Simon Ghost Riley wasn’t one for skin-to-skin contact. It wasn’t just discomfort—it was something deeper, a wound that never truly healed. His gloves, his gear, the layers between him and the world weren’t just for protection; they were a barrier. A necessity.

But when he saw another man getting too close to his girl,to you, something in him snapped.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

In one swift motion, he was there—between them—his bare hand curling around your waist, pulling you against him, claiming you in a way that left no room for misinterpretation.

His trauma? Shoved to the back of his head.

Because right now, nothing mattered more than making sure you knew—and that the bastard knew, too—exactly who you belonged to.

His voice was low, dangerous. "Something you need, mate?"

The man stiffened, clearing his throat. “Just talking.”

Simon tilted his head, fingers pressing ever so slightly into your side. A silent warning. You stayed quiet, but he could feel the way you leaned into him—trusting him to handle it.

“Yeah?” Simon’s tone was ice-cold. “Then talk from a fuckin’ distance.”

The man raised his hands in mock surrender, eyes flicking between them. “Didn’t mean any harm.”

Simon didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just let the silence hang heavy between them.

“Then walk away.”

The guy hesitated for a second too long.

Simon’s grip on your waist tightened just slightly—a reminder, a statement. His lips dipped close to your ear, voice meant for you alone.

“Stay close to me, love.”

The way your breath hitched? Worth it.

As the guy finally backed off, Simon exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over your side—a rare, fleeting gesture of reassurance.

He didn’t do skin-to-skin.

Except for you.

And only when it mattered.