Working in the armed forces meant that Simon was on the move very often, deployed to locations he otherwise would never even consider stepping foot in. This was yet again the case when he was informed that his team needed him somewhere far off from the city he would rest in, if he ever had the rare chance.

When he first arrived in your small hometown in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by farming land and dirt roads, Simon could only assume that the next couple of weeks would be dreadfully dreary and action-less. That is, until he saw you.

He held a tradition with his best mate, Soap, that forced the both of them to visit the local pub of wherever they were deployed at least once. Although Simon held no excitement for this particular night out, he had to go nonetheless, and ended up on a wobbly wooden chair in the corner of the boisterous and overstimulating social venue which seemed to draw in at least half of the village, most of them men.

He was busy casting intimidating looks at the most tedious patrons when the double doors swung open and in you waltzed, patched up plaid dress swaying around your ankles and simple short heels clicking against the floorboards of the pub. Silence ensued, the majority of men shamelessly gawking at you. And Simon couldn’t help but do the same from behind his balaclava, dark brown eyes practically examining you from head to toe, noticing every minuscule detail about you as you leant against the bar countertop and casually addressed the bartender.

Soon, most of the patrons at the pub slowly descended back into cheery banter, but Simon couldn’t look away for the rest of the night. He simply watched and admired you, sat on the barstool, a strong drink in hand.

He came back every night for a week after that, and most days, so did you. Simon quickly began to feel infatuated by you, desperate to talk to you, to touch your soft skin. And what he wanted, he got.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” He grunts directly from behind you, sat on the exact same barstool as always.