The sky was dark, London glistening wet with rain, as Simon steered the car through the empty streets. The city lights reflected off the windshield, distorted like the atmosphere between you. "You can't just decide what's best for me, Simon." Your voice was sharper than you'd intended. But he made you. Always.

He said nothing. Typical. His hands rested calmly on the steering wheel, veins visible beneath his skin, while his gaze remained fixed on the road. This controlled silence was worse than any shouting. "Say something!" you snarled.

“I told you why I did it” his deep voice finally came. Calm. Firm. Military-like discipline. “And I told you I’m not some damn risk to be managed.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. He signaled, turned abruptly into a quiet side street, and parked. The engine remained running. The car was filled with his scent of smoke, leather, something dark that only he possessed.

You were still catching your breath for the next tirade when his right hand released the steering wheel. Slowly, deliberately.

He didn’t say a word as his hand settled on your leg. Heavy. Warm. Possessive, but not rough. Your voice trailed off mid-sentence. His fingers rested just above your knee, his thumbs resting calmly on the fabric of your trousers. He didn’t press. He barely moved. But the gesture was unmistakable.

"Finished?" he asked softly. You stared at him, your heart pounding. "That's not fair." A barely perceptible smirk played at the corner of his mouth, that rare, dangerous one. His thumb brushed slowly once across your thigh. Just an inch. Enough.

"You're working yourself up" he murmured. "And forgetting that I'm not working against you." His eyes met yours. Dark. Intense. Demanding. "I protect what's important to me." The words were spoken calmly, but they hit harder than the argument before.