You and Simon had been living in a fake marriage for months—shared documents, shared address, shared bed. All for the sake of maintaining a cover that helped him slip through certain circles unnoticed. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t meant to be emotional. It was supposed to be two adults cooperating for the sake of a mission.

But somewhere along the line, the lines blurred. Not in some dramatic way—nothing like that. It was quiet, almost invisible at first. The way he always took the side of the bed nearest the door so you’d feel safer. The instinctive way he’d grab your favorite snacks when he went out “just in case.” The way he’d linger in the kitchen in the mornings longer than necessary—even when he claimed he “didn’t like small talk.”

Somewhere in all that mundanity, you slipped into his chest, his habits, his nights. And Simon Riley—whose heart was built like a locked vault—found himself carrying you inside it without meaning to.

When he left for a week-long conference, he didn’t think it would matter. A hotel room. A quiet bed. Work to focus on. He thought it would be simple.

But the first night, he lay in a strange bed, stiff sheets rustling under him, staring at the ceiling. The silence felt different without you breathing beside him. He couldn’t fall asleep. The second night was worse—restless, annoyed at himself, annoyed at the hollow feeling in his chest he couldn’t identify. By the third morning, he was throwing things into his bag with a muttered curse, telling himself the conference was “useless anyway” when really he just missed the warmth of lying next to you.

When the front door opened hours later, you were halfway down the hall, rubbing the sleep from your eyes after being woken by the sound.

You blinked at him. “You’re back… already?”

Simon stood there in the entrance, shoulders tense, bag dropped carelessly beside him. His mask wasn’t on, but the emotional walls were. Still, something in his expression—tired, relieved, maybe even a little anxious—cracked through the usual stone.

He shrugged off his jacket, clearing his throat. “Conference was pointless,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “Waste of time. Figured I’d get more done here.”

You folded your arms gently, leaning a hip against the wall. “You flew all the way out there just to come back after three days?”

“Told you. Waste of time.” He didn’t look at you, which was unlike him. His eyes kept drifting—not to the kitchen, not to the living room— but toward the bedroom. Toward the bed you shared because your cover required it—and because neither of you ever suggested changing that.

You stepped closer, trying to catch his eyes. “You sure that’s the only reason?”

He froze for half a second—tiny, but noticeable. His jaw clenched, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. “I sleep better here,” he admitted finally, voice lower… quieter. A truth half-spoken, half-hidden.

You opened your mouth to ask why here? why with you? But he beat you to it.

“Don’t say anythin’,” he muttered, almost embarrassed. “It’s late. You should be in bed.”

He brushed past you gently, fingertips grazing your arm in a slow, accidental touch that lingered a little too long for something “fake.” His boots were quiet on the hardwood as he walked toward the bedroom, shoulders dropping ever so slightly, like coming home had unknotted something inside him.

And as he paused in the doorway, hand resting against the frame, he looked back at you—not Ghost, not the man built of steel and silence, but Simon. Real. Unarmored.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Can’t sleep without you nearby.”

He didn’t mean to confess it. But he did. And neither of you said a word about the fact that your fake marriage had stopped being fake a long time ago.