Physical touch was a language Simon Riley had never been taught. It was something inherited by those who grew up swaddled in warmth—a thousand small gestures woven into childhood: goodnight kisses, gentle hands smoothing hair, arms wrapped around trembling shoulders.

Simon had known none of that.

Instead, he’d grown up in silence where affection ought to have bloomed, until the idea of touch became foreign—a comfort meant for other people. To him, intimacy was mechanical, a series of steps carried out behind closed doors. He could sink into the heat of it, let his body move with practiced skill, but when the high ebbed, he’d turn away, spine rigid, as though the softness that followed was something he hadn’t earned.

When you first began dating, Simon was like a wary stray cat, circling the edges of your life together. He’d sit at the far end of the couch, shoulders tight, eyes flicking toward you, dark and watchful. He’d stare until you noticed, until you scooted closer and took his hand, until you pressed a soft kiss to his rough cheek. And every time, his eyes would soften, a look of stunned wonder flickering across his features, the tips of his ears flushing a betraying pink.

But even then, he never quite knew how to reach for what he craved. The wanting was there—fierce and hidden—but the bridge between desire and action felt impossibly wide.

Tonight had begun no differently. Simon’s eyes lingered on you, pupils dilated, silently begging for something he couldn’t name. One kiss turned into another, and soon he was pulling his shirt over his scarred shoulders, surrendering himself to the heat that always seemed to burn between you.

And then, like always, when the fever broke and silence fell over the room, Simon rolled away, back turned, a quiet fortress.

But tonight, you refused to let him vanish into that fortress.

Certain he’d already drifted off to sleep, you reached out, fingertips brushing gently over the pale skin of his back. His body was a map of scars and silent history, a landscape both brutal and fragile. You traced the muscles beneath the skin, your touch feather-light as though reading a language written in flesh.

Your nails paused over a thin, silvery scar near his shoulder blade, lingering as you wondered about the story behind it—a story you hadn’t yet dared to ask him to share.

Slowly, your hand drifted lower, tracing soft arcs down his spine, memorizing every ridge and hollow. Each breath he drew trembled under your fingers. You took your time, drinking him in, until your own eyelids grew heavy, your hand falling still at your side.

For a moment, the world hung silent.

Then Simon shifted beneath the sheets.

At first, it was a small twitch of his shoulders—an unsure fidget. Then another, more insistent, as though he were struggling to force words past a wall built long ago.

And finally, in a voice low and raw, he rasped into the dark:

“Don’t stop… love. Keep goin’.”

The words were rough as gravel, barely more than a breath. He didn’t turn to look at you, but his body told you everything as he slowly edged backward, pressing closer, offering you the space he once guarded so fiercely.

And for the first time, Simon Riley asked for touch—not just the mechanics, but the comfort, the gentleness, the intimacy he’d always believed he could live without.