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ethe-realfantasy · 10 days ago

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How Simon "Ghost" Riley falls in love with his new neighbour ((final) Part VII)

contains soft NSFW!!, slow burn, Simon finally lets himself be close to you... and it leads to a very intense makeout session in his truck... which you continue at home (missionary, riding, doggy, slight choking)

guys😭😭 he is perfect!!!! PERFECT!!! ok bye, now I want one too (*/▽＼*)

minors do NOT interact!!!!

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Simon pulls back slightly, still close enough that your breath fans across his lips. His hand lingers in your hair, reluctant to let go.

“You wanna go eat something?” His voice is quieter now, more careful.

You blink at him, still raw from everything and give him a small nod. "Yeah. Maybe getting outside will help," you say quietly.

You step back slowly, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand. “Just give me ten minutes.”

He watches you disappear down the hall, the house falling quiet except for his own steady breath. With a heavy exhale, he drops onto your couch, Riley padding over to settle at his feet. Simon absently scratches behind her ear, eyes fixed on the floor but his mind is replaying everything.

When you return, he looks up. You stripped down to something simple: jeans, a jacket zipped halfway, hair tied up, your face bare of makeup, just raw and real, like you don't have the energy to pretend. And he likes it better that way.

You walk outside together, the night air cool against your faces. At his truck, Simon leans in and opens the passenger door for you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thanks,” you murmur, climbing in.

He gives a short nod, closes the door, and circles around to the driver’s side. Riley stays behind, sitting obediently in the window as if guarding the house in your absence.

Once you're both inside, Simon starts the engine and without a word, he pulls onto the road.

The diner is quiet, tucked away on a street that feels forgotten. Inside, it smells of coffee and fried food. A couple of truckers sit at the counter, where a waitress leans lazily against the register. No one looks twice when Simon and you slide into a booth at the back.

Across from you, Simon leans back against the booth, one arm stretched across the seat as if he owns the space. When the food arrives, it feels almost strange to be doing something so ordinary. You cut into your meal slowly and the warmth of the food soothes something inside you, pulling you further away from the chaos of earlier. You can feel his eyes on you, steady and unreadable, but not invasive, more like he’s quietly making sure you're okay. You're still a little hurt by him, by how distant he acted these past weeks. You don't know how much of what he said to you was real... or if it was just his way to get you to calm down.

When you finally step outside, it's nearly eleven, and the dark has fallen fully. Simon moves close as you walk back to his car and when his hand finds yours, you hesitate at first, but you don't stop him. Inside, the truck feels intimate in its silence. You steal glances at him as he drives, the sharp lines of his face illuminated by the dashboard’s glow. The way his hands rest on the wheel, large, steady, veins shifting faintly with each turn, shouldn’t be as distracting as it is. There’s something magnetic about seeing him like this, so present and controlled, and it pulls at something low in your chest.

You keep thinking about his hand in yours. The warmth of it. How natural it felt.

When he turns into your driveway, the headlights sweep across your house and blink out as he kills the engine. Then Simon gets out, shutting his door with that same calm he seems to carry everywhere. He rounds the car and helps you out. The weight of his palm around yours feels solid. You don’t let go of his hand as you walk to your door. When you reach your porch, you unlock the door and turn around to say goodnight.

He doesn’t move.

“Should probably leave you to rest,” he says lowly.

You nod and just as you're about to say something, he leans in. It happens so smoothly you almost don’t register it. His hands cup your face carefully, big and warm, fingers pressing just firmly enough. He pulls you in and kisses you so gently, like he might be afraid to hurt you.

When he pulls back, his hands don't let go of you yet.

“I’ll pick you up for dinner tomorrow. Around eight?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden invitation. Your cheeks flush and you nod shyly.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, voice quieter now but no less intense.

Then, with a subtle flick of his tongue against his teeth, he makes a sharp sound. Riley appears almost instantly, trotting up from your living room, silent and obedient as always. Simon finally steps back and turns toward the dark street, Riley falling into step beside him.

—————

It's a little more than a month later when the call comes around 6 p.m. You glance at the screen and feel your stomach flip. He rarely calls, preferring to text you or knock on your door instead.

When you pick up, his voice is steady but roughened by fatigue, the kind that comes after a long day on base.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be free,” he says. “Thought… maybe dinner tonight?”

You don't hesitate. "I'd like that."

The moment you hang up, you pad to your room, a small thrill running through you. You have been doing this for a month now: quiet dinner-dates, truck rides, those slow, innocent goodnight kisses. He didn't sleep over at yours yet, never touched you more than a kiss. You wanted to take this slow. He kept his respectful distance and you learned to trust him more and more with every passing date.

You take your time getting ready, the shower steam curling into the hall as you pick through your closet. Your dress isn't over the top, just something that drapes and moves beautifully when you walk. You leave your hair down, soft strands falling around your shoulders, and add just enough makeup to bring out your eyes. By the time you're done, you catch your reflection and feel a rush of nervous excitement.

When the knock finally comes, your heart thuds painfully hard and you open the door.

Simon stands there in his usual jeans and dark shirt, broad and solid as ever, but when his gaze lands on you, his breath stalls. He doesn't blink for a second, then his mouth pulls into something almost like a smirk.

“Y're gonna ruin me,” he mutters, voice low and dry.

Your laugh breaks the tension, warm and a little shy. “Is that a compliment?”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, glancing away as if it might steady him. “Something like that.”

On the drive to the restaurant he keeps one hand loose on the wheel, the other drapes over his thigh, but his eyes flick to you often, quick, almost like guilty glances that give him away.

The restaurant sits tucked away off a back road, dimly lit and quiet, with trees crowding in close like sentinels. It's secluded and suspended from the world.

Simon looks tired when you arrive, his shoulders carrying the day, but the longer you talk, the more it bleeds out of him. He rolls his eyes at something you say, deadpans a sarcastic response, and then, when you throw your head back laughing, a rare little curve touches his mouth.

But tonight, something is different. He isn't less guarded exactly, but there is a quiet shift, a looseness that comes with the way he leans back in his seat like he can finally breathe now that he's with you. And every so often, mid-conversation, his gaze drops to your lips.

It's not blatant, it's not even meant for you to catch, but you do. The first time, you think you simply imagine it. By the third, you don't anymore. Each glance is brief, almost reluctant, like he hates that he can't stop himself. And that knowledge sends a small, burning awareness curling low in your chest.

You pretend not to notice at first, you simply keep the conversation flowing, but the air between you thickens with it, the push and pull of your restraint.

Still, you laugh and talk about nothing and everything. His dry humor slips out naturally, gruff comments that shouldn’t be funny but make you laugh so hard you cover your mouth to hide it. And every time you laugh, something tightens in his chest, a mixture of pride and disbelief that he’s the one putting that expression on your face. He asks about your day, and you tease him about how cranky he must’ve been on base. He counters with a dry, “You don’t know the half of it,” but the corner of his mouth betrays him, when it curves into a smile.

You eat slowly, more focused on each other than the food. By the time you leave the restaurant, it’s nearly midnight. The world has quieted down and the air is cool, edged with the smell of the nearby woods. The parking lot is dimly lit by the few streetlamps breaking through the dark.

As you walk toward his car, Simon’s hand finds the small of your back, steady and warm. It’s instinctive, protective, but the moment his palm rests there, something low in his stomach tightens. And then you hook your hand through his bicep without even thinking about it. He feels your fingers press lightly into the muscle, feels your warmth on his skin. He keeps his face neutral, jaw tight, but on the inside your touch makes him weak, and lower still, his body betrays him in a way he’d curse himself for if he weren’t so caught up in your closeness.

You have no idea.

At the car, you lean back against the cool metal. Your gaze lifts to meet his, eyes wide and soft as your mouth curves into a small, genuine smile. Something about the way you look at him, the warmth in it, makes his throat constrict. Simon steps closer, his hands shoved into his pockets, and his body boxes you in. Your breath catches as he lowers his face toward yours, until his shadow swallows you whole. And then he kisses you softly. You hum against his mouth, the sound warm and full of delight, and Simon swears he feels it all the way down to his...

Your palms find his chest slowly, like you're testing whether you're allowed to touch him this way. The solid weight of him under your hands sends a shiver through you, and Simon reacts almost instantly. He's leaning in, just a fraction, but enough that you feel the subtle give of his body toward yours.

You tilt your chin, stretching your neck to reach him, and he meets you halfway, lowering himself to your level with an ease that feels protective. Your mouths fit together again, like neither of you is willing to break whatever spell has wrapped around this moment.

The street around you is still empty and silent. The secluded restaurant sits behind you, but beyond that, the world is swallowed by the woods, towering trees that block out everything else. The kiss lingers until Simon exhales a short laugh against your mouth. He lowers his head, his voice vibrating lowly through his chest.

“You’ve got no idea,” he murmurs, rough around the edges, “what you're doing to my self-control.”

The words send a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you hum softly in response, your lips brushing his as you lift one hand from his chest to the curve of his neck. Your fingertips graze the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, and you feel him jolt. It's subtle but undeniable, like you found some hidden weakness he’d rather keep buried.

Immediately, his hands move out of his pockets, catching yours gently but firmly, like he has to stop you before you completely undo him right there against the car. His grip is warm, but there’s a quiet urgency in the way he holds you, like he’s hanging by a thread. He chuckles again and shakes his head, almost to himself.

“We should get in the car,” he says, voice still low, still tinged with that restrained edge.

Simon pulls back just enough to collect himself, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. He opens the passenger door for you, and you settle into the seat, smoothing your dress over your knees. Your heart is still racing from the way his voice sounded a moment ago. You wait patiently, watching him as he rounds the hood of the truck. When he finally opens his own door and climbs in, you smile at him gently. That smile undoes him more than your hand on his neck ever could.

Before he even starts the engine, Simon leans across the console, one hand braced beside your thigh, not touching. His other hand is still resting lightly on the wheel as though he’s reminding himself he's supposed to start driving. You don’t hesitate to shift slightly in your seat, turning toward him to close the last bit of space between you. Simon shifts too, angling himself closer without crowding you, giving you room to pull away if you want to. You don't. Your hand rests against the side of his jaw, and he covers it with his own briefly, before pressing into you for a kiss.

Simon’s hand trails to your waist, his thumb moving in a slow, unconscious drag against the fabric of your dress as you kiss. Then you shift even closer, your hand on his chest, your body angling toward him as if instinct is pulling you in. He notices it immediately, the way you lean into him without realizing it, and something in him just… decides.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, low and rough.

His hands move, surely but carefully, as he helps you across the console, steadying you with a palm at your back and another guiding your thigh. It’s effortless the way he maneuvers you, deliberate without being forceful, like he’s done it a thousand times in his mind before. You let him, trusting him completely, until you're straddling his lap, your knees braced on either side of him.

The shift knocks a sound out of him, quiet but unmistakable, it's a sharp breath through his nose, a muscle in his jaw flexing as though the effort to keep control costs him something. His hands settle at your hips now and for a moment he just looks at you.

Then you kiss him again, and he melts into it, his chest rising against yours as though the act of breathing feels different with you this close. The kiss turns deeper, slower, as if the world outside the truck has disappeared entirely. Your fingers slide up behind his ears, curling there with delicate pressure, and his quiet groan vibrates between your mouths.

There’s nothing rushed about it. You kiss like you have all night. Your weight against him feels right, like you belong there, and the way his hands hold you, firm but reverent, makes it clear he feels the same.

You shift, just the smallest movement, and suddenly you're aware of him beneath you. Firm and unyielding even through the layers of fabric, a reminder of just how much space he takes up, how much of him is there. The realization sends a flush creeping up your neck, and for half a second, you can’t stop yourself from wondering what it would feel like to take away that last barrier of clothing between you.

Simon feels it too, he’d have to be dead not to, but his response is a deep, controlled inhale. His hands stay steady at your hips, not gripping tighter, not pulling you closer, even though the temptation is written in the slight tension of his arms. He wants you. That much is undeniable. But he’s decided, firmly, that wanting you doesn’t mean losing control. And then you move again, almost without thinking, your hips grinding gently against him through the fabric of your dress.

His reaction is immediate. Simon tenses and hisses in a sharp breath through his teeth, his head tipping back a fraction as though he needs that extra inch of space to keep himself grounded. His hands flex instinctively on your hips, keeping you still in place.

“E-easy now,” he mutters, low and rough, the words vibrating against your mouth.

You giggle, a soft sound that fills the truck like a spark of light. It catches him off guard enough that he chuckles too. His hands soften against you as he exhales through his nose, and he lets them roam just a little, up your sides, across your back, nothing demanding, just a slow caress, like he’s learning the shape of you.

You bury your face into the curve of his neck, inhaling the warmth of him, and for a second you just stay like that, still and close. Your arms loop around him briefly, a small, instinctive hug, and it hits him harder than he expects, how natural it feels to hold you like this.

When you shift, he senses it instantly. Without a word, his hands adjust, helping guide you gently back across the console, steadying you until you're seated properly again in the passenger seat.

Simon leans back against his seat and clears his throat once. It’s a quiet sound that almost makes you bite back another laugh because you know exactly why he's suddenly so tense. He looks like he needs a minute to sort... some stuff out.

You sneak a glance at him, your lips twitching with the start of another giggle. The realization that you're the reason he needs that extra second, sends a strange, giddy warmth through your chest. Simon doesn’t look at you, at least not right away, his hand flexing once on the steering wheel. But the smile on his face betrays him... he doesn't mind one bit.

—————

The drive back is quiet, but charged, like static in the air. Every time you steal a glance at him, at his hand relaxed on the wheel, his jaw set, your chest feels too small for everything that presses against it. He doesn’t look back at you, but you catch the subtle twitch of his fingers, like he’s keeping them occupied so they don’t end up on you again.

When you pull into your driveway, Simon kills the engine and gets out first. He rounds the truck without a word and opens your door, offering his hand. You take it, your palm small and warm against his, and he helps you down with that quiet steadiness. You walk up to your house and when you reach your door, you take his hand and give it a gentle tug.

“Come in,” you say softly and guide him inside.

Once inside, you step out of your heels almost immediately, sighing with quiet relief. When you straighten, you notice the way he suddenly feels even larger, towering in your living room. The height difference is exaggerated now, and for some reason it makes your chest flutter.

“Do you want something to drink?” you ask quietly.

Simon’s gaze lingers on you for a moment too long. Something dark flickers across his eyes, a flash of thought he doesn’t voice, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You laugh lightly and that seems to shake him out of it. He scratches the back of his neck, chuckles lowly and a little awkwardly, like he knows he’s been caught thinking something he shouldn’t say out loud.

And then he moves. In two step he is in front of you, his hands finding your waist as though they’ve been waiting for an excuse. He pulls you in and presses his mouth to yours.

You giggle against his lips, delighted, trying to wiggle away on instinct. He doesn’t let you, his grip firms, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss with a slow urgency that steals the breath right out of you.

You hum in response, the sound vibrating between you, your hands find their way up his chest. When you press against him, the kiss deepens like gravity pulling you closer. Simon moves slowly, observing the way you respond to each shift in pressure, each brush of his mouth against yours. His hands, broad and steady, map the curve of your waist as though confirming you're real, that you're choosing this too.

You don’t think about stepping away, not for one second. If anything, you lean into him more, your back finding the wall behind you naturally as his body follows. It doesn’t feel like trapping, he cages you in without needing to hold you still. His presence alone is enough to make your breath hitch.

Then he shifts, slowly but surely, and lifts one of your legs to rest against his waist. The movement is effortless for him, but it makes you gasp, a startled sound that turns into a soft, unsteady sigh when you feel how much closer that brings you to him. Your body almost forgets how to balance itself, relying on him instinctively to keep you steady.

And he does. He's always steady.

Your chest rises sharply against his as you whisper his name, a small, fragile sound that cuts right through the haze building between you. He reacts instantly, pulling his mouth from yours, his head lowering until his ear hovers by your lips, listening. His breath is controlled, though his chest heaves with it.

"I want you," you whisper.

Simon goes very still, his breath catching as though he’s bracing himself. His eyes search your eyes, sharp and unwavering, looking for hesitation, any sign that you don’t mean it. He swallows hard.

“You sure?”

You nod, almost frantically, the softest sound escaping your throat. “Yes.”

Something changes in his expression then and his jaw flexes.

“Where?” he asks quietly.

Your breath stutters, your gaze flicking down for a heartbeat before returning to his.

“Bedroom,” you whisper, as though it’s a secret, as though saying it aloud makes it real.

He nods slowly and then, without a warning, his hands are under you, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing. You gasp, a startled screech breaking into a breathless laugh, your arms flying around his shoulders.

He glances at you, his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smirk. “Your wish,” he mutters, voice rough but steady, “is my command.”

Your laughter fills the space as you direct him through the hallway, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt with every step.

In the bedroom, he lowers you carefully onto the bed, despite the heat burning off him in waves. For a moment he just hovers above you, bracing himself on his forearms, his chest rising and falling like he’s still convincing himself that you really want this. He studies you for a second and then his jaw tightens.

“How do you want it?” he asks. The question lands heavy. His gaze pins you in place, sharp and consuming, and you feel the blush burn through your skin.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking to his mouth before darting back up. “Slow.“

Something in his expression shifts. There is a flicker of relief, of hunger. He nods, eyes never leaving yours.

“Slow it is,” he murmurs.

And then he straightens, pulling back just enough to peel his shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor.

Your breath hitches. You can’t help it, your gaze traces the lines of him: the broad stretch of his chest, the deep cuts of muscle, the scars etched across his skin. It's raw strength and quiet vulnerability all in one, standing there in your bedroom like something pulled from a fever dream.

Your pulse thrums everywhere: ears, throat, fingertips. Your body answers before your mind can, heat curling low in your belly at the sight of him.

Simon’s hands move with careful intent, fingers grazing the fabric of your dress as he slowly lifts it inch by inch, revealing the smooth skin beneath. He lowers his face gently, pressing tender kisses along the length of your thigh.

You shift beneath him almost immediately, an involuntary movement that stirs something deep inside him. He pulls back just slightly.

“Take it off," he says lowly.

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers find the hem, sliding the dress over your hips and down past your legs until your left in the delicate lace bodysuit beneath.

Simon’s eyes widen. The sight of you makes his pulse quicken. He reaches out again, fingertips trailing along the edge of the lace, and you let out a soft sigh, your body arching toward him. His lips brush against your collarbone as he leans in, every touch filled with care.

Your voice is soft, almost trembling, as you breathe out, “Now you.” The words hang between you, heavy with trust and vulnerability.

Simon’s eyes lock onto yours again, pupils darkening, the raw need barely contained beneath his calm exterior. Slowly, he unfastens his belt. His fingers brush the metal buckle and then he slides his jeans down inch by inch, revealing more with every passing second: his strong hips, the line of his thighs, and the outline of his boxers stretched taut over the tension coiled beneath.

You take in a sharp breath, eyes flickering from the curve of his hips back to the storm behind his gaze. Then he finally slides off the last piece of clothing. He climbs onto the bed with careful precision, his body close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him.

The moment you see his length, your legs lift instinctively, the soft curve of your thighs pressing against him. You're inviting him without hesitation. His fingers find the delicate edge of your lacy lingerie. His touch is gentle and you meet his gaze with a soft smile, sensing the depth of his desire beneath the careful control.

He looks up at you. “Take it off... or I’ll rip it off," he mumbles.

You giggle and he chuckles almost immediately in return, the tension between you loosening just enough. Slowly, you slide the delicate fabric down, revealing your bare skin beneath. Simon gasps quietly, struck by how beautiful and inviting you look, every inch of you alive and real under him.

His eyes drink you in, full of carnal longing, as if every inch of you deserves both admiration and protection. Simon’s eyes darken as he pulls you close, his hands firm yet careful on your waist. You trace the sharp line of his jaw with trembling fingers, your breath hitching when his mouth finds the sensitive skin of your neck.

“You still sure?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, eyes searching you for any hesitation.

You nod quickly, heart pounding with aching want. You want this. You want him.

His hands move to your chest, tracing the soft swell of your breasts, thumbs teasing your hardened nipples until a gasp breaks from your lips. The sound is a spark, setting a fire burning deep inside him.

Simon kisses his way down your body, your breath hitches as he grabs your leg, steadying you against his hip. His hands grip your waist tighter, the heat of his skin searing through. Your body tenses, a delicious mix of nerves and craving coursing through your veins. You bite your lip, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you feel the tip of him press against you, the slick warmth of your desire welcoming him. He runs it up and down your folds a few times and your eyes roll back at the sensation.

With a slow, careful push, he slips inside, stretching and filling you completely. A sharp gasp tears from your throat, the feeling both intense and exquisite. You clench around him instinctively, your fingers digging into his shoulders. Your breath is ragged, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Simon stays steady, letting you adjust to him. The heat in your eyes melts any rough edges to his resistance, and you guide him gently, urging him deeper with a tilt of your hips. Your moans grow louder, breath catching as he begins to move, slow, deep strokes that drive straight to your core. Every inch sends shivers racing down your spine.

Simon’s hand slams against the headboard, fingers digging into the wood to keep himself restrained. His other hand stays firm on your waist, pulling you closer, feeling the delicious heat of your skin beneath his palm. He lowers his head to your neck, teeth grazing your sensitive flesh. Then, he lets out a raw hiss.

“Fuck,” he breathes, rough and guttural, and presses into you.

The sudden vibration against your skin sends a shudder racing through your body. A moan slips free from your lips, as your senses ignite in response. He pauses, biting back the desire inside of him. Slow, he reminds himself, because this is what you wanted. Slow.

He eases deeper, inch by agonizing inch, sinking as far as he can without rushing. Then, he bottoms out just enough so only the tip remains inside. The sudden change is too much for you. A raw scream tears from you, and your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as waves of pleasure crash through you.

Simon’s breath is ragged against your neck. He stays locked in that slow, punishing rhythm, each movement measured but fierce, driving you higher and higher. You lift your neck, arching into him without hesitation, offering yourself. Simon closes the small distance between you, lips crashing onto yours. His teeth graze your lower lip just barely, enough to sting and thrill. You respond instantly with your nails digging even deeper into the muscles of his back.

The sudden pressure makes him press in deeper, his body taut with need. Your moan spills into his mouth, loud, wet and desperate. It drives him wild. Now his movements slow even further, they're agonizingly slow. He doesn't bottom out, not quite. Instead, he sinks just millimeters before pulling back, then pressing in again and again, each inch a burn that sets every nerve in you alight.

You squirm beneath him, unable to hold still as waves of pleasure overwhelm you. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

“Ohhhhh god,” you moan. Simon chuckles lowly, the sound vibrating against the skin of your neck as he kisses you there possessively.

Your chest lifts, pressing forward instinctively, and Simon knows exactly what you need. Without breaking rhythm of his hips, slow and deep strokes, his head dips lower until he finds the peak of your breast.

His mouth latch onto your nipple with a hungry bite, teeth grazing and sucking in tandem. The scream that tears from you is so raw and loud, Simon could swear the whole neighbourhood heard it. You tremble beneath him, as the first intense flutters of pleasure begin to coil deep inside you, winding tighter with every passing second.

Simon’s hips quicken just slightly, still plunging impossibly deep. Your body unravels, every muscle tightening as you come undone with a high pitched cry. You clutch him so fiercely, fingers digging into his skin, he has to fight not to collapse into you, overwhelmed by the perfect weight of you in his arms. As the last tremors of your release fade, Simon shifts carefully, sliding his hands along your hips to guide you.

With a steady motion, he maneuvers you on top of him, feeling you settle, your warmth pressing against him. Your hands brace on his chest as you begin to ride him, slow at first, testing the rhythm before letting it build. Simon didn’t expect it to feel like this, so overwhelmingly fierce, so impossibly good. His body tightens, every muscle coiled, and it becomes almost unbearably hard to hold himself back.

He hisses low in his throat, exhaling shakily as he tries to slow you down, pressing gentle but firm hands on your hips. But you, sensing his struggle, simply bury your head into his shoulder.

He latches onto your breast, teeth grazing and sucking just enough to keep himself tethered, trying to find some thread of control in the storm inside him. But you are perfect like this, so real, so alive on top of him. Since that moment on the couch, then in the car, he knew he wanted this. He knew he wanted you like this, in control yet vulnerable, riding him.

And now, with your weight pressing down on him, your breath warm against his skin, it's more than he ever thought he could handle. The need, the hunger, the raw connection, it all crashes over him in waves. You lift your hips slightly, then press down again so slowly, it has Simon moaning lowly.

“Ahhh, fuck, easy,” he hisses shakily. His breath is ragged, the warning barely out before you catch it.

Your half-lidded eyes lock onto his, glazed with need and lost in the feeling of him. Without hesitation, you repeat the same motion, slowly driving up, then down again.

“E-easy," Simon exhales, as his head falls back with a sharp breath.

But you are relentless. Leaning in, you press your lips to his in a bruising kiss. Simon catches your hips, pressing them firmly down onto him, desperate to keep you still. The combination of your lips on his and the grinding beneath him.. it is too much. It's too much to handle all at once.

Yet you continue moving your hips and Simon jolts beneath you, his control hanging by a thread. You cradle his shoulders first, then slide your hands up his neck, tracing the line of his jaw. That tender exploration is almost his undoing, making his breath stutter in his chest.

But then you take one of his hands, guiding it upward. You press his palm flat against your throat, right over your pounding pulse. Your eyes are locked to his as you continue to ride him with slow, devastating purpose.

Simon’s gaze burns into you, full of want. He presses just lightly there, feeling your pulse hammer against his hand, and your response is immediate: your head tilts back, eyes rolling as a shudder wracks your body. Watching you unravel like that... seeing you get off on him claiming you in this way... it sends a shock through him so intense he nearly loses himself right then and there.

He never expected you to like this, never imagined you'd pull him this deep into your desires. And now he never wants to come back out.

You ride him faster now, hips grinding with fierce urgency. Simon’s control slips, as he grunts and sharp hisses tear from his throat. They are raw and desperate. The tension inside him coils tighter with every stroke. Your moans rise alongside his, louder and more frantic, trembling on the edge of release. You are close, so close.

Then, just as you teeter on the brink, you clutch him close, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. With a sudden motion, you lift off of him and pull him down, bringing him on top of you. Simon lands above you, heart pounding. The shift puts him in control again.

He bottoms out, then dips his head between your legs, pressing a wet, hungry kiss there. You shiver violently at the sudden contact of his tongue.

Before you can catch your breath, he rolls you gently, so your back is against his chest. You bend down until your face presses into the mattress, as he cups your waist with his hands again. He positions himself behind you, sliding back inside with a slow, deep push. Your scream tears through the room, raw and desperate, fingers clutching the sheets until your knuckles go white.

“Simon!” you cry out, voice trembling with need.

He lowers himself to your level, eyes burning with tenderness and hunger. His breath brushes against your skin as he murmurs, “I’m here.”

You shiver beneath him, every nerve flaring as the waves of your second orgasm crash over you, raw and overwhelming. You lose yourself completely, trembling beneath him.

When you come down again, Simon turns you back around, brushing a slow kiss over your lips.

“Ride me again,” he whispers, voice husky and low.

Your breath hitches and you moan deeply as you slide back atop him without hesitation. It's everything he wants, everything he needs: you, on top of him, wild and free.

You sit down on him slowly, eyes locked onto his. Your hands find his shoulders, steadying yourself as he disappears deep inside you.

“Fuck, ahhh… baby, slow,” Simon hisses lowly, his body twitching. His hands move swiftly, grabbing your hair, as he buries his face there. He lets out a deep grunt when he's breathing in your scent.

You don't stop. You continue to ride him, each movement growing quicker, longer, deeper. Simon meets you with every thrust, rising to match your rhythm, driving upward again and again. His moans grow louder, more desperate. He can't hold on any longer. Your ass is plush and soft against him, every inch of your sweaty, warm body pressed tight as he finally lets himself fill you up completely. The sudden rush of warmth has you moaning, your breath trembling with delight. You lean down and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

When he comes down from his high, shaking and his hands still gripping your butt, you shift first. You lay down and curl into his side, your hand resting lightly against his chest. He slides an arm beneath you and pulls you in tighter. His face finds the curve of your neck almost without thought, as he breathes you in.

Your warmth seeps into him, your frame fitting against his like you were always meant to be with him. His hand begins to trace up and down your back in a slow cradle. You sigh against his chest and you stay tangled together in the quiet for a little longer. His hand is still tracing your back when his voice eventually breaks through the silence.

“I love you,” he murmurs, so soft it sounds like he might not have meant for you to hear it.

For a second, you freeze. He feels it immediately and stiffens, his chest tightening as his mind goes somewhere dark. He didn't plan to say it, not yet. He almost opens his mouth to say something.

But when you look up at him, you see a flicker of fear in his eyes, like he just handed you the most fragile part of himself. Your expression softens and you press yourself closer to him, your hands framing his face as you kiss him deeply. You melt into him like you want him to feel everything you can't yet put into words.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily, like your words took something heavy off his chest. Then, he shifts slightly behind you.

“You know… that chair’s still waitin’ for you in my garage,“ he huffs.

You blink, then burst into laughter. “You actually built it?”

“Built it the same damn night you asked for it,” he admits with a small smirk. “Sat there like an idiot, workin’ through it till it was perfect.”

Your chest tightens at the image of him, big and broody, fussing over a chair just because you wanted one. You kiss him again briefly, smiling against his lips this time and then he pulls you in his arms again, holding you even tighter than before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

@harperdoodle

@tessakate

@sophieliz

@izzystradvo

@scaleniusrm

@taxidermyfawns

@mer-not-man

@fertilise-me

@clara-geekhime

@grapejuicenads

@cacklebot

@dillybuggg

@luna-651

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ethe-realfantasy · 11 days ago

Note

In loveeee with your Simon fic

thank you, angel!!! I’m glad you like it!! (♡˙︶˙♡) tbh I was kinda nervous about that fic hahahaha so this message made me really happy!!! <333

#I wasn’t sure how y’all would react to Simon fighting his inner demons #but I’m really glad with how it turned out!!#next part will be up soon <333 #ask

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ethe-realfantasy · 14 days ago

Text

How Simon “Ghost“ Riley falls in love with his new neighbour (Part VI)

(ANGST, slow burn, you catch Simon disappearing inside his house with a young, pretty blonde that he picked up from a bar... and it all comes crashing down…

guys I know I said the last part is my favourite so far, but this one???? (≧◡≦) ♡ i LOVE this part and I love how much he cares (*/ω＼) ugh this tore my heart out

[please don’t be mad at me (シ_ _)シ they weren’t together ok!!!!]

aaand ngl "The Birds Pt. 2" by The Weeknd was playing on repeat while I wrote this)

°˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖°˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖°

The week had been hell.

He buried himself in routine, early shifts, late drills, stricter gym sessions, quiet nights alone. It was the only way to keep himself from looking at you. From marching across the driveway, knocking on your door, and doing something stupid.

So he ignored you. He kept his head down. Did the right thing... and it made him miserable.

That’s probably why he agreed to the bar. One of his teammates tossed the idea out after shift, and instead of his usual dry “not my thing”, Simon had said, “yeah, fine.” Because anything was better than sitting in that silent house, thinking about how not long ago you were sleeping in his bed, whispering his name like a prayer.

The bar is nothing special. It's loud and full of people trying too hard to forget something. That one blonde girl from base finds him, like she always does. She's barely twenty-four, all lashes and lip gloss, constantly flirting with him since day one.

“You look wrecked tonight, Riley,” she says, practically sliding into his lap. “Didn’t sleep well? Want me to be the reason next time?”

He doesn't answer, he just sips his whiskey and stares straight ahead.

She leans closer. “You know, for someone who acts like a ghost, you sure look like you could use a warm body.”

He is numb, buzzed and exhausted. So when she kisses him outside the bar, he doesn't stop her. Doesn't stop her when she gets into his car. Doesn't stop her when she latches onto his arm like a leech, giggling and whispering things that don't register.

When they pull up, it isn't late, just past ten. Simon steps out of the car, the blonde still clinging to his side. She presses her lips to his neck. “C’mon, Lieutenant,” she whispers. “I'm sure you can handle me, right?”

He doesn’t laugh. He simply reaches into his pocket and fishes out his keys, his jaw tight. And that’s when he feels it, like static in the air. He looks up and his heart stops.

You're there, just a few feet away, frozen on the walkway, clutching a stack of folders to your chest. You look like you just came home from work. The dress you’re wearing hugs you in all the right places and your hair is loosely falling over your shoulders. You look like something from a dream and he‘s standing there with someone else’s lipstick on his jaw.

Your eyes lock on his. You're confused, maybe a little hurt. It's all over your face, like a crack running through porcelain. You don’t move at first, you simply stare at him and at the girl pressed up against him.

His throat tightens and his grip on the keys falter. He wants to speak and say something like: it’s not what it looks like... except it is.

You blink, then look away and walk to your door, disappearing inside your house an instant.

Simon's still standing there, heart in his throat, nausea blooming deep in his gut. The blonde is tugging at his arm like she didn't notice any of it.

“You coming in or what?” she smirks, not even looking at him.

But all he can think is: Fuck. What did I just do?

It’s better this way, is what he tells himself. She saw what she needed to. She won’t come near you again.

The blonde tugs at his arm again. “Simon,” she whines, voice syrupy and eager. “C’mon, what’s taking you so long?”

He blinks like he’s been yanked out of another world. Wordless, he steps forward, unlocks the door and lets her lead him inside.

It feels like moving through water.

She kisses him the moment the door shuts behind them. Sloppy, fast and full of teeth. Her fingers are in his hair, her body pressed against him, hot and ready. He kisses her back, but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel the softness of her mouth or the warmth of her skin. He doesn’t feel the hunger she was so desperate to elicit from him.

Nothing.

There’s only steam in his lungs and a hollow ache in his chest. She moans his name against his throat like she knows him. Her hands grab at his shirt, yank it off like she's unwrapping a gift.

Simon doesn’t stop her.

He doesn't say a word as she drags him to the bedroom and pushes him down, straddling him like she owns him. She's laughing, light and tipsy, as if she thinks she won something. He lets her. Because fighting it means admitting that he wants someone else.

The blonde lowers her naked body onto his. And still… nothing. There is no fire, no real pleasure. Just heat and sweat. It's simply flesh against flesh and he is still numb. Still so fucking numb. When she reaches her release, breathless and trembling, he's barely present. She kisses him again, messy and loud and far too pleased with herself. He simply rolls off of her onto his back and stares at the ceiling, heart hammering.

All he can think about is you.

—————

The next morning, Simon blinks at the ceiling. The sheets are tangled at his hips, his mouth is dry, and something heavy is pressing against his chest.

The blonde is curled beside him, an arm draped lazily over his torso, her leg hooked over his. Her makeup is smudged and her lipstick faded in places she dragged it over his skin last night.

She sighs and stretches like a cat before she blinks at him with a smug, sleepy grin.

“You’re insane, you know that?” she purrs. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

Simon just stares at the ceiling and doesn't even bother to respond.

Her fingers trail down his chest. “We could stay in bed all day… round two?”

“No.”

“Wow. Okay,” she mutters with a short, offended laugh, sitting up and tugging the sheet around her bare chest. “I mean, you were the one who..”

“I'm heading for a shower. You know where the door is,“ he says lowly.

Her eyes narrow. “Unbelievable.”

She storms off, muttering something about how he wasn’t that good anyway, grabbing her clothes from the floor and huffing out the front door minutes later. The slam echoes through his bones.

Simon sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand down his face. The skin under his eyes burns, but not from sleep, from everything else. He didn't touch the blonde, not really. His body moved, but his mind was elsewhere.

He ruined everything.

—————

The week after that night stretches out quiet and still, almost painfully so. You move through your routines with mechanical precision: work, home, sleep. You see him twice that week, both times across the street or in the distance, his figure broad and distant, like a shadow you can‘t quite reach. Each time, your chest tightens, a dull ache reminding you how much has shifted between the two of you, how much was left unsaid.

Then, one night, after a long shift, you drive home under a sky heavy with low-hanging clouds. Your body aches from fatigue and all you want to do is to get inside, shower, and forget the world. When you finally pull in to your driveway, you step out of your car and sling your bag over your shoulder.

“y/n?"

The voice slices through the quiet. You freeze immediately and the hairs on your arms stand on end. Slowly, you turn and your stomach drops. He steps out from the shadows at the edge of your driveway, so you can see him clearly. Your ex.

Your first thought isn’t fear, it’s disbelief. You thought he was gone, you thought Simon had scared him off for good that night, when Simon looked at him like one wrong move would end badly for him.

Apparently, he wasn't scared.

“You have to be kidding me,” you mutter, your voice sharper than you intend.

He starts walking toward you.

“I just want to talk,” he says. His tone is steady, but you catch the faint slur beneath it, and when the breeze shifts, the smell hits you: alcohol. Not enough to stagger him, but enough to soften his edges.

Your pulse kicks up and you take a step back, angling toward the car again.

“You need to leave,” you say, forcing the words to come out clear.

“I’m not here to fight,” he says quickly, almost too quickly, like he rehearsed it. “I’m not.. look, I made mistakes, okay? But maybe we can just… one last talk.”

“No,” you say, even sharper this time. “I said everything I needed to say. We’re done.”

He closes the space between you and before you can fully move back, his hand is on your waist, familiar and possessive, like he thinks he still has that right.

You jerk away instantly, your whole body recoiling as you twist out of his reach. “Don’t,” you say, your voice shaking now. “Don’t touch me.”

Surprise flickers in his expression, maybe even hurt, but it’s fleeting. He steadies himself, breathing through his nose like he’s trying to keep it together.

“Just one last talk,” he urges again, quieter this time, as if lowering his voice makes him reasonable. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Your heart hammers so loud it feels like it’s echoing in your skull and you glance toward your front door, it's so close, but it feels miles away.

“No,” you say again, firmer this time, your voice cutting through the night. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

But he doesn’t listen. His hand snaps out faster than you expect, and this time he grabs your arm, hard. Your breath catches as his fingers dig into your skin, right above the elbow, the grip so tight it sends a hot sting racing up your arm.

“Stop,” you start, but he yanks you closer, his other hand clamping around your other arm, his strength pinning you in place.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he says, and the calmness is gone now. His voice is low but shaking with anger. The smell of alcohol is stronger this close, sharp and sour, making your stomach twist.

“You’re hurting me,” you bite out, trying to wrench yourself free. His grip only tightens, hard enough you know it’ll leave marks.

Panic spikes hot in your chest, but you channel it into movement. You jerk your knee up and twist your body, forcing as much space between the two of you as you can. Then your palm flies up, connecting with his cheek with a sharp crack.

He stumbles back, eyes going wide, not with pain, but with fury.

“You...” His voice pitches up, a raw edge breaking through the calm as his hand instinctively goes to his face.

You don’t wait to hear the rest. You immediately spin on your heel and bolt for the front door, your heart pounding so loud it drowns everything else out. Your keys fumble in your hand, but you manage to jam the right one into the lock, wrench the door open, and throw yourself inside. You slam it shut behind you, twisting the deadbolt so fast you almost miss. Your back hits the wood, breath coming in ragged bursts, and then you hear a loud bang on the door.

He slams his hand against the door from the outside, the force rattling through the frame.

“Open the door!” he roars, voice no longer calm, no longer careful. “You can’t just...open the damn door!”

You push off the door and stumble toward the living room, pacing in frantic circles. Your hands shake as you press them into your hair, trying to think. Call someone? Police? Your thoughts are a blur, none of them sticking long enough to feel like a plan.

Outside, he keeps yelling, his voice swinging between pleading and furious, each word slicing through the walls of the house.

“We’re not done! Do you hear me? We’re not fucking done!”

Your chest heaves, your bruised arms throbbing with every heartbeat, and all you can do is pace, pace, pace, trying to figure out what to do before this gets worse.

The yelling outside stops as suddenly as it started.

You freeze mid-pace, straining to hear. Your heart is still thundering, but for a moment you wonder if maybe he finally gave up.

Then you hear a car door slamming. Your head snaps toward the window, though you don’t dare move closer to look. Your gut twists with dread, some instinct warning you before your brain even catches up.

And then he’s back. The first hit against the door rattles through the whole house, a deep, splintering thud. You yelp, stumbling backward. The second blow comes harder, followed by his voice, now ragged with rage.

“You think you can just shut me out?” Then comes another hit. “We’re gonna talk!”

You catch a glimpse through the glass beside the door, a flash of metal. It's a bat. He’s got a bat in his hands, swinging it again and again, each impact making you flinch.

Panic crashes over you like a wave, drowning out every thought. He’s never done anything like this. Ever.

You stagger into the living room, your breath coming in frantic, heaving gasps. Your chest is so tight it feels like it might cave in. Your fingers fumble for your phone, trembling so hard you almost drop it.

9-1-1.

You press the numbers, the screen blurring through the tears welling in your eyes. You crouch down, curling into yourself near the couch, trying to make yourself small. But before you make the call, you hear a heavy, dull crash outside. It's not against the door this time. It sounds like something hitting the ground hard.

Suddenly, silence swallows the space where noise used to be.

—————

Riley tugs lightly at the leash, nose to the ground, while Simon rounds the corner back toward the row of houses. It’s quiet, late enough that most of the street is dead.

Then he hears a sharp, splintering crack. His head snaps up just in time to see the bastard standing on your porch, a bat in his hands, swinging it into your front door like he means to take it off the hinges.

Simon doesn’t think. The leash drops from his hand, Riley instantly falling into a sit, trained and silent. Simon’s boots eat up the distance between them in seconds, his body coiled tight with a cold, controlled rage.

The man doesn’t even register him until it’s too late. Simon hits him like a train, slamming into him with enough force to rip the bat clean from his hands. The crack of the guy’s body hitting the ground is so violent Simon’s sure something broke, ribs, maybe an arm. Doesn’t matter.

A strangled scream rips from the man’s throat, but Simon cuts it off with his knee pressed hard into his chest, pinning him like prey.

The man‘s wide, bloodshot eyes flick up and then they really see him. Recognition dawns, followed instantly by terror. That same terror Simon saw weeks ago, when he’d opened your door and stared him down without saying a word. But now Simon’s not just staring.

He drives his fist into the man’s face. There’s a wet crunch, and the guy howls, clutching his nose, blood spilling fast and hot between his fingers. Simon leans down, his lethal, each word razor-sharp.

“You come here again,” he grunts, “and I’ll make sure you never fucking walk again. This is your last chance.”

The man nods, wild and frantic, tears mixing with the blood as he sobs something that sounds like, “I swear, I won’t, I’ll never...”

Simon grabs him by the collar and hauls him up just enough to shove him toward the street. The guy stumbles away, limping, half-screaming, half-crying, spitting out pathetic promises over his shoulder. “I’m done! I swear! I’ll never come back!”

Simon stands there, chest heaving once, maybe twice, before it all settles back into his familiar cold calm. Riley’s still sitting where Simon dropped the leash, watching quietly. He stoops to pick the bat up, eyes cutting briefly to your door, splintered, but closed. He can hear nothing from inside, but he knows you're in there, scared out of your mind.

The street is quieter now, except for the whimper of the bastard limping away somewhere in the dark, fading with each pathetic step. Simon stays crouched, one knee pressed into the ground. Riley‘s now settled beside him, alert but calm, waiting for his next command. He exhales slowly, the rush of violence still simmering in his blood. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Then he hears the click of a lock. His head lifts as the door opens just an inch, maybe two. You stand there in the narrow sliver of space. Your face is pale, your eyes wide and glistening with tears. You're staring straight at him, like you're still trying to make sense of what just happened.

And it breaks him. He can see it, you're afraid of what just happened. Afraid of that bastard, who thought he could come here and lay his hands on you.

Simon rises slowly, careful not to spook you. Your breath hitches at the motion, and then you just… fold. A sob tears out of you, raw and uncontrollable, your hand gripping the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

That’s enough for him to close the rest of the distance. He steps closer, one slow step at a time. He just wants you to see that he’s not a threat, that he’s only here for you. When he’s close enough, you don’t resist. You let him in and he nudges the door open. You stumble back to give him space, your shoulders trembling as you finally let go of the frame.

And then he takes you in his arms. The moment you feel his solid weight around you, you break entirely, sobbing harder. Your body is going limp against him like your strength’s been ripped clean out. Simon folds you into him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing firm and steady between your shoulder blades. He lowers his chin to your hair, murmuring softly and instinctively.

“You’re alright,” he breathes. “It’s alright now.”

You sob louder at that, like the words themselves unlocked something, and he keeps rubbing slow circles into your back. Riley settles just inside the doorway, watchful but relaxed, as Simon presses a firm kiss into your hair.

“'m here” he murmurs.

Your sobs are less frantic now, but they still come in uneven waves against his chest. He can feel the tremors running through your body. Your breathing starts to find a rhythm, shaky but steadier, like you're finally letting yourself believe you're safe.

Simon leans his head back slightly, enough to look down at you. You don’t meet his eyes, your face is tucked into him, wet with tears. Your fingers are still knotted in his shirt like you’re afraid of what happens if you let go.

So he lowers himself, just a little, bending until his face is level with yours, until there’s no choice but for you to feel his gaze searching yours.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asks low but edged, something raw simmering under his calm.

Your breath hitches, and you start sobbing harder, your shoulders wracking violently against him.

He cups your face now, urging you to look at him. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asks firmer now.

You shake your head and step back, like you need distance, wiping at your face with trembling hands. You won’t meet his eyes.

“Simon,” you say, clipped, like that one word is all you can manage, like it’s meant to end the conversation.

"No," he says urgently, "why didn’t you?” His voice cuts sharper, frustration and hurt bleeding through. “The bastard had a bat.” He swallows the rest, jaw flexing as he tries to keep his voice from breaking with the sheer fury of it.

You drag your gaze to the floor, shaking your head, breath ragged, tears still streaking your cheeks. “Simon, I can’t.”

He freezes at that, your words slamming into him harder than he expects. He searches your face, hurt settling in his chest like a weight he can’t shift. He’s trying to make sense of why you wouldn’t reach for him when you needed him most.

You shake your head hard, like you're trying to physically push away everything pressing in on you. Another sob tears from your chest, jagged and loud, and you let out a shaky breath.

Simon stands rooted a few feet away, every muscle tight. His chest is heaving as though he’s holding himself back from closing the space between the two of you. His eyes are locked on yours, focused, hurt and unrelenting.

Finally, you look at him and the force of his attention makes your chest ache. Your eyes are wet and swimming with too much emotion: fear, confusion and exhaustion.

You let out a pained laugh as you drag a hand across your blotchy and teary face.

“I couldn’t call you,” you say with your voice cracking. “Not after that night. And you’re clearly… involved with someone else.”

The words hang there, heavy, and you almost wish you could snatch them back. But it’s the truth, or at least what you believe to be the truth, and saying it out loud feels like ripping off a bandage you've been pretending wasn’t there.

Simon’s reaction is immediate. He shakes his head violently and steps forward like the floor itself is pushing him toward you.

“No, no, no, it’s not like that.” His voice is urgent, almost rough with the force of his denial.

You look down, unable to hold his gaze, the tears pooling again despite your best effort to hold yourself together, but he won’t let you retreat.

He bends, lowering himself until his face is level with yours, his broad frame folding just enough to match your height. You're so close you can feel the heat of him, the controlled power in his presence. Still, his expression is nothing but raw urgency, as though making you understand is the only thing that matters.

“Listen,” he says, softer now but no less intense. “That night… she’s not..”

His words falter, but his eyes don’t. They search yours desperately, like if he just looks hard enough, you'll see what he means even before he says it. You don’t look away this time. You let him hold you in his stare and there is no deception, no hesitation in his face, just unflinching truth.

Your chest tightens painfully as your eyes roam his face, searching like you're trying to piece together a puzzle.

“But you pushed me away…” Your voice comes out broken, almost a whisper and you swallow hard, your eyes glistening as fresh tears gather. “You left like it meant nothing.”

Simon’s whole body reacts at once, a flinch so subtle most wouldn’t notice. His hands come up, cradling your arms just above the elbows, his palms warm and steady despite the urgency trembling through him. He shakes his head hard again, his jaw clenched.

“No. It’s not like that,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, not anger, but desperation, the kind that comes from needing you to believe him. His thumbs brush gently over your sleeves and his grip stays firm, protective.

“You think I could walk away from you and have it mean nothing?” His voice lowers, deep and rough, his accent curling heavier around the words.

“Truth is,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours, “you’ve been on my mind since that first damn time you smiled at me.”

Your eyes widen, searching his face frantically, as if trying to find any trace of lies, but there’s only raw, unfiltered truth staring back at you.

You swallow hard, voice trembling as you whisper, “But you left without a word… for weeks.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. Simon flinches, his jaw clenching so tight it looks like it might crack. His whole body tightens with the weight of your truth. After a moment, his voice breaks just a little, the vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his usual cold control.

“Thought you’d be better off without me,” he admits, low and rough, “Deserved someone better.”

He lets go of your arms slowly, but his eyes never leave yours, raw and open, as if he’s laid his soul bare and hopes you'll see it for what it is: real, messy and aching.

Suddenly, you feel dizzy. You grab his arm instinctively, like you need something solid to hold onto. His words cut too deep, slicing through the confusion and anger you've been holding inside.

Simon senses it instantly, how your body trembles, how you're caught somewhere between disbelief and fragile hope. But it’s not enough, he knows you're still lost in doubt, still unsure if what he says is real.

He calls your name. "Look at me," he says, steady but urgent.

You're in a daze, eyes glazed, barely registering the sound of your own name. So he reaches out, tilting your chin, gently but firmly, until your gaze meets his.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes finally lock with his, wide and searching.

“I wanted you that damn night,” he says, voice raw and unmistakably honest, burning with everything he’s held back. “Christ, you have no idea what I wanted to do to you.”

You blink, eyes flicking from one piercing gaze to the other, disbelief tangled with something softer.

“Then why would you...”

“You weren’t in the right state of mind," he interrupts, his voice low and intense, "I didn’t want to take advantage of you… not like that.”

Your breath catches and then you start sobbing again, real, ragged sobs that shake your whole body. The realization crashes down hard on you: he thought you were just looking for something temporary, a quick fix.

You shake your head, a little hurt that he expected that from you.

Simon sees the hesitation in your eyes. He searches desperately for any sign you're still holding back, but the need inside him overcomes caution. He moves forward, lips pressing fiercely to yours, consuming and desperate.

You stumble but don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, finally letting go of everything, of fear, of doubt, of pain and just surrender to the aching need between you.

Suddenly, you pull your head away, still trembling as you whisper, “If you leave again…”

Simon’s eyes darken with something fierce and protective. Without hesitation, he leans in again, pressing his lips back to yours in a softer, more urgent kiss. You sigh deep inside his mouth, your breath trembling with relief and hope.

Slowly, almost hesitantly at first, you slide your hands up his arms, your fingers clutching and tracing the muscles all the way up to his broad shoulders.

He responds immediately, burying his hand in your hair, gripping gently but with desperate need, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. In this moment, the world narrows down to just this... just the two of you.

[Part VII]

°˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

@harperdoodle

@tessakate

@sophieliz

@izzystradvo

@scaleniusrm

@taxidermyfawns

@mer-not-man

@fertilise-me

@clara-geekhime

@grapejuicenads

@cacklebot

@dillybuggg

255 notes · View notes

ethe-realfantasy · 16 days ago

Text

How Simon “Ghost“ Riley falls in love with his new neighbour (Part V)

(angst, slow burn, you and Simon share a passionate moment after you spent the night at his… then he suddenly pulls back and disappears….

he’s big and strong and just SAFE, guys this part might be my favourite yet… my heart is ACHING (シ. .)シ)

⋆｡°✩*️✮⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩*️✮⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩*️✮⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°

Simon catches it in the corner of his eye, the way your arms fold a little tighter over your chest, how your shoulders dip in just slightly, how your fingers are subtly trembling where they rest.

He glances over. “You cold?”

You look up at him and give him a small, soft smile.

“A little,” you murmur.

Without a word, Simon turns, walks a few steps toward the bedroom just beside the bathroom, his room, and disappears inside. You stay rooted to the spot, not sure if you should follow, not sure what he’s doing.

Then he reappears, a black hoodie slung in his hand. It looks soft and big.

He holds it out to you and you take it with both hands, brushing his fingers slightly as you do. It smells like him.

Simon nods toward the room he just came out of, jerking his chin in that direction, his voice low and rough. “That’s your room f’tonight.”

Your eyes widen, surprised by the offer, by his thoughtfulness, but you only nod, wordless for a moment, clutching the hoodie against your chest.

Then you look up at him with big eyes, still glassy from everything that happened. You stand before him, raw and vulnerable, but there’s also a flicker of softness and gratitude in your eyes.

“Thank you, Simon.”

It’s the quietest thing he’s ever heard, but somehow it lands right in the center of his chest like a fucking grenade. So full of softness, sincerity and a little ache. Your voice isn’t just soft, it’s beautiful. And it’s his name that you say like that.

Simon swallows and looks away. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, he doesn’t know how to stand here and be wanted in this… gentle way. Like he’s something safe, like he matters.

He clears his throat.

“Go on,” he mutters, motioning again to the room. “Get some rest.”

But he stands there a moment longer, just watching you as you disappear behind the door to his room, hoodie still clutched in your hands.

And for the first time in longer than he can remember, Simon’s chest feels warm and quiet.

He moves slowly now. The house is dim, lit only by a low lamp near the corner of the living room. He pulls a folded blanket from the basket beside the couch and lays it out with practiced hands, movements quiet, methodical, like setting up camp. Like being on base.

He tugs off his shirt first, then his socks. His pants next. When he’s left in just his boxers, he eases himself down onto the couch with a low grunt, worn muscles sinking into the cushions.

But there’s no peace.

The man’s voice cuts through the walls again, it‘s muffled, slurred, raised in rage.

“You serious?! Open the fuckin’ door! This is what we’re doing now? Hiding from me? You’re unbelievable, you hear me? UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!”

Simon’s jaw clenches. He stares up at the ceiling, teeth gritted so hard it aches.

How the fuck were you ever involved with a man like that?

With that voice, that venom, that control. It doesn’t make sense, not with you. Not the woman with sparkling eyes and shy smiles and soft words. The woman who baked him brownies for helping with her water valve. The one who pet Riley with so much love in her eyes and thanked him like he’d saved her life.

The one whose voice cracked so beautifully when she whispered: Thank you, Simon.

That woman… and that man outside? He doesn’t get it.

The shouting continues, louder, more erratic. Something crashes, maybe a trash can, maybe the drunk bastard’s own sense of pride shattering in the front yard. Simon doesn’t move, he just stares at the ceiling, his body tense and still like he’s back on overwatch, waiting for the right moment.

And then, finally… silence.

There’s one last slurred curse, the scrape of his shoes and tires screeching down the street again.

He’s gone.

Simon exhales slowly, eyes still fixed on nothing.

His muscles don’t relax, not really, because you’re still in there, in his bed. And the echo of your voice still hasn’t left him.

—————

It’s late.

Nearly 2 a.m., if Simon’s internal clock is right. Could be later. He hasn’t looked, he lies still on the couch, one arm behind his head, blanket pushed halfway down his chest. His eyes are wide open in the dark, listening.

He hears you before he sees you. The soft shuffle of your feet on the floorboards and the faint creak of the bedroom door. You appear in the kitchen, the light from above the sink spilling over you. His hoodie swallows your frame, your hair’s a mess, sleep-soft and a little tangled, like you’ve been tossing in the sheets.

You tiptoe carefully, you don’t want to wake him.

Simon watches through the open living room doorway, still as stone, hidden in shadow as you pour yourself a glass of water, slow and quiet, holding the glass in both hands.

Then you drift toward the front window, curious and hesitant. You want to see it. You want to know what happened, what you missed, what you lived through but didn’t face head on. You peek out through the edge of the curtain and see everything:

The tipped-over trash can. The footprint smeared against your front door. The tire tracks arced across your lawn like claw marks.

You stare for a long moment. Then you exhale slowly, as if you’re letting it settle, as if you’re trying to be done with it or maybe just trying to find a way to live with it.

And then you glance over your shoulder toward the couch. Simon doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes half-lidded in the dark. You can’t see them, not from where you stand, but he sees everything. Every detail of your face.

You just smile, softly and gently. A quiet thank you, maybe.

Then you turn and slip away again, the bedroom door clicking shut behind you and Simon stares at the ceiling with his heart thudding.

He’s still wide awake.

—————

At first, it doesn’t feel real.

You wake slowly, curled into warm sheets, the air thick with a scent you can’t place in the haze of sleep, something clean and woodsy, laced with the faintest trace of laundry detergent.

The mattress is firm beneath you, the pillow thick and the blanket heavy.

This is not your bed.

Your brows knit slightly, still not awake enough to remember and then it hits you…

The broken plates, the pounding on her door… Your eyes open and you blink at the unfamiliar ceiling. Everything is quiet and still. It’s his room.

Your breath catches in your throat. For a second you think it was just a dream, but no. You’re in his bed, wrapped in a blanket that smells like him, wearing his hoodie. And suddenly you’re hyper aware of it… of him... of last night.

The way he stood in the doorway, watching you as if making sure you didn’t break further. The way he didn’t ask questions, just quietly acted.

You glance around the room. It’s neat and sparse, without a trace of clutter. Just like him.

Your hands come up to your face as your heart twists and you sink a little deeper into the bed, eyes fluttering shut again just for a second, as if you can soak it in a little longer. Because this, being here, being held by his things, wrapped in his care, it feels like safety. Like a warmth you forgot you could have.

—————

The bedroom door creaks softly as you ease it open. Immediately, you blink against the faint morning light spilling through the hallway window, rubbing your eyes. The floor is cool and the house still smells like him, but with a touch of brewed coffee in the air.

You take a quiet step forward and nearly trip.

Riley lifts her head sleepily from her post on the floor, directly in front of the door. You smile, hand pressed to your chest.

“Hi pretty girl,” you whisper, crouching down for a second to pet her. “Were you guarding me?”

Riley thumps her tail once against the floor.

You exhale slowly before you straighten and tug at the hem of Simon’s hoodie draped over your thighs. Then you head toward the kitchen.

He’s already up, standing by the counter, his back to you, pouring coffee into a battered steel mug. He’s changed into a dark shirt and jeans. The curve of muscle under his shirt pulls your eyes like a magnet, but it’s the way he moves, quiet and intentional, that knots something warm and achey in your stomach. He doesn’t turn right away, but you know he knows you’re there.

Of course he does.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says after a quiet moment, his voice low from sleep. “There’s coffee.”

You step into the doorway, your fingers curled into the sleeves of his hoodie. You look soft, your hair is still a little messy, your eyes puffy from the night before.

“You didn’t wake me,” you say gently.

That makes him glance over his shoulder.

You smile sincerely and tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. “Are you always up this early?”

He shrugs, turning back to the coffee. “Didn’t sleep much.”

There’s a moment of silence as you step into the kitchen. He watches you from the corner of his eye, your legs under his hoodie, the shy way you move, like you’re not sure you belong in this space even after everything that happened.

But you do. And he hates how much he wants you to stay.

“I’ll pour ya one,” he mutters, already reaching for another mug. He’s nodding toward the chair at the small kitchen table.

You sit in his kitchen, in his clothes, in his silence as he brings you coffee. He sets it down in front of you without a word, but with a searching look. Your fingers wrap around the mug.

“Thank you,” you say softly, eyes lifting to meet his.

Simon stares at you and you almost die blushing. Then he leans back against the counter, arms crossed, gaze flicking between the window and you. There’s so much he wants to say and none of it knows how to get out of his mouth.

“I gotta head out,” he says.

Your eyes lift to his instantly and you nod.

“Only a few hours. Shouldn’t be long.”

Your thumb brushes over the lip of the mug. “Okay.”

“You can stay. If you want,“ he adds. “I mean,” he gestures toward the floor where Riley is curled up, “Riley’s not gonna shut up if I take her to base with me. Figured… if you wanted the company, you could have her.“ He rubs the back of his neck. “Or, y’know. Head back. Whatever’s comfortable.”

You hear what he’s not saying.

“You’d really leave her with me?”

“She likes you,” he says roughly now. “Doesn’t like most people.”

And neither do you, you want to say.

Instead you just nod, holding his gaze with soft, glowing eyes. “Okay. I’ll stay with her.”

He gives you a short nod back. “You can let yourself out. I left my phone number on the table, just in case.” he mutters. “I’ll be back later. Might swing by yours to pick her up.“

He turns to grab his keys off the counter, and Riley lifts her head, as if sensing the movement. He pets her gently, murmuring something into her ear and heads toward the door, letting it close shut behind him.

—————

It’s later than he meant to get back.

The sky’s already streaked in gold and blue and the air cooler is now. His boots crunch the gravel as he steps out of the car, the weight of the day still clinging to his shoulders. He rounds to your door, knuckles rapping once, firm, but not loud.

The door opens, and there you are. Your hair is tied up lazily and you stand in front of him in a flowy dress, barefoot and careless.

“Hi,” you say and it’s so quiet, so soft.

His brows knit slightly. Why the hell are you always so… sweet? Like he didn’t just come from a world that teaches men like him how to survive by forgetting softness exists.

“I’m here for Riley,” he says, his voice a little rough, hands still in his jacket pockets.

“Oh… yeah,” you say, stepping aside and opening the door wider.

The moment he’s visible, Riley rushes over, tail wagging wildly, ears up in full glee. She makes a happy little bark, bumping into his legs with full-body excitement.

Simon crouches, something finally easing in his expression as he runs a hand down her back. “There she is,” he murmurs, affection buried in his tone. “Missed me?”

Riley wuffs and licks his cheek, and Simon lets her. He stands again and gives you a quick glance, already backing toward the door. “Well. Gotta head back. G’night.” He starts turning already.

“Do you wanna come in?” you say softly.

He stills and turns back.

“I cooked something. I thought maybe you’d be hungry? After work?” you say, shifting your weight nervously. There’s no pressure in your voice.

Simon looks at you for a moment and it does smell good, whatever you’ve made… real food, not his bare-bones rations, not the shit they throw together during long shifts.

But mostly it’s you and that look in your eyes. The way you say it like it’s normal, like it’s easy to invite someone like him in and feed them. His jaw works for a second before he exhales, barely audible.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Could eat.”

Simon steps inside, a bit hesitant at first. His large frame moves through the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s meant to stay or just passing through. His eyes roam briefly over the place as you guide him toward the kitchen.

“You feeling better?” he asks, voice low but not unkind.

You glance over your shoulder as you grab two plates. “Mhm,” you hum. “Thank you again… for yesterday.”

He shrugs a shoulder, mouth twitching like he wants to wave it off. “It was nothing.”

But you just smile to yourself, that quiet little curve of your lips that says you know better. That you see more than he thinks.

You serve him dinner, your movements soft and practiced, and you sit at your small kitchen table. It’s cozy, quiet, filled with clinks of cutlery and murmured conversation. He answers in his usual dry manner. You’re easy to talk to, too easy, and he finds himself watching the way your eyes sparkle when you make conversation.

Once you’re finished, you stand to clear the table, stacking the plates carefully and walking to the sink. Simon hesitates only a moment before following, bringing his glass. He doesn’t say much, but he stands next to you as you rinse.

Then you walk him to the door.

“Goodnight,” you whisper softly. Then you lift your head to his. When your lips brush the edge of his cheek softly and you press a light kiss there, he goes still. Completely, awkwardly, still.

He blinks and straightens, his hands are at his sides, stiff and unsure what to do with them. His breath catches in his throat, because what the fuck was that? Why would you…?

But you only smile shyly, your head ducking just a little like you didn’t just knock the wind out of a man built for war.

Suddenly there is a loud knock at the door. Sharp and repetitive. It slams into the moment like a hammer. Simon’s head jerks toward the door instantly, already assessing, eyes narrowing.

Your smile drops and your shoulders tense. You don’t have to say it, he knows who it is.

The knocking turns to pounding.

“C’mon, baby, just open the door,“ the man says from the outside. “You have to forgive me. It was just one time, alright? You know I love you!”

Simon doesn’t move at first, his eyes are on you. He watches the way your face crumples, like a slow cave-in, the way your breath stutters in your chest and the way you can’t quite look at him.

And then he exhales, slow and cold through his nose and rips the door open without hesitation.

Simon’s presence is lethal.

The man on the porch staggers back a step instinctively, clearly not expecting Simon, not expecting to be looking up into the eyes of someone a full head taller, all broad shoulders and with a dead stare that makes men freeze on the battlefield.

Simon says nothing for a moment. He simply looks down at the man like he’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever seen.

“Who the fuck are you? You her new lapdog or something?“ the guy snaps, puffing himself back up.

Simon doesn’t answer, he doesn’t speak at all. He just looks at the guy… just that cold, hard stare. It makes the guy go pale, makes his hands twitch nervously at his sides.

The guy scoffs. “She’s mine. We had a fight, so what? She’ll come around. Always does.”

Simon’s voice is low and deadly calm. “You need to leave,” he says, final and cold, as he takes a slow step forward. “Before I make sure you don’t come back.”

The man stops talking. The silence that follows is suffocating. He fidgets and swallows. Then he glances past Simon at you, but your eyes are cast down, arms wrapped around yourself in quiet defiance.

And when he looks back at Simon, he sees it: Simon’s not bluffing.

The man stammers something under his breath, turns, and walks off fast, shoulders hunched like the cold air suddenly bit him.

Simon closes the door slowly, the finality echoing like a warning.

When he turns, you’re still behind him, staring up at him, lips parted slightly, eyes glistening with gratitude.

“You alright?“ he asks with a low voice, but he doesn’t meet your gaze. His eyes linger on the door for a moment longer, then drop to the floor. He exhales through his nose, short and rough.

“Mhm,“ you say, stepping a little closer. Your voice is warm, fragile and honest.

“Dunno how you ended up with a bastard like that,“ he mutters.

Your smile fades slightly, your eyes dropping to the floor.

“I mean,” he shakes his head, jaw tightening, “you’re…” He stops himself.

But the words hang there. He wants to say:

You’re kind and soft. You smile at strangers. You laugh easily and wholeheartedly. You cook for people who don’t ask. You pet dogs like it’s the best part of your day. You deserve someone better than him. You deserve someone better than me.

You wrap your arms around yourself. “It wasn’t always bad,” you say quietly. “He used to be… different. Or I thought he was.” You shrug. “It’s hard to explain. I think I just didn’t want to believe I’d let myself fall for someone like that.”

Simon’s eyes are on you. “You didn’t deserve that,” he says firmly.

You nod. “I know.”

A silence settles between you, heavy, but somehow not uncomfortable. You look back up at him and your gaze searches his.

“Simon?” You say his name like a secret.

His eyes lift.

You‘re flushed, cheeks warm from more than just embarrassment as he looks down at you, face angled just slightly. Like he can’t help but tilt toward you, even if every muscle in him holds still. You‘re close, too close. But he doesn’t lean in.

You rise up to your tiptoes, heart racing, merely millimetres away from his lips. You’re not quite kissing, just close enough that your breath grazes his jaw. He is towering over you, his frame caging you in.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice like silk.

His eyes flutter shut for a brief second, like it physically hits him. He hums in response, low in his throat. A small sound, deep and conflicted, like the only thing keeping him from leaning forward is the fear that if he starts, he won’t stop. Your breath is still brushing his skin and your body barely inches from his. You’re smelling so damn good, he thinks.

You tilt your head, eyes not leaving his, like you’re watching to see what he’ll do.

“I always figured,” you whisper, “you’d look good hovering over me.”

Simon’s breath hitches and his jaw flexes. The restraint snaps like a bone under pressure. His hand comes up fast, rough fingers curling behind your neck, and he pulls you in with a sound, low, guttural, like a man who’s been holding something in for far too long.

His mouth crashes onto yours. It’s not gentle. He’s not asking, he’s claiming. It’s heat and hunger and need all at once, his body pressing you back just slightly, not with force, but sheer presence. His other hand finds your waist, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You gasp into his mouth, fingers gripping his shirt for balance as he kisses you like it’s oxygen he’s been denied. He groans, deep in his chest, when you kiss him back, when your lips part, when your body melts. And for a moment, the world is quiet.

Simon’s lips are still on yours when you tug his shirt, gently guiding him back toward the couch. He resists for a breath, half a second of hesitation, but you deepen the kiss and it undoes him all over again.

You sink onto the cushions and tug him with you, and he follows, dizzy from the feel of you, how warm you are, how willing, how soft you are.

He sits and you straddle him, as everything else disappears.

Your fingers thread into his hair. His hands grip your thighs, sliding up beneath the hem of your dress finding bare skin and heat and softness that makes his breath stutter.

He groans into your mouth when you roll your hips against him, when your body presses into his, all soft curves and whispered need.

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips.

He’s trying to stay in control. He’s trying.

But you taste like everything he’s been denying himself. You feel like home and sin and every buried want he’s ever tried to crush.

And just when he feels himself slip, Simon growls low in his throat and grabs your waist. In one swift motion, he rolls you gently beneath him, bracing his weight above you, his chest heaving, forehead resting to yours.

And then he pulls back and straightens.

“I should go.” His voice is rough, strained, like it hurts to say it.

His hand brushes your cheek before he pushes off the couch, putting distance between you, between the heat.

Not because he doesn’t want you. But because he wants you too much.

You lay there, lips kiss-bitten, breath unsteady, staring up at the ceiling like you’ve been spun inside out. You blink up at him from the couch, still laid back, your breath uneven. Your eyes are wide, hurt, confused and shining like you’re trying to understand… why he stopped.

Doesn’t he feel it too?

Simon stands a few feet away, shoulders tight, chest still rising and falling like he just ran a sprint. He looks at you like it’s killing him to be standing there. His eyes are heavy and his jaw is clenched. He’s still tasting you on his tongue.

Your voice doesn’t come, but your expression says everything. Did I misread this? Did I imagine it?

He doesn’t say anything at first, but swallows hard. Then he steps closer again, kneeling slightly, just enough to reach out. His rough fingers graze under your chin, lifting it gently, like you’re fragile. And he looks at you like he wants to say everything he can’t.

“Take care,“ he says gently.

The words hang between you, tender and distant. A contradiction, a goodbye maybe, that’s not quite a goodbye.

Then he straightens. “Riley,“ he calls out firmly. Her ears perk and she pads over.

Simon doesn’t look back. He heads to the door, opens it and steps into the night. The door shuts gently behind him.

You stay curled on the couch, knees drawn up, fingertips brushing your lips like you’re trying to remember exactly what it felt like. Like you’re trying to understand what just happened.

—————

He slams the door shut behind him harder than he means to.

Riley lifts her head, tail thumping once, but even the dog can feel it, the storm in his chest. Simon doesn’t even take off his boots, he just paces. Back and forth, across the small space of his living room. His jaw is clenched, his hands flexing at his sides.

All he can think about is you.

Your soft lips, your flushed cheeks, the breathy way you said his name right before you rose up on your toes and thanked him like he was worth something.

And then that little thing you whispered, barely there, just enough to tip him over the edge...

I always figured you’d look good hovering over me.

Fucking hell.

He growls under his breath and scrubs a hand down his face like it’ll erase the feeling, like it’ll make him forget the taste of your mouth or how you felt when you climbed into his lap and kissed him like you meant it, like you wanted him.

He wanted to do more... so much more.

Unholy things, slow things, hard things. Things that bastard ex of yours clearly never even dreamed of doing. Things that would’ve made you forget every damn thing that came before him. He would’ve made you feel so good.

He could’ve had you right there. He still feels the way you sighed into his mouth, how your hands tangled in his hair like you needed him.

But no, he couldn’t do it. Not like that. Not when your mind was still wrecked and your heart was still raw and frightened. He clenches his jaw tighter and grits his teeth so hard it aches.

You don’t want this, you don't want him. You were overwhelmed, that’s all, emotional and fragile. You didn’t know what you were doing. That’s what he tells himself. But deep down what he really means is:

You wouldn’t want me if you knew me.

He sighs, sinks down onto the edge of the couch and buries his face in his hands. Riley pads over and rests her chin on his knee. He strokes her head absentmindedly, rough fingertips brushing her ears.

He should feel proud, he did the right thing, after all. But he doesn’t feel proud. He wanted you. And for a second… he could swear you wanted him too.

[Part VI]

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