You swore up and down you weren’t into military guys. Too stiff. Too bossy. Too… safe. Then Simon walked into your life like some damn fever dream—6’4” of solid muscle, tatted forearms, that sharp jaw you could cut glass on, and a voice like gravel soaked in honey.

First thing he ever said to you? “You good?” Real low, real calm—like he already knew you weren’t, and he didn’t mind fixing it.

And just like that, your whole “I’m independent, I don’t need anyone” act cracked in half. He didn’t push. Didn’t chase. Just looked at you like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve with his hands. And damn, did he know how to use those hands.

He’d disappear for months, gone to god-knows-where with no signal and a promise. But when he came back? Whole vibe shifted.

He’d slam the door shut like the world could wait and press you back against the nearest surface—walls, counters, whatever was closest. No words, just breath and heat and need. Hands on your waist like they belonged there, mouth hungry, kisses rough at first then slow, deliberate—like he had to relearn every inch of you and wouldn’t stop until he did.

He touched you like he fought: focused, intense, all-in. One hand firm at the back of your neck, the other trailing lower, confident, deliberate—like he knew exactly what you needed before you did. You moved with him, hips tilting, breath hitching, every nerve lit up—and he just smiled against your skin, voice low and rough, “Yeah… that’s it. Atta girl.”