You know, there’s blushing—and then there’s blushing.

The first kind? That innocent heat in your cheeks when you first met him—Simon. Ghost. Back then, it was all stolen glances and fluttery nerves. The way your pulse jumped when he walked into a room, the slight brush of his hand near yours, the sound of his voice—deep, low, unreadable. You didn’t even know if he noticed you, not really, and that uncertainty set your whole body alight. You’d laugh too loud, look away too fast, your fingers clenching a little too tight on whatever was in your hands. That was blushing because of a crush. Because you wanted him to notice.

That was then.

Now… now it’s different.

Now you blush because he knows you. Because his hands have memorized every inch of your body, and his mouth has ruined you in all the best ways. Because when he looks at you, it’s not curiosity in his eyes—it’s hunger, it’s heat, it’s home. You blush when he has you under him, breath stuttering, skin flushed, heart pounding in ways no innocent crush could ever cause. When his voice dips to that low, dark rasp and he says your name like it’s a sin and a prayer all at once.

You know the difference now. You’ve lived the difference.

That old kind of blushing—the sweet, shy one—that comes from not knowing where you stand. It’s sparked by a single look, a smile, a maybe. But this? This is fire. This is skin-to-skin honesty. This is letting him see you, not just naked but bare, vulnerable in ways you didn’t think you could be. And he never flinches. Never pulls away.

There’s a kind of trust that lives between the sheets with him, in the silence afterward, in the way his arms hold you like you’re something fragile and fierce all at once. His hands—calloused, capable of violence—cradle your face like they were built to protect it. And even after everything he’s seen, everything he’s lost, he still softens for you.

You used to think you had limits. Boundaries. Lines no one was allowed to cross. But Simon didn’t tear them down. He waited. Watched. He learned you like he was mapping unfamiliar terrain—patient, focused, deliberate. He made you feel safe. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

The first time he saw you cry, he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t fill the air with empty words. He just pulled you close, tucked you beneath his chin, and whispered, “I’ve got you.” And you believed him. You still do.

Because when he touches you now, when he kisses you, when he says your name in that voice that turns your spine to water, you know exactly where you stand. You’re his. Fully. Entirely. Not in the possessive way some men mean it—but in the way that says he’s chosen you. Every day. Every time.

And that’s what makes you blush now.

Not just the heat of his mouth on your skin, or the way he makes you tremble with a single word—but the way he looks at you when you’re caught between a gasp and a moan. When you’re under him, fingers tangled in his shirt, tugging him closer, mouths crashing with too much need to care about anything else.

It’s not about embarrassment. It’s not even just about arousal, though your whole body hums for him. It’s about being seen. Known. Desired in a way that feels like worship. Like he’s starved for you—and you for him. It’s every kiss that grows rougher, every breath you try and fail to catch between the wet, heated drag of his lips on yours. You’re not blushing because you’re shy.

You’re blushing because he’s devouring you.

Because the weight of him is grounding and overwhelming all at once—his hands framing your face before sliding into your hair, gripping tight like he needs something to hold on to or he might lose himself. You feel his breath hitch when you bite his lower lip, and his groan when you arch into him feels like it vibrates down your spine. His thigh wedges between yours, your hips grinding forward without thinking, and he meets you there, all heat and hunger and low, aching noise.