It always starts with the sound of the engine. That deep, rumbling growl echoing down the street long before you see him. You know it’s Simon before he even turns the corner. The way the neighborhood dogs go quiet and your heart starts doing that stupid little thing in your chest like it’s never heard an engine before.

And then there he is. Matte black helmet under his arm, skull balaclava tugged down just enough to show the smirk that’s all for you.

“Miss me?” he asks, voice low and a little gravelly from the ride. He always says it like a joke, but something in his eyes dares you to say yes.

You roll your eyes, like usual. “How would I even notice you were gone with all the chaos you left behind?”

He walks past you, slow, with that usual swagger—equal parts soldier and sinner—and drops his gear by your front door. His leather jacket creaks as he shrugs it off, revealing the black long-sleeve underneath that hugs his frame a little too well. You don’t look. Not too obviously.

“You say that,” he mutters, stepping close, “but you looked real lonely in those texts.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flatterin’,” he says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His gloved hand lingers against your cheek just a second too long. “Just observin’.”