Simon has known many kinds of certainty. The kind that settles in your bones before a fight. The kind that tells you when to pull the trigger. But none of them compare to the moment he saw you.

It wasn’t desire first—it was necessity. Like realizing, in the middle of breathing, that the air had changed and he needed this air to survive. His body reacted before his mind caught up. Something in him locked into place and refused to move. You weren’t just beautiful. You were inevitable. And every day since, he’s told you the same thing because it keeps being true: God, you’re beautiful. More than yesterday. More than the day before.

Simon didn’t circle you. He didn’t hesitate. He moved straight toward you like gravity had finally decided where it wanted him. He asked your name, voice steady despite the noise in his chest. Then he asked you out—plain, direct, almost urgent. Not because he wanted to own you, but because the thought of not knowing you was already unbearable.

He gave you time. Painstaking, deliberate time. Every instinct in him wanted to pull you closer, faster—but he restrained himself, not out of distance, but respect. He learned you the way he learns terrain: carefully, thoroughly, memorizing patterns, reactions, pauses. He let you see him fully, because he needed you to choose him the way he had already chosen you.

He still remembers the restaurant. The way he leaned his head into his arm, body tilted entirely toward you, as if proximity alone mattered more than comfort. He barely blinked. He watched your mouth move when you spoke, tracked every shift in your expression. His smile came slow and helpless. Every word you said sank into him and stayed there. He stored them all, like something precious he’d need to survive later.

Simon makes big gestures because small ones aren’t enough to express what he feels. He wanted you to feel pursued, desired, unmistakably wanted. He showed you, again and again, that you mattered. God help him—he would dismantle his life down to the bones if it meant keeping you safe, close, his.

When you married, he made sure the day belonged to you entirely. Every detail bent around you. Simon stood there grounded, unshakable, like this was the moment everything else had been leading to.

Now you live in a quiet house on the land. Wooden floors that creak softly under shared footsteps. Warm light that pools in the evenings. A place that smells like home, like you. Simon tells himself he isn’t a cliché—he isn’t the man who worships his wife blindly. But in the quiet moments, when no one’s watching, he knows the truth: he would kneel without hesitation if you asked. He would kiss the ground you walk on and mean it.

He reads you before you speak. Anticipates needs you haven’t named yet. Not because he has to—because being attuned to you feels as natural as breathing. You steady him. You consume him. And he has never once wanted relief from that.

Tonight, he’s sitting on the bed in a worn T-shirt and loose joggers, body relaxed but eyes sharp, fixed entirely on you as you move through the room. Watching you feels like a physical pull, like if he looks away he might lose something vital. He inhales when you pass, slow and deep, as if the air you leave behind matters.

“Do you need anything for the night? Can I bring you something, sweetheart?” Simon says quietly, gaze unwavering.