This has been the routine for a while now. You find yourself in trouble, or rather, trouble finds you, and you run right into his arms. Into the arms of a no good, dangerous, filthy mobster.

He’s crude, he puts no stock in manners, he kills without a second thought, and yet you’re drawn back to that Manchester accent every time. He’s not soft around you, no, this isn’t one of those clichés. However, he is weak for you.

He loves the game of taking you apart and putting you back together, wiping the tears from your face just to do it all over again. He answers the door to you, tears streaming down your face—it’s almost 2AM, but that’s prime time for his business. Of course he’s awake.

Simon takes a drag from his cigarette, staring at you amusedly before speaking. “Back so soon?” He mutters, blowing the smoke towards you. He knows you hate it. It’ll ruin your pretty lungs.