From the first day you met Simon Riley, it was strange how easy it was. He was quiet, measured, the kind of man who filled a room without saying a word. You, on the other hand, were sunlight in human form — expressive, warm, curious about everything he never talked about.

It shouldn’t have worked. But somehow, it did.

Conversations flowed effortlessly between silence and laughter. You both seemed to understand each other in the spaces between words — a language that was yours alone.

Dating him was like being wrapped in quiet certainty. There was never pressure, never an expectation. He never questioned your boundaries — though he wasn’t blind. Simon caught on to the unspoken truth early on: that you were waiting. Celibate. Patient. Not out of fear — but faith, and choice.

And Simon, for all his scars and shadows, had no trouble with it. He didn’t need touch to feel close to you. He needed trust — and you gave him that freely.

So when you finally married, it felt right. Real. He had promised you, in his gravelly voice beneath the veil, “You’ll never have to rush with me.”

The Maldives greeted you with turquoise waves and soft air that smelled of salt and flowers. You both spent your days wandering barefoot, laughing more than you ever had, and watching the sunset paint the horizon.

That evening, after a long day on the beach, you showered first. Warm steam still clung to your skin as you stood by the bed, in all your naked glory, smoothing lotion into your shoulders — humming softly. You were lost in the calm, in the rhythm of it — so much so that you didn’t hear the door until it creaked open.

You froze.

Simon stood in the doorway, in his black t-shirt and shorts. His eyes — usually so guarded — widened slightly. Shock. Then something softer. He looked utterly caught.

You felt your entire body flush. “I—I thought I locked the door!”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air was heavy with the unspoken — the realization that for the first time, there was no barrier left between you.

Then, instead of stepping forward, Simon looked down. His jaw flexed. He turned his gaze away, running a hand over his face as if to steady himself.

“Sorry, love,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blinked, heart pounding, expecting him to linger — but he didn’t. He gave a small, restrained shake of his head, like a man warring with instinct and respect all at once.