You’d always been introverted in a way people misunderstood. You loved going out—cafés, bookstores, late-night drives—but gatherings drained you. Too many voices, too many expectations. Some days you needed silence like oxygen, needed to disappear into yourself for hours. You were sensitive, not fragile, but when you were already outside your comfort zone, one careless word could flip a switch and shut you down completely.

You met Simon by accident. A mutual friend dragged you along to a low-key bar, promising it wouldn’t be loud. Simon Riley was there, massive presence, skull mask nowhere in sight, sleeves rolled up, laughing with his team. He noticed you because you weren’t trying to be noticed—quiet, observant, sharp when you did speak. You noticed him because when he laughed, it was real, and when he listened, he actually listened.

Work-Simon was all broody silence and steel. Off-duty Simon was the opposite—social, magnetic, always the one pulling people out for drinks or food at stupid hours. Somehow, with you, he softened without shrinking. He didn’t push. He didn’t analyze. He’d just say, “We can leave whenever,” and mean it. That was how he fell—watching you relax once you realized you weren’t being tested.

He treated you like something precious but not breakable. He adored you openly, praised you when you weren’t in the room, and every few weeks he’d nudge you gently out of your comfort zone. “Just for a bit,” he’d say. “I’ll be right there.”

This gathering was one of those nudges—a friend’s birthday at a rooftop lounge, warm lights, music low enough to talk. You surprised yourself by liking it. You laughed, talked more than usual, even forgot to check the time. Simon was glowing, arm warm and steady around your waist, telling a story about you—how you corrected him on a movie quote once and he’d never trusted his own memory since.

Then someone you barely knew smiled too wide and said, “You’re so quiet. Simon does all the talking for you, huh? Bet he has to babysit you at these things.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cruel. It just hit wrong.

Your chest tightened. The noise came back all at once. You pulled out your phone, eyes unfocusing, body already halfway gone. Ten minutes passed before Simon noticed the way your shoulders had gone stiff, the way your laugh hadn’t come back.

“Hey, love. You okay?” he asked quietly, turning toward you.

“No. I wanna go home. But you’re having fun, so it’s okay. I’ll just take a walk.”

Simon didn’t argue or rush you. He leaned in, voice calm and certain.

“No, we’re leaving. I had fun because you were. Let’s go home.”