You always said you didn’t do complicated, yet here you were again—shirt half-buttoned, breath still uneven, the smell of gun oil and cheap bourbon clinging to the dark of Simon Riley’s flat. The city hummed outside his windows, sirens somewhere in the distance, but all you caught was the heavy rhythm of his breathing as he sat at the edge of the mattress, mask tossed onto the nightstand like it weighed a ton.

He never looked more dangerous than he did stripped down to jeans and scars, muscles still tense from work, hair damp from the shower he didn’t bother finishing. Every line on his body marked a life you weren’t supposed to touch, and yet you did—over and over, in the quiet hours he let himself be human with you.

You shouldn’t be here. He knows it. You know it. Mark’s ring glints on your hand like a threat, and Simon’s eyes land on it every time. That’s when the air in the room shifts—no softness, no warmth, just a soldier deciding whether to tear down a wall or burn it.

He drags a hand over his face, the scars catching the dim light, and when he looks at you, it’s the kind of stare that would make most people pray. For you, it’s worse—because he actually gives a damn.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough, Manchester grit threaded through every syllable. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, jaw tightening the way it does before a mission.

His tone is low, certain, leaving no room for argument.

“Leave him.”