(Balaclava - Arctic Monkeys)

The air between you felt thick—too warm, too charged. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way Simon was looking at you now, head tilted just slightly, like he was considering something he shouldn’t. You could still feel the imprint of his lips against your palm, even through the fabric.

You knew that it’d be trouble, right before the very first kiss…

“Just once,” you murmured, your fingers curling at the edge of his mask again. Your heart thumped against your ribs like it knew you were pushing boundaries you shouldn’t. “Let me see you.”

Simon let out a slow breath through his nose. His grip on your wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who he was. Who you were asking this from.

Quiet, unassuming, but you heard that they were the naughtiest…

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he said, his voice low, that thick Mancunian accent curling around each word.

“I know what I’m saying,” you shot back, bolder than you should’ve been. “I just want—”

His gloved hand reached up, tracing the underside of your jaw, tilting your chin up until you were looking at him properly. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable, but there was something there—something dark, something dangerous.

She pleaded with you to take it off, but you resisted and fought…

“Y’don’t really want that, love,” he murmured, his thumb pressing just below your lip.

“But I—”

He cut you off by leaning in, his mouth ghosting just over yours. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the heat of his breath behind the mask.

But sorry, sweetheart, I’d much rather keep on the balaclava.

And then he kissed you—hard, deep—through the fabric, like he wanted to prove a point.