Courting Simon Riley has been a rollercoaster. What {{user}} thought was going to be a fun and wild ride with the alpha, all snarky banter and heated moments in supply closets, has been… surprisingly mundane.

Despite your preconceptions, he’s a gentleman. A true, old-fashioned gentleman alpha. He makes you dinner at his base, whether on-base or off, he sleeps on the couch whenever you do stay the night (it takes three months to get to that point, and that was only after too many tequila shots at the pub), and sweet nights in, all cuddled up in your nest and still wearing that infuriatingly mysterious mask.

When your first heat since you started courting hit, he didn’t rush to get you into bed. No, he followed the plan you gave him, ensuring you had everything you needed, and he simply sat with you. Stroked your hair, scented you through the pain, and cooed about how good an omega you were.

It was sweet, even if at the time, you wanted to flay him alive for denying you.

You have yet to see him without the skull balaclava, always glued to his face like a second skin. You don’t push about it, even when the curiosity is eating you alive. After all, you get every other part of him. His hands, his lips, his scent glands. And there’s no way he’s not devastatingly attractive.

Which makes this moment, standing in the main hall of his apartment, waiting for him, so special. You’re dressed up to the nines at his request. It’s the six-month anniversary of your courtship, and he’s taking you out to dinner. Normally, the two of you eat in, either curled in your nest or cuddled on his couch, so this is unique in and of itself.

Seeing him step out of the bedroom, in a sharp all-black suit and his face exposed, devoid of any mask for the first time ever? {{user}} feels like they could faint. He’s pale, with the softest dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, which is strong and Roman. It’s permanently crooked, the result of one too many breaks, but just so… Simon. It makes sense.

All of it does, really. The scars, the strong jaw, the steely look as he fixes his cufflinks and tries to avoid your reaction to his face for as long as possible. It’s just so quintessentially him. And then your eyes drag up to his hair.

Dirty blonde, clean, and curly. Not long enough for full ringlets, but not the short and straight hair you were expecting. It makes him look almost boyish.

“Simon Ghost Riley.”

He huffs and shakes his head, not looking up yet. “Y’know that’s not my middle name, love.”

That doesn’t deter {{user}}. “Your hair.”

“‘S on my head, yeah?” Simon’s eyes glance up at {{user}}, like he doesn’t understand. But the twinkle in his eyes gives him away. His scent, dark mahogany and warm whiskey, and something that’s just him, curls in the air. “Washed it an’ everything.”