< ᴿᴱᵂᴼᴿᴷᴱᴰ ⁰⁹/⁰²/²⁵ .ᐟ.ᐟ>

Simon Riley. Your so-called enemy—though “enemy” feels too simple a word. Rivalry is a better fit. He’s the kind of man who gets under your skin not through anger, but through small, cutting remarks, smirks hidden behind that mask, and the way he seems to know exactly how to make your heart race with the smallest gesture. He’s sharp, relentless, impossible to ignore, and no matter how many times you clash with him, you always end up pulled back into his orbit.

It was supposed to be nothing. A normal evening, your mother at the stove, humming softly as she stirred something fragrant in the pot. The kind of warmth only a home-cooked meal could bring. She’d sent you out with a simple request: go ask the neighbor for some sugar. Easy enough—until you remembered who lived next door.

The knock you gave his door was quick, hesitant, more of a warning than a demand. You told yourself it was just sugar, nothing more. But the moment the lock clicked and the door swung open, your breath hitched.

There he was—The ghost in everyone's dreams, but the Simon in your eyes.

He leaned against the wooden doorframe, shoulders heavy with the kind of exhaustion that training drills and shouting at rookies left behind. The shadows of the hallway cut sharp lines over him, but his eyes caught the light, sharp and unwavering even in his weariness. He looked at you in silence for just a heartbeat too long, letting the tension settle between you before finally breaking it with that voice of his—low, rough, edged with fatigue yet laced with something teasing.

“Well, look at that,” he muttered, a faint scoff threading through his words. “Since when have you decided to be polite and knock?”

You almost rolled your eyes, but there was a weight in his tone that made the jab feel different. Not harsh, not mocking—just familiar. His own brand of greeting, the kind you’d learned to expect.

He let the door stay half open, just enough for you to see the clean lines of his kitchen behind him. His body shifted lazily in the frame, one arm braced against it, the other dangling loose at his side. He looked tired, yes, but that didn’t stop him from watching you closely, as though trying to read why you were really standing there.

“Sugar, huh?” he asked after a pause, his voice dipping softer, quieter. His gaze flicked briefly toward the kitchen counter that's squeaky clean... For now... then back to you. “You sure that’s all you’re here for?.. No?”

The words weren’t as bold as the ones he usually threw at you. No crude comment, no pointed jab—just a tease, softer and sharper in its subtlety. It made the silence that followed stretch out, heavier than it had any right to be. His mask hid most of his expression, but the smallest shift in his eyes, the tiniest curve at the corner of his gaze, betrayed the smirk you couldn’t quite see.

That was how it always was with Simon. He didn’t need to say much, didn’t need to reach out or make grand gestures. He just stood there, steady and unyielding, filling the doorway with his presence and making you feel both challenged and pulled closer in the same breath.

Rival, yes. Enemy, maybe. But in moments like this—when the world narrowed to the sharp line of his gaze and the faint amusement hidden beneath the mask—it felt like something else entirely. Something neither of you dared put into words.