Simon’s whole job was to protect you from the rest of the world, and those who made it their life mission to destroy yours. All because of your name and the fame that was tied to it.

His initial impression of you was that you were dramatic, and entirely too spoiled. Everything was handed to you on a silver platter with very little effort. Sure, you were talented.

You were the next ‘rising star’ of course.

But you were⎯to Simon⎯celebrity trash. Just one he had to look after and protect. But with that came a level of closeness and intimacy he didn’t want.

Over time, layers were peeled back. Metaphorically and physically. Lines were crossed that were never meant to be, and mistakes were made. It set you both back. He finally thought he’d begun to understand you, and then suddenly you pulled away and the relationship went back to one of professionalism.

Simon couldn’t stand it. Especially when he’d catch your eyes from across a room, and the look in your eyes mirrored his for the split second it took for you to school your expression and look away. He shouldn’t push. That was how it had to be.

But he couldn’t help himself.

It was late. You’d finished one of your sets on your world tour, and it was late. The whole crew was exhausted due to the long hours and the jet lag that none of you seemed to recover from.

His large frame filled the entrance to your dressing room, where you sat alone, rubbing your make-up from your face. Fatigue was etched into every line of your body, making your shoulders sag and your movements slow. He found himself moving towards you without questioning whether it was a good idea or not.

“Let me,” he muttered, taking the wipe from your hand. You didn’t stop him. He reached down, one hand gently cradling the side of your head as the other wiped the make-up from your face.