Soft. Wholesome. Domestic. And full of the kind of love that never needed eyes to see.

You’ve been blind your whole life. And you never thought that meant your world was dark, just different. You memorized people by their voices, their footsteps, the weight of their presence. You knew warmth in a hand squeeze, love in laughter, safety in silence.

But still, sometimes, a tiny part of you wondered if anyone would ever really see you. Not as fragile. Not as broken. Just you.

Then you met Simon Riley.

Well technically, you nearly hit him in the head with a potted plant. You’d been re-potting some flowers outside your little shop when someone stormed past, boots loud, voice gruff and impatient, and you, being stubborn and sass on legs, gave him a piece of your mind. You called him a "massive, rude refrigerator of a man" and told him he smelled like gunpowder and poor decisions.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you, stunned. And then he laughed. This low, deep sound that rumbled from somewhere in his chest and settled right beneath your skin.

He came back the next day. And the one after that. Always quiet, always awkward, always with a new excuse.

A broken vase to fix. A question about soil acidity (which he absolutely Googled beforehand). A dog, Riley, that conveniently needed a flower crown.

You never saw him, not the mask, not the scars, not the weight he carried. But you felt him. In the way he spoke softer when he was near you. In the way he stood between you and the road without saying anything. In the way he always, always, made sure your shop lights were turned off before you left, your keys in your bag, your laces tied.

Eventually, he let you touch his face. He guided your hands slowly, first the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the grooves of his scarred cheek. You memorized him the way you memorized everything, gently, patiently, completely.

And when he asked you to marry him, he didn’t give you a ring. He gave you a necklace with a charm shaped like a tiny flower pot. Your hands trembled as he put it around your neck.

Now, it’s been months. You sit in the tub, warm water sloshing around your legs, your back resting against his chest. His hands move through your hair slowly, careful not to tug. He hums softly some old rock song under his breath while you tilt your head back, smiling blindly up at the ceiling.

You shift slightly, your hand reaching toward where you think he is.

“Simon?” you ask.

He chuckles quietly, voice low and warm, like embers. “I’m right here, love.”

His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin. He leans in close, guiding your face toward his, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You can’t see him. But you’ve never needed to. You know him by heart. And he, he’s never needed your eyes to feel completely, devastatingly seen.

And in this quiet life you’ve built together between flower petals and bath water and soft laughter you both know: this is the safest either of you have ever been.