Chapter Text
The ride to her house was quiet.
Not the quiet that leaves you unsettled, no. It was the kind that fills the air with unspoken truths, with glances exchanged and withheld words that echoed louder than any sound could.
Their eyes met once, twice... more than that. Each time, his gaze lingered just a second longer than it should have. And hers? Hers did the same.
Simon pressed his hands together, squeezing them into fists so tight he could feel the strain in his knuckles. A faint tremor shot up his palm, almost like a jolt of electricity. His body betraying the control he worked so hard to keep.
Fucking nervous, aren’t you, Riley?
It shouldn’t be like this. None of it should be. He’d been here before, hadn’t he? A few women. A few beds. A few nights.
But why does this feel different?
Her. She was the difference.
There was something about her, something he couldn’t define, couldn’t pin down. Something that pulled him in and ripped apart every defense he’d built over decades. He couldn’t look at her too long without feeling that pull, couldn’t hear her laugh without that burn in his chest igniting again.
He let himself think, just for a second, about what came next. About what would happen when they stepped inside her house, when the air shifted from unspoken tension to something tangible, something raw.
Would she invite him in? Would she want him there? Want him the way he wanted her?
God, Riley, you’re acting like a fucking teenager.
But then, his thoughts veered into uncharted territory. Past the heat, past the urgency, to something softer. To the aftermath—their breaths slowing, the room cooling. To her lying beside him, her hair spilled out on the pillow, her hand reaching for his.
Would she ask him to stay?
Stay, Riley? You don’t stay.
But he wanted to. For the first time, the thought of leaving twisted something deep in his gut.
And then came the doubt, creeping in like it always did.
Was she really going to let him in? Did she really want him? A man like him—older, broken, scarred in ways she hadn’t even begun to see. Did she know what she was doing? Reaching out to someone like him?
Inadequate.
That’s what he was. A man inadequate to this. To her. To the way she made him feel.
But still, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it all.
The air was too sharp, biting against their skin as they stepped out of the Uber. It clung to them, sinking into the silence, as if the night itself held its breath.
She reached for her keys, fingers fumbling in a way that made her curse under her breath. He stood behind her, his boots scraping against the gravel.
When the car pulled away, the street swallowed them whole.
She stepped inside, the keys jingling in her hand as she flicked on the lights. Her heart was racing, an uncontrollable rhythm that almost drowned out the sound of her own voice.
And she left the door open.
Left it open for him.
"Aren’t you coming in?" Her voice carried through the space, louder than she intended, the kind of loud that tried to mask the nerves clawing at her chest.
The sound of her keys landing on the table followed, a small clatter against the quiet.
He stood there, unmoving, the cold air wrapping around him like a vice. Then, a step.
Another.
What the hell is happening to me?
His mind raced, a mess of contradictions and uncertainties. Why was he losing himself over this woman? This maddeningly young, unpredictable, vibrant woman? She was like nothing he should be tangled with—and yet here he was, walking into her space, letting her pull him in like a moth to a flame.
The smell hit him like a punch.
It wasn’t just her perfume or the faint traces of shampoo in her hair. It was her—her home. The clothes tossed carelessly on the couch. A coffee mug abandoned on the table, still half-full.
It was alive. Lived in. Hers.
She could feel his eyes on her. Heavy, focused, lingering on everything she did. The way she rushed to grab the coffee cup from the table and carried it to the kitchen. The way she shifted, half-heartedly trying to block his view of the pile of clothes on the couch with her body.
Her smile was awkward, forced, but fuck, it was endearing.
"So, uh, another cup? I have some wine. I mean, I like wine, not in an unhealthy way or anything, not like I drink every night. Well, okay, twice in front of you, but that’s not—"
"You get talkative when you’re drunk," he interrupted, his voice low, steady, like it always was. Then, softer, with the smallest hint of a smirk: "Or are you always this... bright?"
She froze, the word hanging in the air between them.
"Bright?" she echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Is that just a polite way of calling me loud?"
He stepped closer, just a little, his eyes unyielding, pulling hers into his orbit.
"No," he said, shaking his head lightly. "I don’t like loud. But I like you, so you’re not loud."
Her lips parted slightly, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath she couldn’t quite take.
Oh, shit.
Hell.
Fuck.
Every curse word she could think of rattled in her mind, each one failing to capture the way her chest felt—full to the point of bursting. Like her heart was going to explode right there in front of him, leaving a ridiculous mess of butterflies and stupid little cartoon hearts scattered all over the room.
"Are you flirting with me just to escape that wine, huh?" she joked, her voice barely steady, a desperate attempt to lighten the air crackling between them.
And then he did it again. That thing he did.
His head tilted back just slightly, his eyes steady and sharp on hers, his lips pressing together before curling into that maddeningly subtle side-smile. Barely there, but enough to make her knees weak.
"Maybe not just for that."
Her brain short-circuited. Her heart stopped. Or sped up. Or maybe both. She couldn’t tell anymore.
"Second intentions now?" she managed, her voice climbing an octave as she fought to keep her composure.
Yes. That was good. Tease him. Keep the upper hand. Don’t you dare melt—
"Hm," he murmured, his voice deep, gravelly, dripping with that dangerous calm he carried so well. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to her lips. "And some more."
That was it.
That was the moment she died. Right there. Gone. End credits rolling. Goodbye.
Her breath caught in her throat, her body betraying her with a shiver she couldn’t suppress.
He saw it.
He felt it.
The way she melted right in front of him, her eyes wide and bright, her body leaning into the pull of him like gravity itself was shifting between them.
It did something to him.
No, she did something to him.
Something he couldn’t name, couldn’t control.
And for the first time in years—hell, maybe for the first time in his life—he let it happen.
His body surrendered, inch by inch, to the magnetic force pulling him toward her, and he didn’t care if it consumed him whole.
That little doubt from earlier—the lingering what’s next?—had died a long time ago.
It had evaporated the moment the wine settled in his system, the moment he became fully aware of how alone they were, how quiet the house was, how it was just him and her in this small, warm space.
It had died the moment he noticed her watching him like she was waiting for something. For him.
He took a step closer. Then another.
Her breathing quickened, and he saw it—the way she stilled, her body tense but not pulling back, her lips parting slightly as if the air between them had gotten too heavy.
She felt small. Like a little prey animal frozen under the shadow of a predator. Nervous, fidgety. But she wasn’t moving away.
"So you don’t want anything?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, cracking at the edges.
He tilted his head, studying her, letting the silence stretch just long enough for her to feel it crawl down her spine.
"I do," he said, his voice low, deliberate.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "... A drink, I mean."
And then—oh god—he chuckled.
An actual laugh left his lips, soft and deep, rumbling through the space between them.
"No, sweetheart," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.
Her brain short-circuited.
AGAIN.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Wait. Wait. She wasn’t ready. No, maybe she was. No, she wasn’t. Or was she?
"I—uh—excuse me for a moment," she stammered, her words coming too fast, too messy. "I just need to go—"
To go where?
To check if she’d shaved? To look in the mirror and see if she looked okay? To remember what underwear she’d put on?
None of that mattered because she wasn’t going anywhere.
His tall, broad frame moved closer, closing the space between them until he was just inches away.
His eyes—god, his eyes—were locked on her with an intensity that made her stomach flip, her knees weak.
"Wait," she blurted, her voice a rushed mess. "Was this the wine? Is this why you ‘don’t handle it well’?"
His lips quirked into a small, almost amused smile.
"That’s one way to say it."
Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded against her ribs as his presence wrapped around her like a second skin.
She wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not when his entire body was leaning into hers, his heat, his scent, his everything pulling her under like a tide she didn’t want to escape.
Simon hadn't told her his age, not his story, not his intentions. Not even his last name.
He was a mystery, a locked box, and yet...
There was no rope to climb up here, no anchor to hold onto. There was just this. This big, electric, and intense thing that settled between them, threading through every stolen glance, every lingering moment of silence.
Waves of purple, waves of blue, crashing and coursing through her veins every time he stared at her. Every time his brows furrowed in thought, every time his lips made the slightest movement, like he was holding back a secret he refused to share.
And then, there it was again. Intense.
When his hand reached for hers, it wasn't what she'd expected. A man like him—so big, so strong, so stoic—shouldn’t have been capable of touching her like that.
Gentle. Purposeful.
His fingers curled around hers, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.
She didn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath until he looked down, where their hands met, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing either.
And yet, it didn’t feel like he wanted to pull away.
It hit her then—hard. That little (no, enormous) feeling in her chest, something stirring in the hollow point she hadn’t even realized existed.
It wasn’t his eyes or his lips or his body leaning closer that made her feel like she was coming undone.
It was this. Him holding her hand.
It was intense in a way sex wasn’t supposed to be. Intimate in a way it shouldn’t have been for someone who, she thought, just wanted a physical moment.
But it wasn’t just physical, was it?
It was something else. Something raw, unspoken, and terrifying. Something that made the hollow ache in her chest feel full for the first time in what felt like forever.
"Are you going to kiss me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges like a fragile thread.
Her eyes—wide, searching—locked onto his, meeting brown, the heat of her stare refusing to back down, though it screamed vulnerability.
Are you, Riley?
Want to kiss the girl, do you?
Want to feel her lips, want to know she wants it, too?
No.
No, that wasn’t it.
He didn’t just want to kiss her.
It was awful, this craving, this ache, this yearn that clawed at him from the inside. This primal need for more, for something deeper, something that wasn’t fleeting or shallow.
It wasn’t just her lips he wanted to taste.
It was her. All of her.
And not just tonight. Not just in the haze of wine and electric stares. No, this was worse than that.
It was the want for the start of something. For safety in her presence, for the kind of silence that wasn’t suffocating but soothing. For the comfort of knowing she was there, even in the quiet moments.
For a future.
The word alone twisted in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
His gaze traced her in silence, betraying him as it lingered on the curve of her smile, the slope of her shoulders, the tremble in her fingers as they hovered near her sides.
Her eyes. Her legs.
Her laugh, her touch, her very existence.
Everything about her was a piece of something bigger, something to pick apart, to examine, to memorize.
And it crushed him.
That want, that need, set a weight on his chest so deep, so dark, it made it hard to breathe.
So fucking terrifying.
Her question lingered in the air between them, but all he could do was look at her like she was something precious he couldn’t risk breaking.
"Simon?" she whispered, tilting her head just enough to pull him from his thoughts.
He blinked, his jaw tightening as he inhaled sharply, the weight pressing deeper.
His voice came out low, rough.
"I don’t think I can stop at just a kiss."
The start of something.
This was it.
She knew it.
Even if he tore her heart into a thousand jagged, unrecognizable pieces, she knew. She wouldn’t be able to forget the rasp in his voice, the distinct smell of his truck—a sharp mix of faint cigars and worn-in cologne. She wouldn’t stop turning her head every time she saw another man in a hoodie, a cap, or a face mask, hoping, wishing, aching for it to be him.
Simon Riley had intoxicated her life, his presence laced with something she couldn’t purge, no matter how hard she tried.
It wasn’t romantic; it was corrosive.
And God, she wanted more.
"Why would you even think about stopping?" she whispered, voice barely holding steady as her gaze dropped to their still-entwined hands.
His thumb moved in slow circles against her skin.
How could a man whose hands had likely done unspeakable things—taken lives, committed horrors she couldn’t begin to comprehend—touch her so gently?
"Few things come to mind," he muttered, his tone gruff, guarded, but his touch never faltered.
"But you're not telling me," she teased, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
Fuck.
Fuuuck, Riley.
He didn’t know what to do with that smile. It was dangerous. It unraveled him, stripped him bare.
When she laughed. When she smiled. When she breathed.
When she looked at him with those eyes, wide and filled with something fragile and trusting that he didn’t fucking deserve.
"It’d be easier to disappear," he admitted softly, his voice dropping lower. The words weren’t meant for her ears, but they slipped out anyway, betraying him.
Her head tilted slightly, her brow furrowing as if to question him, but he stopped her with his next words.
"I’m not tellin’ you anything that might push ya away."
Because he felt it.
The sinking ship they were on. He felt every creak and groan, every crack in the hull as they both willingly dragged it underwater.
And the worst part?
She didn’t.
She hadn’t noticed the weight pulling them down. Not yet.
But he had. And instead of running, instead of diving overboard, he stayed.
Because he was no good. He’d never been any good.
And he wasn’t starting now.