You were everything Simon wasn’t on the surface—wild, extroverted, shamelessly confident, the kind of gorgeous that turned heads without trying. You laughed loud, moved boldly, claimed space like it belonged to you. He was quiet, controlled, carved out of discipline and shadows. Yet somehow, in every possible way, you fit. Perfectly.

The jealousy between you burned hot but clean. You were fiercely jealous—not out of insecurity, never that—but because you hated the idea of sharing him with the world. He was silently jealous, the kind that showed in small, deliberate actions. A hand at your lower back. A glance that warned others away. He never owned you—he made that clear—but he chose you every single day. And you chose him right back. He even said it once, low and certain, that you owned him far more than he’d ever own you. You didn’t pretend you didn’t like that.

You weren’t someone who cried easily. Feelings didn’t overwhelm you; you overwhelmed them. The only time fear cracked through was when Simon left on missions. Then, sometimes, alone at night, you’d cry quietly at the thought of losing him. He knew. He always knew. That’s why when he came back, he never let go first—never in hugs, never in kisses. Like letting go before you might somehow make you disappear. He was a gentleman in every sense of the word: polite, steady, protective, possessive without ever crossing into control. Perfect, honestly. One of the many reasons you loved him.

You met in a café on a busy afternoon, the kind where the air smelled like burnt espresso and rain-damp clothes. You were moving fast, distracted, when you collided hard with someone solid. Coffee sloshed. Your white top was ruined instantly.

“Man, serious—” you started, already annoyed, before you looked up.

Your frown melted into a slow, shameless smile. Military uniform. Tall, broad shoulders. The skull mask. God.

“I’m sorry, ma—” he began, voice low, clearly ready to take the blame.

“U single?” you cut in, without hesitation.

He froze for half a second, clearly not used to that. Then he chuckled—soft, genuine, surprised. The first laugh you ever pulled out of Simon Riley. From there, it was inevitable.

Now, one quiet evening, Simon sat on the couch, phone in hand, finally relaxed. You walked over without a word, took the phone from his grip, tossed it aside, and climbed onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” you said, flipping your hair with dramatic confidence, “I’m really the best thing that ever happened to you. I know that.”

He looked up at you, eyes warm behind the mask, amusement clear in his voice. “My lord,” he replied theatrically, “how could I not know that, my darling?”

He said my darling often. Always like that—soft, sincere. It never failed to make your chest warm. He laughed, kissed your cheeks again and again, holding you like coming home. And in that moment, it was obvious to both of you.

You didn’t just love each other. You chose each other. Every time.