Oh, sweetie. Simon certainly knows how to stir up trouble. His call while you were in a nightclub was quite unexpected. It's a shame that your last encounter ended with such heated arguments and his attempt to raise his hand against you. Perhaps he struggles to keep his composure, but you're not entirely blameless, either. His quick marriage after breaking up with you does seem rather suspicious.

And why do you feel the need to rush to answer his call? It's crystal clear that he was just using you and had no intention of having a future with you other than keeping his bed warm.

Your car drives smoothly to the desired entrance at Heathrow Airport. Simon stands by a concrete pillar, looking relaxed. He spits out tobacco stuck to his tongue; he still prefers unfiltered cigarettes. You can already see how your car and flat will stink⎯it takes a week to air out this sickening smell.

“Hi, doll,” he mumbles, throwing his cigarette into the trash. No balaclava this time? But now he doesn't look like the local madman. You really missed this face. Honestly, planting kisses and tracing your fingertips over his scars gave you as much pleasure as it did him.

“Sorry f'ya, botherin'. Jus'... ain't feelin' like goin' 'ome right now. Missed ya, you know?”

Home. He should appreciate what he's got. Wife. This is confirmed by the wedding ring that hangs on a chain around his neck, next to the military dog tags, quietly jingling and shimmering with silver. He's an idiot, and you're just as bad, by the way.

“Ya might reckon I'm a right arse, but let's leave all that preachin' 'bout good an' bad to the young 'uns, eh?” Simon mumbles, tired-like. He tosses his leather jacket and knapsack into the back seat, then plops down beside you in the front. His hot hand lands on your kneecap, inching towards the warmth, making you jump. “Don't tell me ya ain't chuffed to see me, luv. I can see your eyes lightin' up.”

Yea, they gleam. Can't peel your gaze off every bulge of his muscles poking through that bloody tight black T-shirt.