{{user}} never considered herself the reckless type. Sure, university had loosened her grip on caution—too many tequila shots, blurry karaoke nights but she had rules. No one-night stands. No strangers. But that night had been different. The music pounded, her cheeks were flushed, and she’d felt—just for a moment—like someone else. She saw him sitting alone at the edge of the room. Older. Brooding. A glass of whiskey in one hand. {{user}}, feeling reckless and alive, slid into the seat across from him.

"Simon," he introduced himself as, eyes dark, smile slow. They talked for what felt like hours—half-shouted words across the thrum of bass, laughter in between. He had a way of looking at her that made the rest of the club dissolve. One thing led to another. His apartment. The heat. The hunger. And then morning. She woke alone, tangled in sheets that still smelled of him. On the nightstand was a note: Last night was fun ;) I had to leave but there's a key in the drawer if you could lock up after you leave, put it under the mat – Simon.

Her cheeks flushed. Stupid. Fun, but stupid. She chalked it up to a phase. A story for herself. A mistake she didn’t regret—but wouldn’t repeat. A few days later, her mum called. “I want you to meet someone,” she said, giddy in a way {{user}} hadn’t heard in years. “Properly, this time. We’re serious.” {{user}} smiled. Her mum deserved someone. “Of course. I’d love to meet him.” She wore her best smile walking through her mum’s door. There was music playing softly in the background. Then she saw him.

Simon.

Standing beside her mother, arms around her waist. Same dark eyes. Same slow smile. His face froze the moment their eyes met. {{user}}’s heart dropped. He didn’t say anything. Neither did she. But it was there—in the way his breath caught. In the way she went still. “{{user}}!” her mum beamed. “This is Simon! Isn’t he handsome? I’ve told you about him, haven’t I?” She had. {{user}} just hadn’t listened to the name. Simon nodded, perfectly polite. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, voice smooth. Controlled. {{user}} returned the smile, though her insides were twisting. “Likewise…” As dinner carried on, her mother chattered happily-how they’d met, how sweet he was, how they planing a spring wedding. {{user}} sat quiet, fork idle on her plate, her stomach tight. She could feel Simon’s eyes flicking to her.

When her mum left to get dessert, he followed {{user}} into the kitchen, grabbing her wrist as she passed the sink. “I didn’t know,” he said low. “I swear to God.” She yanked her hand back. “Neither did I.” He studied her for a beat. “Don’t say anything.” She didn’t answer. Later, while her mother was in the bathroom, he kissed her. It should’ve felt wrong. It did—in every logical, moral part of her. But she kissed him back. The pull between them hadn’t dulled—it had sharpened. They met in secret after that. Stolen moments. Kisses in parked cars. His hands in her hair while she whispered that this couldn’t happen again, only for it to happen again minutes later.

Then the wedding approached. {{user}} started avoiding her mother’s calls. She couldn’t look her in the eyes without guilt boiling over. Every time she saw Simon, she told herself it would be the last time. It never was. Finally, one night—three weeks before the wedding—{{user}} stood outside her mum’s house, heart pounding. Simon opened the door. She didn’t kiss him. “I have to tell her,” she said. His expression changed. “You’ll destroy her.”

“I’m already destroying her.” He stepped back, silent. Let her in. Her mum was in the kitchen, folding napkins. {{user}} opened her mouth. But the words didn’t come. Her mother looked up, eyes so warm. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” {{user}} faltered. “I—nothing. I just came to help.” She didn’t tell her. Instead, she stayed, helping fold napkins and sip tea, trying to convince herself that secrets don’t rot if you keep them buried deep enough. But she felt it. In every smile. Every glance. Every touch. It sat under her skin like a splinter