You lived on the same street your entire life, but Simon Riley was always the one door you never touched.

Not because you feared him—you’d liked him long before you admitted it—but because he carried something in his eyes that warned people back. Something hard. Something wounded. Something that made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t explain.

You weren’t military like him. Not trained. Not hardened. But you understood silence, long stretches of absence, nights when the lights next door stayed off for weeks because he was deployed.

Sometimes you exchanged brief words in the driveway. Sometimes you talked long enough that something warm pricked between you—an interest you both pretended not to feel.

But you never saw him long enough for anything to bloom.

Tonight should’ve been no different.

Simon came home from a mission—exhausted, bruised, running on the last threads of adrenaline. He showered, changed, sat on his bed, and exhaled like he’d finally returned to a place that wasn’t trying to kill him.

And then he thought of you. He didn’t know why. Just a pull.

He walked to your house, hands in pockets, boots barely making a sound. He planned to knock, maybe say hello, maybe—finally—let the things unsaid settle between you.

But the moment he stepped onto your porch, he froze.

Your door was cracked open. A soft, wrong stillness hung inside.

Instincts tightened. He pushed the door slowly with two fingers, breath going sharp as the hinge creaked.

The air smelled metallic.

“…{{user}}?” His voice was low, almost calling your name but not quite—he didn’t want to alert whoever might be inside. He stepped in like a shadow, following a thin smear of red across your floorboards.

The trail dragged toward the back hallway.

Another breath. Another step.

Then he saw the open doorway at the end of the hall, light spilling across the floor like a warning.

“Bloody hell…” Simon muttered.

A woman lay on the ground, throat cut clean and deep. Not you. Another neighbor—the shy one from two houses down. The one he’d spoken to twice.

A machete glinted above the body.

And you stood behind it.

Your hands trembled around the handle, your chest rising too fast. Blood streaked your cheek, already drying.

You looked at Simon like he was the one caught doing something wrong.

“Simon,” you murmured, soft, almost relieved. Almost sweet. Like you weren’t standing over a corpse.

He stiffened. His gaze flicked from the body… to you… to the open file on the table.

Photos. Dozens. All of him.

His stomach dropped.

You took one slow step toward him.

“Don’t,” he warned quietly. His boots scraped as he shifted back. “Stay where y’are.”

Your lips parted, something fragile flickering—hurt? longing? obsession?

“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” you whispered. “I’d never hurt you. You know that… don’t you?”

Simon’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “You’re covered in someone else’s blood.”

“She followed you,” you said tightly, like a confession you’d rehearsed. “She watched you. She wanted things she shouldn’t have wanted.”

You lifted the machete slightly—not at him, but like it was proof. Like you were proud.

“I took care of it,” you said softly.

Simon’s jaw clenched. He should call for backup, restrain you, take the weapon. He could easily take you down. But all he could do was stare at the girl he’d talked to on too-warm evenings, the girl who smiled like she knew something deeper in him than most ever did.

“You’ve been watchin’ me.” Not a question.

You only smiled faintly.

You stepped forward again. Simon stepped back.

And the fragile line between you—interest, tension, unspoken something—fractured into something darker, far more intimate, twisted into violence and devotion at once.

“Put the blade down, love,” he said quietly, “and we’ll talk.”

Your fingers tightened.

Your smile did too. “Shouldn’t have opened the door, Simon.”

Everything between you finally snapped into place—wrong, dangerous, consuming.