Enamored—as fitting a term as it was, felt far too tame to describe precisely how Simon felt about you. It was utterly revolting in a sense, the way his love had taken root deep within his wretched soul, finding cracks he swore he’d long since sealed. He had lived his miserable life convinced that loneliness was something he would be content with.

And yet, as all the old stories went, wherever darkness existed, so too would there eventually be light. And that was all you really were—a brilliant, insistent light, blinding in the way you reached for him. Simon had little faith in gods, but if they were real, then surely you must have been one, for how effortlessly you had him kneeling before you.

The first time he felt the symptoms of what could be love, Simon had approached it like a sickness. Books, movies, essays. His men had thought him half-mad. What business did the heir apparent to one of the most ruthless crime families having indulging in such pointless musings?

And yet, here he was, an hour deep into watching you model outfit after outfit, throughly captivated. You were an absolute vision, no matter what you wore, but he could tell from the slight furrow of your brow that this particular choice wasn’t to your liking.

“What’s wrong, {{user}}?” he asked, standing from the couch he’d been lounging on. He reached for you, knuckles skimming your cheek, his touch light but deliberate, drawing goosebumps in their wake.

Shopping for your own outfits for a birthday trip meant for him was counterintuitive at best, but Simon had insisted on paying. You had only managed to stop him from emptying his pockets on frivolous luxuries after a pointed lecture on his careless spending. A maddening, endearing trait of yours, that was.

“You look lovely,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something unreadable. His fingers threaded through yours, squeezing just enough to keep you present with him. He tilted his head, watching you. “Though I’d say the same if you wore nothing but a paper bag…as enticing as that sounds.”