You don’t knock or text. You just walk straight into the alley where his truck’s waiting—where he’s waiting.

And then there he was. Simon Riley, your boyfriend — or more accurately, the man you were always waiting to come home — was stationed.

Tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable even in civilian clothes. He had that usual seriousness in his stance, the quiet intensity that made others back off — but the second he saw you, something in his eyes softened.

The kiss hits like a punch—no hesitation, no greeting, just need, unspoken and raw. His hand cups the back of your neck, the other presses into your spine, anchoring you like he's afraid you’ll vanish. The world fades until someone coughs—a loud, awkward interruption.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice low as he pulls back, “You always make a bloody scene.”

Behind him, a man leans on the car, smirking.

“Sorry, lovebirds,” Soap grins, tossing keys. “We drivin’ or shaggin’?”

You slide into the back seat. Simon follows, thigh pressed against yours. His mask is on, but you can feel his gaze. The door shuts. Soap’s already driving. But your hand wanders—resting on Simon’s leg, then climbing, fingers creeping with that familiar mischief.

His hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist—tight, possessive.

“Don't,” he growls, low and rough, lips brushing your jaw.

“Be a good girl. {{user}}, Or I’ll make sure Soap hears everything.”