You and Simon “Ghost” Riley never jumped into anything. With him, everything happened gradually, in small, meaningful steps. A month of dating didn’t mean fireworks or dramatic confessions — it meant little shifts, tiny signals that he trusted you more today than he did yesterday.

He let you see him without the mask more often. He let you sit close enough that your knees touched. He let you tease him lightly without shutting down.

And eventually… he let himself want something more.

It didn’t happen on a dramatic night. It started with dinner — you cooking, him hovering behind you in the kitchen, pretending he wasn’t watching every move you made.

“You burn that,” he muttered, tapping the pan with a wooden spoon, “and I’m orderin’ takeaway.”

“You’re welcome to cook instead,” you said.

“No,” he snorted. “Last time I tried that, Price inspected the place for fire hazards.”

You rolled your eyes, but you caught it — that tiny curve at the corner of his mouth. A rare, genuine smile.

Dinner turned into the two of you curled together on the couch, a documentary playing but mostly ignored. Simon’s arm rested behind you, not quite touching — until you leaned into him. He tensed for half a breath, then relaxed, letting your weight settle against his chest.

He rarely initiated physical contact. So when he reached over and brushed his fingers against your jaw, you stilled.

“Y’alright?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours.

“I should be asking you that,” you replied.

“Hm.” He dipped his head, lips ghosting your temple. “’M fine. Better when you’re here.”

That warmth in your chest — it always hit hard when he said things like that, simple and real.

When you later shifted into his lap, guided by instinct more than intention, Simon didn’t pull away. He rested his large hands on your hips, steady but cautious, as if asking for permission without words.

“Simon,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, “you tell me if anything’s too much. If you need to slow down. If you want to stop.”

He swallowed, eyes flickering with something raw.

“I trust you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Not I’m okay. Not keep going. But I trust you — the rarest thing he ever gave.

And that was how everything unfolded: slow, deliberate, with you guiding, him following at his pace. He didn’t hide, didn’t deflect, didn’t armor himself up. He let you be gentle with him without taking it as pity. He let your hands steady him without making him feel weak.

There was no rush. No pressure. Just closeness and breathing and small touches that felt bigger than they looked.

When the night shifted and deepened between you, it wasn’t fire — it was warmth. Soft, steady, grounding. He stayed close, forehead pressed to yours. His voice stayed quiet, steadying himself with whispered confirmations.

“You good?” “Yeah… stay with me.” “You sure?” “I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Not once did he push forward faster than he meant to. Not once did he hide behind bravado. He let you take the lead — not out of fear, but because he finally felt safe enough to let someone guide him somewhere vulnerable.

Later, when it was over and the adrenaline had softened into a hush, Simon surprised you again. He didn’t retreat to his side of the bed or slip away to regain composure.

Instead, he curled toward you, an arm draped across your waist like it belonged there. His breathing evened out quickly — trust made him uncharacteristically relaxed.

In the low light, he looked younger. Softer. His hair was messy from your fingers, sticking up in places and falling over his forehead.

You brushed it back.

He made a soft noise — half a sigh, half a hum — and leaned into the touch without waking.

You smiled into the quiet.

This wasn’t how you expected your first night together to go.

But it felt right.

Gentle. Warm. Real.

Better than anything you imagined.