cut through the quiet like a smirk made audible.

Soap startled slightly, just enough tae glare at him while trying not to jostle you. “Keep yer voice doon, she’s sleepin’.”

“No kidding,” Gaz replied, plopping down across from you with an obnoxiously smug grin. “On you, mate. That’s new.”

Price wandered in next, raising a brow at the sight before him. “Didn’t think I’d live to see Johnny ‘restless leg’ MacTavish sit still for more than five minutes.”

“She’s the exception,” Ghost said from the doorway, deadpan as ever — but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

Soap rolled his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around your shoulder protectively. “Ye lot finished?”

“Oh, not even close,” Gaz said, already pulling out his phone. “But don’t worry — I’ll only send this to everyone.”

“Ye send that and Ah swear tae God—”

“She’s got good taste, you know,” Ghost added dryly, ignoring the bickering. “Bit of a soft spot for idiots with accents.”

Soap flipped him off without looking away from you, who let out the softest sigh in your sleep and curled closer.

And suddenly, none of the teasing mattered. None of it ever did, not when you were in his arms like this.

He smirked, voice low but sure.

“Yeah, well… guess Ah’ve got good taste too.”

You woke slowly, blinking against the soft flicker of the TV light and the warmth that surrounded you.

At some point, someone had started another movie — something loud and full of explosions, the unmistakable sound of a Marvel fight scene playing out in the background. The screen lit the room in pulses of red and blue as Iron Man soared across it. The room smelled faintly of fresh popcorn again, another bowl passed around between the others. Soap must’ve snagged more during the switch.

The rest of the team was still there, scattered across the common room. Gaz and Ghost had taken the floor with a mess of blankets and pillows that hadn’t been there earlier. Price was half-dozing in one of the armchairs, his arms crossed and head tilted back. The atmosphere had shifted from casual hangout to full-blown sleepover.

And through all of it, you were still curled up against Soap — your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you. His fingers were carding gently through your hair, slow and absent, like he’d been doing it for a while without even thinking.

Your heart stuttered.

He was so warm. So solid. So... there.

You didn’t move — not yet. Just let yourself breathe him in, the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his shirt beneath your cheek grounding you. His hand was still gently combing through your hair, over and over in a rhythm that made you want to melt.

It felt dangerous — how easy it was to let yourself relax here, to sink into him like you belonged. Like you hadn’t spent weeks pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

God, when had it started?

Maybe it was that mission in Berlin — cold as hell, adrenaline high, and your gear soaked through after sprinting five blocks to cover a civilian. You’d barely caught your breath when Soap had dragged you behind a crumbling wall, shoved his vest off, and thrown it over you like a damn human furnace.

“Can’t have ye freezin’ tae death, love,” he said wi’ that grin that always hit a wee bit too deep. “Ah need my favourite teammate alive, yeah?”

You’d laughed, even as your fingers had gone numb.
But something about the way he’d said it — like you mattered more than the mission, more than just being a name on his comms — had stuck with you ever since.

That was the moment.

Right then, in the middle of that busted street with his ridiculous warmth and stupid perfect smile, you’d started falling. Slowly. Quietly.

And now… now you were lying on his chest while he played with your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stayed still for a moment, pretending to still be asleep, because... god, this was nice. His fingers combed through your hair with such care, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, like touching you this way had already become second nature.

“Ye’re awake,” he murmured suddenly, voice quiet and low — that lilting Scottish brogue wrapping around the words like warmth.

You hesitated before answering, your voice still husky from sleep.
“Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you…”

“Didnae mind. ,” he said quickly, and then softer, “Still don’t.”

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft and so uncharacteristically open it made your breath catch. One of his hands was still tangled lightly in your hair, the other resting along your back, grounding you.

“…You’re comfortable,” you offered, like that was a reasonable explanation for literally draping yourself over him in front of your entire team.

Soap’s grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Comfortable, huh? High praise, that.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but didn’t move away. If anything, you let your head drop back to his chest, cheeks warm.

“Ah mean it,” he said after a beat, quiet again. “Could get used tae this.”

Your breath caught, heart fluttering in a way you really hoped he couldn’t feel.

“…You already have,” you whispered before you could think better of it.

Soap froze for half a second — and then his chest rumbled beneath you with a low, surprised chuckle. His fingers brushed back a loose strand of hair from your cheek, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said, almost like it was a realization. “Reckon Ah have.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The movie played on in the background — another crash, more shouting — but it all faded beneath the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

His fingers kept moving through your hair like it was something sacred.

You weren’t sure you’d ever felt so safe and so exposed at the same time.

He exhaled softly, like he was working up to something.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to — not when his fingers lingered at your jaw, not when his thumb swept across your cheek like he was trying to memorize you by touch alone.

The others were still half-awake around the room, but none of it mattered. Not the movie, not the popcorn, not Gaz’s smug little grin or Ghost’s subtle glances. For once, it was quiet in your head. No adrenaline, no noise. Just you and him.

Soap let out a slow breath, like he was trying to steady himself.
Then he shifted just a little, enough to tilt your chin up gently. Just enough that you had no choice but to look at him.

His eyes flicked down to your lips.

“Kin ah—?”

“Yeah,” you whispered before he even finished the question.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this as badly as he did — like he’d been holding back for a long, long time. His lips brushed yours once, twice, then deepened slowly, hand cradling the back of your neck like something precious.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself. There was a low sound in his throat, barely audible — something between a groan and a sigh, like relief and hunger tangled into one.

The kiss didn’t last long. Just enough to make your heart stutter and your thoughts spin. Just enough for him to pull back and rest his forehead against yours, breathing a little harder.

“Fuck,” he murmured, “been wantin’ tae do that for ages.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a breath. “You’re not the only one.”

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” he said low, his thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. “The way ye looked at me sometimes.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You weren’t,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I just… didn’t want to ruin anything.”

His chest rose and fell beneath you, slower now. More controlled.

“Ye wouldnae have ruined a thing,” he said after a pause, the words sounding rough — like he hated that you’d ever thought otherwise. “I’ve been tryin’ not tae scare ye off.”

“You couldn’t,” you murmured, and meant it.

You shifted just slightly, enough to look up at him again — your chin resting on his chest, eyes meeting his. His face was so close. Closer than it had ever been.

It wasn’t just warmth in his eyes now. It was something deeper. Something careful. Something real.

“Maybe we’re both just really bad at this,” you said with a small, nervous laugh.

Soap’s grin curved slow, a little crooked. “Aye. But at least we’re shite at it together.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, the knot in your chest finally starting to unwind. “Mm. Chaos with company doesn’t sound too bad.”

His hand slid to the back of your head again, fingers threading through your hair like it was second nature. “Then let’s no’ wait for another bloody mission tae screw it all up.”

You tilted your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Is that your way of asking me out, MacTavish?”

He smirked, thumb tracing an idle line along your spine. “It’s my way o’ sayin’ I like this. You. Us. And I’m no’ daft enough tae let it slip through my fingers.”

You bit your lip, heart skipping just a little. “So what you’re saying is… you’re hopelessly into me.”

“Completely buggered,” he said, deadpan — but his eyes were warm, gleaming with affection.

You grinned and nuzzled closer, your voice a little smug. “Good. You’re stuck with me.”

His arm tightened around you, hand spreading steady across your back. He dropped a kiss to the top of your head — slow and a little too soft to be casual.

“I’ll take stuck o’er lonely any day, love.”

From the floor, Gaz groaned just loud enough to be heard. “Bloody hell, finally.”

Soap didn’t even look over. “Jealousy doesnae suit ye, Kyle.”

“I’m just saying,” Gaz said with a smirk, “we’ve all had a betting pool going for weeks.”

“…Who won?”

“Ghost,” Gaz replied, shaking his head. “Guy bet on tonight. The exact day, Johnny.”

Soap looked toward the man in question, who merely gave a slow shrug from his spot near the door. “She looked at you different this morning,” Ghost said simply. “Figured you’d finally grow a pair.”

Soap gave a dramatic sigh, holding you tighter. “Yer all absolute nightmares, swear tae God.”

“You’re welcome,” Price added without opening his eyes.

You just smiled against Soap’s chest, letting the warmth of his arms and the ridiculousness of your team settle over you.

Home wasn’t always a place.

Sometimes… it was a person.

And right now?
It was all of this.

It started subtly.

A slow shift here. A quiet adjustment there. One of his legs stretched out on the couch, and you instinctively curled closer, fitting against his side like you’d done it a hundred times. His arm stayed draped around you, but at some point, his hand had slipped under the hem of your hoodie — not in a bold way, just resting against the bare skin at your waist, thumb brushing tiny, lazy circles that made your stomach flip every time.

You’d long since given up pretending you weren’t melting into him.

“You alright there, love?” Soap murmured near your ear, his voice low and teasing as he leaned down a little, breath brushing your skin.

You tilted your head up just enough to meet his eyes. “Perfect.”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Aye, ye are.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming, and nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re such a menace.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t already ken.”

A handful of popcorn flew across the room, smacking Soap right in the chest.

“Oi!” Gaz called from the floor without looking away from the screen. “Some of us are tryin’ to hear the plot, not listen to you two flirt like you’re in a bloody rom-com.”

“We’re watching a Marvel movie,” you said with a grin. “A little flirting is practically mandatory.”

“Yeah, well, save it for the post-credits scene,” Gaz grumbled, though his smirk betrayed him.

“Let ’em be,” Price said from his chair, voice thick with amusement. “We’ve all seen this one before.”

Ghost made a vague noise of agreement, more focused on the screen than anything else — but even he didn’t sound annoyed.

Soap chuckled low in his throat and shifted just slightly, guiding you so your head was back on his chest and his hand returned to its spot in your hair like it belonged there. You settled against him again with a quiet sigh, your fingers curling into the hem of his sleeve.

Eventually, the movie settled into a quieter scene — something with dialogue and swelling music — and for a while, everything just felt… still. Safe.

You could feel the way his heartbeat slowed under your cheek, the way his body relaxed completely around you. Like he wasn’t just letting you in — he was choosing to stay.
And when his lips brushed the top of your head again, soft and unhurried, you didn’t need words to know what it meant.

You weren’t just teammates anymore.

Not really.

By the time the third movie started playing, the rest of the team had mostly gone quiet. The popcorn bowl sat half-finished on the coffee table, and someone had turned the lights down even lower, the room bathed in soft blue from the screen.

You didn’t remember shifting again, but now you were fully tucked against Soap’s side, one leg loosely draped over his, your fingers idly curled in the fabric of his shirt near his ribs. His arm was snug around your back, and his other hand had stilled in your hair, resting comfortably against your crown. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was hypnotic.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say.

The room was warm, the movie a low hum in the background, and Soap — Johnny — was still, quiet, content beneath you like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Already half-asleep, you felt Soap’s chin dip slightly as he rested it on top of your head, his breath slow and steady. You shifted just enough to press your face into his chest, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Just held you like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched.

As sleep pulled at the edges of your thoughts, you felt it — his lips pressing once, featherlight, against your hairline.

Then his voice, barely a whisper, rough and almost lost in the sounds of the movie.

“Night, bonnie.”

And then there was nothing but warmth, quiet breathing, and the steady thrum of two hearts beating in time.

The rest of the team took notice, but no one said anything. No need.

Price was the first to stand, quietly gathering empty bottles and snack wrappers with a tired sigh. Ghost nodded toward the pair on the couch, expression unreadable but gentler than usual.

Gaz grinned as he looked back at you, curled up against Soap like you belonged there. “Didn’t think he’d ever let someone that close.”

“Looks like she’s the exception,” Price murmured, flipping off the floor lamp as they quietly filed out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind them.

On the couch, the movie played softly, long past the point where either of you could follow the plot. Soap’s grip stayed firm around your waist, even in sleep, as if his body refused to let go of what it had finally found. Your hand was curled into his shirt, your breath feathering softly against his neck.

Neither of you stirred.

Wrapped in quiet warmth and each other, you slept on — tangled together in the soft hush of something just beginning.

[dakilynn]

Without the mask.

It started off simple — the two of us sitting side by side on my bed, a half-played deck of cards scattered between us.

Some movie was playing quietly on my laptop at the end of the bed, more background noise than anything either of us was really paying attention to.

Ghost — or Simon, as I sometimes caught myself thinking in the quiet moments — leaned back on his palms, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched out over the rumpled blanket. His shoulder brushed mine every so often, warm and solid and painfully familiar.

We'd been like this for a while now — easy, comfortable. Teammates, sure. Friends, maybe more if I let myself dream about it for too long.

I'd spent months burying the crush that had taken root the first day I'd met him, telling myself that what we had now was better. Safer.

I didn’t want to ruin it.

Maybe that’s why the words slipped out without thinking.

"I’ve always wondered," I said lightly, smiling down at the cards as I fanned them out. "What you actually look like under there."

There was a beat of silence so heavy it made me glance up, half expecting to find him frowning. But he wasn’t. He was just looking at me — still, unreadable, the way he always did when he was thinking harder than he wanted me to notice.

Most people had stopped asking a long time ago.

But somehow, with him sitting so close, the wall between us never felt quite as high as it should have.

I shook my head quickly, trying to backpedal.

"Sorry — that was dumb. Forget I said anything."

But he didn’t laugh it off. He didn’t look away.

Instead, slowly, Ghost reached up — the movement careful, deliberate — and tugged at the hem of his mask.

My heart stopped.

He paused, giving me a chance to look away, to pretend I hadn't meant it.

But I couldn’t move. I could only stare, breath lodged painfully in my throat, as he pulled the mask up and over his head.

For the first time, I saw him.

He was beautiful.

Not the polished, magazine-perfect kind — no, he was real. Sharp, rough-edged, with scars that spoke of a life lived hard. His jaw was strong, mouth set in a way that looked almost stubborn, and his brown eyes — deep and fierce and heartbreakingly vulnerable — pinned me in place.

His expression was guarded, like he was bracing himself for whatever reaction I might have. His eyes flickered over my face, searching desperately for any hint of fear, any flash of disgust.

He looked like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, one breath away from shattering.

He'd never allowed anyone to see him like this before — so bare, so vulnerable.

His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on the bed between us.

When I reached out, slow and careful, and let my hand rest against his jaw, he flinched — not away, but toward me, like he couldn’t help himself.

The rough scrape of stubble under my fingertips, the warmth of his skin, the sheer, aching realness of him — it was overwhelming.

He swallowed hard, voice rough as gravel.

"What's your verdict, love?" he asked quietly. "As much a monster as you expected me to be?"

His skin was warm beneath my fingertips, rough in places where scars had healed, smooth in others where the light caught the softest parts of him. He looked at me like he was bracing for a blow, like he expected me to pull away.

But I couldn't. I wouldn't.

I shook my head, the lump in my throat too thick for words at first. My thumb brushed along the sharp line of his cheekbone, lingering there, trying to memorize the feeling of him, the reality of him.

"You're..." I faltered, my voice whisper-thin, trembling with the weight of everything I felt. I swallowed hard, forcing the truth past the fear that he might not believe me.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

His breath hitched — just once — but it was enough. Enough to know that maybe no one had ever said that to him before. Not like this.

Not like they meant it.

I let my hand cup his face, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else, and hoped he could feel it. Hoped he knew he didn’t have to hide from me.

Not anymore.

His eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and raw emotion flickering across his face. He looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, as if my words had hit him with all the force of a body blow.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to find his voice for a moment, his mind seemingly at a loss for words.

And then he spoke, in a voice that was barely louder than a whisper.

"You... think I'm beautiful?"

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak at first.

How could he not see it? How could he not feel it in the way my fingers trembled against his skin, in the way my chest ached just looking at him?

"I do," I finally managed to say, my voice breaking on the words.

"You're... more than I ever imagined."

He looked at me like I was something he didn’t understand, something precious he was afraid to touch — and it made my heart twist painfully in my chest. Slowly, afraid he'd pull away, I leaned closer, resting my forehead gently against his. My eyes fluttered shut, drinking in the warmth of him, the sheer realness of him.

"I don't care about the scars," I whispered, so softly it barely filled the space between us. "Or the past. I only see you."

And God help me, I already knew I’d never be able to look away.

His eyes closed, and I could feel the tension in his body loosening, his walls crumbling under the weight of my words.

His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he soaked in my touch, my words, the way my forehead leaned against his.

His hands came up to lightly rest on my waist, his fingers digging into the skin of my hips just enough to feel the faint tremors in his touch.

He was silent for a beat, breathing my name in a low, rough voice.

"I... I don't understand you."

I smiled against his skin, a soft, trembling thing, and closed my eyes tighter like it might help me hold the moment together.

"I know," I whispered, barely able to get the words out past the knot in my throat.

His fingers gripped my waist a little harder, like he was afraid I'd slip away, like part of him still couldn't believe I was real. I let my hands drift from his face to the back of his neck, threading gently through the short, soft hair there, grounding him — grounding myself.

"You don't have to understand," I said, my voice shaking as much as my hands. "You just have to believe me."

I leaned back just enough to look at him, to see the storm in his eyes, the vulnerability he was fighting so hard to hide.

"I see you," I breathed. "All of you. And I..." My heart thudded painfully in my chest, but the truth was already there, shining in the spaces between us.

"I wouldn't change a single thing."

He inhaled sharply, and for once — just once — he looked vulnerable.

His grip on my hips tightened, as if he was anchoring himself to me in the storm of emotions that were threatening to drown him. With that simple touch he seemed to be trying to grasp a lifeline, a desperate attempt to hold on to what he's never had before.

His gaze locked on to mine, his eyes searching my face for any hint of doubt, of fear, of disgust, but all he found was my sincerity.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.

"You really believe that?"

I nodded, feeling the burn of unshed tears sting my eyes. I didn’t try to hide it.

"With everything I have," I whispered.

My fingers tightened gently in his hair, like maybe if I held on just a little closer, he’d feel it — feel how real this was.

"I don't see the monster you think you are," I said, my voice breaking on the words. "I see the man who’s survived more than anyone should have to. I see strength... and loyalty... and a heart that still knows how to feel, even when the world tried to beat it out of you."

I leaned in until our foreheads touched again, needing him to feel how close I was, how fiercely I meant every word.

"You are not the broken thing you believe yourself to be," I breathed, voice shaking but sure. "You're more beautiful than you will ever know."

And I stayed there, holding him through the silence, through the trembling, through the storm inside him he couldn't quite hide — hoping he could feel, in my touch, what my words barely seemed strong enough to carry.

He was silent for a moment, breathing ragged, his face so close to mine that I could feel the unsteady thump of his heart, the rush of his breath.

It was like he felt lost in the storm of emotions flooding him, his usual mask no longer there to hide him — leaving him raw, vulnerable, and utterly exposed.

His voice was a strangled whisper.

"I... I don't deserve you."

My chest ached at the broken sound of his voice, at the way he clung to me like he was afraid I might slip through his fingers.

I shook my head slowly, my forehead brushing his, my hands cradling his face like he was something precious — something worth protecting.

"You do," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. "You deserve everything, even if you can't see it yet."

His heart hammered against mine, wild and frantic, and I pressed closer, needing him to feel how real this was. How real I was.

"You deserve someone who sees you," I breathed, my voice trembling with the force of it. "Someone who chooses you, again and again, no matter how many walls you put up. No matter how many times you try to push them away."

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes — those beautiful, broken eyes — and gave him the only truth I had left to give.

"And I will," I said fiercely, even as tears blurred my vision. "I do."

It felt like every word, every touch, was stripping him down, peeling away the layers he'd spent years building up. His eyes flickered with something dangerously close to desperation, torn between the overwhelming feeling of raw, unguarded emotion, and the urge to run from it.

His hands trembled on my waist, his breath rasping against my skin. His body was tense, coiled taut as if fighting some internal battle.

He opened his mouth, the words catching in his throat, his expression conflicted and torn.

"You... you shouldn't want me."

I felt my chest tighten, the sheer pain in his voice cutting through me like a blade.

Slowly, I shook my head, refusing to let him slip away into that dark place he always tried to retreat to.

"I do," I said, my voice firm even as it trembled. "I want you."

My fingers traced the line of his jaw, lingering on the scar just below his cheekbone, memorizing every piece of him like I could somehow anchor him here with me.

"Not the mask. Not the walls. Not the ghost you hide behind," I whispered. "Just you, Simon."

His eyes squeezed shut, his forehead pressing harder against mine like he could block out the world if he just stayed close enough. His grip on my hips tightened, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, until all I could feel was the frantic beat of his heart against mine.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he rasped, the words strained, desperate. "You don't know what you're choosing."

I leaned in, brushing my nose lightly against his, the smallest, gentlest touch I could offer — a tether to pull him back from whatever cliff he was teetering on.

"I do," I breathed. "I'm not afraid of you, Simon. I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, he stayed frozen — trembling, breathing ragged against me, as if he didn't know whether to believe me or to bolt like a wounded animal.

And then, slowly, something inside him cracked open.

His hands slid up from my waist to my back, hauling me against him with a rough, almost broken sound that tore straight through my soul.

He buried his face against my neck, his breath hot and shaky against my skin, and for the first time since I’d known him — maybe for the first time in years — Simon let himself be held.

No masks.

No armor.

Just him.

And I held on tighter, whispering his name into the space between us like a promise he could finally believe in.

His body shook against mine, small tremors he couldn’t hide, and I just kept holding him, letting the silence wrap around us like something sacred.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to look at me — really look at me — his brown eyes wrecked and shining in the low light of my room.

He still looked like he was waiting for me to vanish, to wake up and find himself alone again.

I cupped his face in my hands, brushing my thumbs along his cheekbones.

"I'm here," I whispered, my voice breaking, but steady where it mattered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He stared at me like I was something he didn’t understand — something fragile and dangerous all at once. His thumb brushed along the side of my waist in slow, shaky strokes, like he couldn’t stop touching me, couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

His voice was low, raw.

"Love..."

The way he said that— like it was a prayer and a curse all at once — made my heart stutter in my chest.

He hesitated, eyes searching mine, desperate and uncertain all at once.

And then, voice barely more than a breath against my lips, he asked:

"Can I... can I kiss you?"

The vulnerability in his voice shattered something inside me.

I nodded, too choked up to speak, threading my fingers into the short hair at the back of his head to anchor him closer.

He didn’t rush — didn’t crash into me the way I might have expected from someone so fierce, so used to fighting for everything he had.

No, Simon kissed me like I was something breakable.

His lips brushed mine softly, reverently, like he was terrified he’d do it wrong, like he didn’t quite believe I was real.

The kiss was trembling, tentative — and it broke my heart wide open.

I made a soft, desperate sound against his mouth, tightening my hold on him, and that was all it took for him to deepen it, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head.

It was messy, a little frantic, full of emotion he didn’t know how to say out loud.

But it was him.

All of him — raw and real and finally, finally mine.

When we broke apart, our foreheads rested together again, breathing hard, clinging to each other like we could survive anything as long as we stayed connected.

"I've never..." he started, then stopped, his voice cracking.

He shook his head slightly, a broken, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I've never had this," he whispered. "Never had someone... stay."

Tears burned at the backs of my eyes, but I smiled through them, brushing my fingers over his cheek.

"You have me," I promised, fierce and sure.

"For as long as you’ll let me stay."

And from the way his arms tightened around me — the way he buried his face against my shoulder like he was afraid to let go —

I knew he believed me.

At last.

We stayed like that for a long time, curled up together on my bed, the cards forgotten, the movie little more than a quiet hum in the background.

Simon shifted first, moving with a quiet gentleness that made my heart ache.

He lay back against the pillows, pulling me with him until my head settled over his chest, right above the frantic beat of his heart.

I went easily, sinking into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

One of his arms came around my back, holding me against him, while the other rested lightly over my shoulder, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against my skin.

I could hear the way his breathing slowly evened out, the way his heart — still wild — began to calm under the steady rhythm of our closeness.

I turned my face slightly, pressing a small kiss to the center of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"I've got you," I whispered, the words a promise sealed against his skin.

He didn’t answer, not with words.

He just tightened his hold on me, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head like he was afraid I might slip away if he let go.

I let my fingers curl lightly into his shirt, anchoring myself to him the same way he clung to me.

The world outside the room faded away, leaving just the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the warmth of his body wrapped around mine.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no fear in the spaces between us.

No doubt.

Just the quiet, steady certainty that whatever had shifted between us tonight was real — something fragile and fierce all at once, something we both wanted to hold on to.

As sleep slowly tugged at me, I heard him murmur my name, so soft I almost thought I'd imagined it.

But I felt it too — in the way his fingers tightened protectively around me, in the way his heart kicked against my cheek —

and I knew:

This wasn’t just a moment.

This was the start of something more.

And for the first time since I met him, Simon Riley wasn’t a ghost.

He was mine.

And I was his.