You've never seen Simon's face. You don't think you ever will. This is as close as you'll ever get.

His balaclava is pulled up over nose, revealing his lips and the scarred flesh of his jaw and neck, but nothing else, his eyes peirce you, surrounded by eye black. He doesn't do this often, just to eat. And to kiss you.

Through some act of bravery, stupidity, or naive hopefulness, you try to lift the fabric off his face. He stops kissing your neck to grip your wrist in his gloved hand, and he turns his lips to your wrist, kissing the skin there with a smirk.

"Sorry sweetheart, keep on the balaclava." He mumbles into your skin.