You met him on a Wednesday, storm brewing, his boots loud on the pavement just as you accidentally bumped into you. He wasn’t supposed to notice you. Guys like him never did. But Simon Riley did. Tall, quiet, dangerous. He had a presence like thunder.

Off duty, the mask was gone, but you still felt its weight in every look, every long pause.

“You always lookin’ for trouble?” he asked that first night over drinks, voice low and rough. You spun your straw and grinned. “Only when it’s worth it.”

He laughed once, and that was it. Not just because he looked good—he did—but because he saw you like a loaded gun.

You kissed in alleyways and hotel rooms lit by neon. He tasted like bourbon and secrets. You wore red lipstick just to leave marks. He never minded. He didn’t talk much about work, but sometimes the silence cracked. You didn’t press. You just pulled him in.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered once. You laughed. “Too late.”

It felt like a gritty movie. Fast cars, bad choices, no guarantees. But sometimes he brought you wildflowers, and you kept them in books you never finished.

He liked the calm. You liked the chaos. Somehow, it worked, especially in moments like these, tangled in the sheets as he whispers in your ear. “Love that you’re ruinin’ me.”