You never thought you’d end up with someone like Simon Riley.

He’s the kind of man people cross the street to avoid—tall, broad like a damn freight train, arms inked in skulls and death, face carved with scars that tell stories he’ll never speak out loud.

The infamous skull balaclava may be gone tonight, but his presence is just as intense in a faded System Of A Down shirt, hood down, light brown eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, and he’s just standing there in the doorway, holding out a second shirt—your size, the same band, same design. It smells faintly like his cologne and laundry detergent. Comfort and chaos all in one.

His voice is low, thick with that gruff Manchester edge. “Baby…can we match on the concert? Please?”

It’s not the kind of thing you expect to hear from someone who once took out a cartel compound with a blade and a scowl. But there’s that look again—the one only you get. The one that softens all the rough edges.

You don’t know how someone so cold to the world can be so warm with you. But here he is. Lieutenant Ghost Riley. Asking—no, hoping—to wear matching shirts with you like it’s the most important op of his damn life.