Good ol’ fashioned bourbon, cigarette smoke embedded into his clothes, the smell of leather from his gloves, a touch of gunpowder that always lingered. Christ, he smelled good.

Fabric rustling, Impatience buzzing, a hand hesitating.

“What?” You breathe when he stops mid make out. “What? Nothin.” He dismisses your concern with a heavy huff.

His hand is hovering over the edge of his mask that was already pushed a bit past his lips by you. It wasn’t like you’d never seen him without the mask before, he was still hesitant.

“Simon…” You say knowingly, “Don’t say my name like that.” He says sharply and leans his head away, almost nestling it in your neck. Almost.

Is this what Simon is like when he’s nervous? You never thought you’d see the day.