Reader & Simon Soft Life?? - Tumblr Posts

Idk for this college fic I would imagine simon being 33 & going back to college after his warpath disaster life. Its live a 360 degree shift from everything he knew.

Fighting?

No, kids just walk with books and coffees and frolic around.

He thinks they’re naive. Too at ease and not watching their back.

But that’s just his trauma talkin, and years of experience.

And I would imagine you—27 years old, just staring your life over. Making the choice to go continue university after a few years of working. Time to get that degree.

As for you—you had your own share of trauma and fear of intimacy, but nothing close to what Simon had seen. Not that it was necessary to compare.

Both of you are starting over a softer life. Trying for yourself again.

Part 5 of college!simon x reader 👀 hope ya’ll enjoy feel free to like comment and reblog to help this blog grow. Your comments mean a lot to me!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Ever since the window incident you hadn’t seen him around as much. Your classes got so busy. You got caught up in studies—Arabic class was kicking your ass. All these letters, different conjugations on writing it in its initial, middle and last form. It was swirling in your head. You were dazed, walking late in the night from the library, a hot cocoa in one hand. You were your fluffy ear muffs, a beanie, and fluffy gloves to stay warm.

November was rearing its head—it had gotten so much colder. Thank god your window got fixed. Not that you’d admit that to him though. As you walked, you caught a shadowed hunched figure on the bench, hidden from the lamp post. His head was down, and brows furrowed. He wore a fur lined afghan jacket, black and zipped. Hands—red and stiff from the cold worked deftly holding a pencil.

Simon?

You stood for a moment, seeing the sketchbook in his lap and before you knew it—your legs carried you over. You stepped over the pathway and onto the grass.

“What are ya drawing?” You ask, foggy air blowing out your mouth.

He’s stunned and lifts his head up, mask pulled up to reveal just his chapped and swollen lips. He didn’t expect to see you at this hour of the night—and judging by the weight of your buckle bag—you’d been studying.

“You draw—I-I just happened to see you and…” Damn it. You trailed off awkwardly, hands stuffed in your dingy zip up sweater, hair blowing slightly in the cold wind. Behind, the tall towering university library stood. Illuminated with passerby’s and chatter.

He then clears his throat, shifting.

“Yea, tattoos. Ain’t it elegant, rough and pretty.” His smooth baritone voice responded, eyes flickering to his sketchbook, then you. His eyes were rid rimmed and lids dropping. You found his natural features breathtaking. The corner of his lip tilted slightly, but then faded just as quick as it came. For a second, you thought you’d seen it and gazed at his face for a moment. The wrinkles under his eyes ceased.

“I like them. You should keep up with it.” You said, knee shifting slightly to lean your weight onto one leg. He was hunched over sitting on the bench, sketchbook in his lap. Evangelion tattoos cover the page and surprise flickers in your eyes. You’d seen his canister of pencils before but this was interesting.

“She sittin’ real pretty…gonna finish er’ and make a final sketch.” He said, eyeing his artwork. Just then, a sudden thought crossed his mind as his fingers worked deftly with the pencil.

Pretty like you.

He stiffened up, fingers clenching the pencil, eyes flashing to his sketch. He then looked up at you, head tilted slightly. You didn’t seem to pick up on his movement, just sipped your hot cocoa, muffed hands holding the cup. White gloves, he observed.

“How long have you been drawing?” You asked, curious. You tipped your head down to look at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted. You sniffled a bit as the cold was getting to you.

“Eh—a while now. Jus’ have all these ideas in my mind. Ya know.” He said, although eyes discreetly looking away as if holding something in. Memories of being late night at base crossed his mind—bedside lamp lit, sketchbook in his lap. Soft snores of Johnny sounded. Nothing but endless thoughts of rage and war on his mind, yet when he picked up the pencil, it settled. Like water lulling against the shoreline.

You picked up on his subtle movement—and gazed at him, rocking slightly on your heels.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what’s on your mind?” You asked, brows knitting together. You wiped your glove under your nose, sniffling, shifting in your spot.

“You should get inside, lass.” He said bluntly, not moving from his spot. He continued to draw and you chewed at your lip, seeing how cold his fingers were. Careless man, not wearing gloves. At least something to keep himself protected. You knew he dodged your question—and you wondered what he possible could be hiding.

“You’re going to get sick.” You said.

“And if I do let me be.” He responded, eyes still staring stubbornly in his sketchbook. Fingers moved softly, in long brush strokes.

You sighed and shifted in your spot and then decided to leave your hot cocoa beside him. Lipstick marks kissed the mouth, and his head jerked up, confused and slightly surprised. He watched you, icy eyes peering up. “What d’ya think y’er doin’?”

“Leaving that for you. Fine, if you don’t drink it. Im not nasty or whatever. But its hot enough to keep your fingers from falling off.” You scoffed, then shoved your hands into your pockets, seeing his brows slightly raise.

He seemed surprised and wordless for a moment—and that made you amused. Kindness seemed to stump him. Although you felt entertained at the scene unfolding, apart of you wondered why this was odd for him. Something so simple as sharing hot cocoa on a cold night.

Maybe he lacked this kindness.

Something warm radiated in your chest and for a brief moment the amusement faded away—something softer forming in your eyes. Simon cleared his throat and then looked back down at his artwork.

“Get goin’, yeah? And don’t get me sick.” He ordered, although voice sounding lighter. Of course he had his usual bite, but you could tell something has eased up.

“Why? Afraid of a lil’ runny nose, cap?” You joked, the corner of your lip tilting up. You bounced off, boots crunching on the reddened leaves.

Cap, he repeated in his mind. Why that nickname? Even more, why the hot cocoa?

He stared at your retreating form, confused and bewildered. His brows couldn’t stop that pinching it always did—and that slight crazed look in his eyes was quite entertaining.

“Bloody lass…leaving er’ drink. Wot she think? M’ gonna’ drink this?”

Then he muttered and hands clumsily held the cup. His hands were freezing. His fingers barely registered the warmth first—and he thought it was plain cold. But when he sipped—right over where your lipstick marks were, it was hot.

“Yea, right. Hot cocoa my ass—“

He grumbled, still clutching and holding it. He hoped to god lipstick did not smear on his lips.

Maybe the night just got sweeter.

Part 6 of college!simon x reader 🤍✉️ god the way he does anything and breathes—okay pls comment and reblog to share love 🥺

Masterlist here ✉️

He couldn’t sleep. The memories of your kind gesture played over and over in his mind. The way your scent lingered for just a second when you leaned in to put to next to his leg—and then how you walked off, earmuffs sitting snug.

What kinda’ sorcery was this?

Simon had to ask himself, brows furrowed. An arm was flexed, hand under his head, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling uselessly. His box fan spun loudly, sounding smooth in the dark of the night. When his eyes shifted from the ceiling, to his window, revealing the campus walkways, then his desk, there was your cup, lipstick marks slightly faded and empty.

He did drink it all.

Was it his fault the damned thing tasted so good? He didn’t even know those things tasted heavenly. Packed fulla’ sugar too. But it was fine. He trained hard and long—the sugar would be outta his system in less than a second.

When he checked his cracked phone, it was 3am. He had classes at 9am, and groaned softly. Blonde eyelashes brushed his cheek as he attempted to close his eyes, nestling in his bed. His hunky form had a hard time sleeping on it, the bed too small. Sometimes his leg would slip off in the night, or arm, hanging lazily. Blankets would fall to the floor and pillows.

Simon was a picky sleeper.

Back at base, Johnny always had been taking pictures of Simons sleeping form. He’d cackle in the morning as Simon arose, mask on, wearing all black for the briefing meeting. Making a pot of coffee—hearing Johnny’s bickering, along with Price.

“Lieutenant—this a nice sight fa’ sore eyes, aye?” Johnnys thick accent rung out like alarm bells behind Simon who remained flat faced. He sipped his black coffee.

“That one needs a swaddle—aye?”

“Shut it, not another word.” Simon said roughly at Price and Johnny who grinned silently.

Simon eventually fell asleep to the memory.

——

When he made his way out for class—somethin’ about enlightenment and Kant versus Hume—he saw your door. He shoved the key in his lock, hearing a click. His head was craned to yours—were you up?

His lip tilted in a grin for the morning as he remembered your gesture. He wasn’t sure what to make of you yet. Was he trying to make something of you? The thought shook him.

Was he attempting to get to know you?

Part of Simon wanted to reel and flee, at the idea. All he ever knew was base and team 141. It was his comfort zone. A tight knit ship at that. And you—you were like the moon beckoning the ship at night. Full of secrets.

“Huh. Best leave er’ be.” He’d mutter and walk off.

Later on, grabbing food at one of the many dining halls, Simon managed to find a seat upstairs. Not ideal, as it wasn’t close to the exit but instead by a window. He did sit angled to see the exit—as usual. He was going to lift his mask to eat the salad when a girl spoke up.

“Do you always leave that on? The mask?” When he looked up, he saw a short blondie. Cherub cheeks and big eyes.

Roughly, he set his fork down on the plate—CLANK—and sent a glare her way, muttering, “Wots’ it to ya?”

She scampered off, leaving Simon to stew for a second. Damn bloody hounds. It’s a damn mask, ensuring his privacy. What was so hard to respect about that?

And then he thought back to you. You hadn’t pressed on about the mask nor asked of his scars. It was as if you’d seen him as a person beyond it. He chewed at his salad with a glare of focus, turning his head out the window. He felt slightly guilty scaring off the poor lass, she seemed much younger than him after all.

Kids. He had to remind himself. He was much older and all age ranges existed. He forgot not everyone was a war criminal at the age of 33 and 50, scarred.

Not everyone was a war princess.

When he turned his head over, he saw a fluff of hair sticking out. Then ear muffs, trailing down to a red soft leather jacket. It was worn and faded, giving it that vintage look. There you were. Sitting back facing him, eating just a salad and off to the side—pasta.

He didn’t say anything, but just watched for a minute. He then turned back to his plate, finishing off the scraps as students poured in. As usual at this hour. His eyes shifted to glance particularly at a rugged boy, holding his backpack strap with a sleazy walk in your direction. His grip tightened on his fork.

He then heard a plate clank behind him, and a voice rang through the air, “You got that work done I asked for?”

When his eyes glanced to his rear flank, he saw the rugged boy leaned over the table, fingers splayed on the table over you.

You cut into your chicken, not sparring him a glance. “I said I’d have it done, didn’t I?”

Clearly the rugged puppet didn’t enjoy that response—because he leaned closer and his shaggy hair blew slightly, revealing narrowing eyes. You glared.

Simon knew something was wrong. He already sniffed the bullshit a mile away. He got up, smoothly, resting his fork and stood behind you, hand resting on the edge of your chair. He felt you stiffen up in confusion—turning to look at him. But he never removed his eyes from the skimpy lad.

“Simon—“ You said.

“You got a problem, boy?” Simons guarded voice rang out, and the students watched on. Some went quiet, and all he could head were subtle forks clanking—slurping. It was like tunnel vision—everyone focused on you.

The boy leaned up, swallowing and shaking. His eyes were narrowed and Simon didn’t like that one bit—so he leaned forward, hands bracing on the back of your chair, looming over you just to get a closer look to him. Almost like a silent threat.

The entire time your heart was pounding a million miles, face heating up. Attention was drawn to you and you didn’t want it. You had half a mind to run—but Simon held your chair there.

“She said she’ll ave’ the work done, yea? So off wit’ it.” Simon said, not leaving room for argument.

The boy ran off, not even bothering to pick up his plate which made Simon scoff. He then sat next to you, plate landing beside yours. He shoved away the boys plate, quite roughly at that—he wasn’t going to leave you to the wolves. Everyone went back to their food, muttering.

When you found your breath you spoke, “I had that handled, you know.”

“Did ya’?” Simon said gruffly, hunched and picking at his chicken to bite. He didn’t sound rude, just slightly amused and still ruffled from the situation.

Your brow cocked and you looked at him. You looked confused—not sure of what to think when it came to him, and his intentions.

“He looked like he was gonna bite ya.” Simon added, although he knew the boy was skin and bone. He just wanted you to understand. His head lifted to pierce his gaze into yours.

You caressed your fork for a moment, thumb stroking.

“I would’ve bit back. I got some spunk in me after all.” You scoffed and shook your head, although grinning slightly. You bit into your pasta, which was mediocre for university food.

“I’d like to see ya put em’ in its place.”

“It?”

“It. Not even a man, balls avent’ dropped yet. Damned dog just breathin’ down on women.” Simon muttered, cup raising to brush his lips.

You had to bite back a laugh at his roasts. He was right though. Damned boy clearly didn’t know his place. You ears warmed slightly under the muffs and you could’ve sworn it was from the muffs itself.

Simon finished his food and then looked at you, leaning back in his chair. Arms crossed round’ his broader chest, blue eyes not leaving you. He then remembered how the boy demanded for work to be done—not that he gave the boy his mind—“What kinda’ trouble found ya?”

“I—“ You began. You chewed before speaking., eyes shifting away, “I just get payed to do…people’s assignments.”

Simon tutted and shook his head slowly, then leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table to gaze closely at you. You could make out his pupil, blonde thick lashes curling out, the eye bags from under the mask—and wrinkles. “Out here doin’ gods work, aye?”

“Damn right. But if I’m caught that’ll end badly for me.” You scoffed, rubbing your wrist in a self soothing manner.

“You’re desperate aren’t ya?”

“I need the money—“

“Then come work with me.”

You froze. You jerked your head up at his smooth request, tongue poking at your cheek, pondering.

“Work…with you?” You then repeated.

“It ain’t a request—I’m telling ya.”

Part 11! College!simon x reader. 🙊 god i can’t get enough of this—enjoy! Pls like comment & reblog because it means a lot to me.

Notes: slowburn, mutual pining, bit of angst, swearing as usual. slight smutty thoughts of reader.

Masterlist here ✉️

There you were, drunk and wobbling into Simons room. He left you no room to argue, and not that you would anyway, you were a spinning mess.

“Don’ touch that.” Simons gruff voice said, guiding it hand away from the lights of the room.

You scoffed out a laugh—chest rumbling. You were ahead of him, feet tripping over one another. Simon constantly had to angle your shoulders this way and that—so you wouldn’t fall.

“What? This your batcave or somethin’?” You slurred, now eyeing his somewhat dim room.

He had his lamp on, giving some light. Some of his clothes were layered on his desk. Most likely he was busy and unable to fold them away.

God, you felt tired. But the alcohol was still coursing through your veins. You decided to settle for sitting at his desk, torso facing Simon. This was becoming quite regular, visits to his room. Your cheeks were flushed and you were slightly sniffling from the cold.

“Jus’ prefer to keep it dim, yea?” Simon said lowly. He turned around once you sat—closing his door. He then advanced to his closet and leaned down, strong hands grappling at some blankets. With a huff, he spread the largest one on the floor, then another ontop, and slapped a pillow down.

“What—is that f’me?” You asked, perking up. You tilt your head at his motions.

Simon shakes his head and then walks over to you, beckoning for you to stand. You wobble, and glance around to his bed—then him. Your chests brushed slightly, but he remained at a distance, heavy eyes gazing into yours.

“No, you’re sleepin’ on the bed.” He ordered.

“Simon—“

“Don’t give me lip, aye?”

The brute huffs and you quirk your lip, looking down momentarily. His bed.

Was it odd? Two friends just stuck in this awkward situation, since your keys were lost.

You sigh, and then undo your jacket, resting it on the back of his chair.

Awkwardly, you shift and then climb up onto his bed. You could smell his cologne and scent mixed on the sheets. But you didn’t lay down, no you just sat up on your knees and thought to ask the most ridiculous question. Your eyes had this twinkle.

“D’you have makeup remover?”

Simon was just settling onto the makeshift bed, large form groaning. His hair was a mess, and he looked down—only for his eyes to snap up at you. He could see your shit eating grin—still drunk. He scoffed, the shaking his head boyishly.

“Do I look like the kind t’carry that?” He said, gruffly. He was amused at your state, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t.

He then sat up, and shifted so his torso faced you, hunched, elbows resting in his lap.

You could see in the dimness the way the light bounced off his pale skin, illuminating his pale lips, his eyes. His irises glowed despite the heavy look he always carried. His hair had grown out, tufts of hair sticking up. Did the man ever hear of a haircut?

“You look a mess.” You slurred, swinging so your legs hung off the edge of his bed. It squeaked and your hazy eyes gazed at him.

“You got a lotta’ tongue on ya, lass. Always like this when you’re drunk?” Simon quipped, languid eyes tracing over your form. You felt squirmy under his gaze—or maybe it was just the alcohol making your head swing.

You scoffed and curled your lip up, palms resting at the edge to steady yourself.

“Just sayin’ a haircut saves lives.”

Simon groaned and lowered his head into his palm, the long fingers grazing his forehead. He looked quite ready to quit the night—but it was a joke. He wasn’t actually tired, you could tell, by the way his lip tilted up momentarily.

“Ain’t it funny how y’er callin’ me a mess. And y’er all drunk.” Simon scoffed and looked at you, moving to stand up.

He approached your form sitting at the edge of his bed and grabbed from behind you—his sweater. You shifted and first didn’t even realize it was there.

Faulty neurons.

You gulped when you felt him standing so close—the pump of the alcohol doing nothing to soothe your nerves. You then looked up at him—catching him already staring with brooding eyes.

“Touché…got me there.”

“Go t’sleep. I ave’ class in the ass crack of dawn.” Simon muttered and then moved away, laying down on his blankets.

He shifted so his hands cradled his head, back on the blankets. But apart of you didn’t believe he really wanted to sleep—because he always stayed up. Since something seemed to haunt him at these hours.

You shifted as you gazed at him. Sometimes—you caught yourself wondering about his scars. You knew he was a Lieutenant, but what were the stories behind it?

Before you knew it the words tumbled out your mouth.

“Those…” You sucked in a breath. “Those scars…does it hurt?”

Simon stilled for a moment. His eyes that were once gazing at the ceiling, the small lamp shadowing his features—now his eyes looked over at your form.

He knew this was going to be a long night considering you weren’t sleeping.

“Not anymore, they’ve healed.” He said, although the words hung heavy.

He turned so he could face you, to your surprise. His elbow was propped up, holding his head up, eyes bleary and fatigued. It was racing to 2:30am—but nonetheless you felt this stirring feeling in you. A need to know.

“D’you…get it from the military?” You asked, voice lowered from the weight of asking. You wondered if he would open up. You shifted your weight and adjusted your sleeve—Simon watching.

“I got it from the missions—opps’ got me a few times.” Simon said a bit too casually, although eyes straying. He began to wonder back to the good old days, the searing hot pain of his wounds. The way it all went down, countless stories, and too little time to tell.

“That—that must’ve sucked.” You slurred, gazing at him wide eyed. There was concern in your gaze, as your hand stilled that was fixing your sleeve. The warmth in your gaze caught his attention, and he found himself staring a lot longer than necessary.

Before he knew it he grinned and scoffed, finding it somewhat amusing your casual words, “must’ve sucked,” to be intriguing.

More than just sucked, he thought.

Countless words floated in his head, as his finger tapped the blanket. After a pause, he then spoke up gruffly.

“You once asked why I was here.”

“Huh?”

“In university.” Simon specified, knowing you were close to losing more than one brain cell at this rate. Apart of him thought, it wouldn’t hurt to have said it.

You wouldn’t remember anyway, right? He figured he could just open up slightly, and then you’d probably wake up a mess. A mess. He quite liked the sound of that—then he pushed the thought away as soon as it came up.

He focused back to you.

He watched your form lay down on the bed now, legs folding up. Your head on his pillow—it did more than just rile him up. He found himself momentarily short circuiting, the way you just lay so comfortably as if having been there so many times.

As if this was your space.

As if you two had seen each other like this countless times.

Then, he began.

“I want to start over.” He found himself saying slowly, almost as if double checking himself. He swallowed roughly, tearing his gaze away from your laying form. He eyed the ceiling, forcing his gaze away from you.

His heart began to race—just the mere sight of you could do this. Shit.

“Start over…yeah. Sometimes it isn’t easy. You can’t just wipe the slate over.” You mumbled, head tilting to also gaze at the ceiling dizzily. At that, Simon found himself intrigued once again. God damnit. It was like you tugged at him, and then just when he thought it was fine, his attention tugged at you like a damned puppy.

He didn’t expect you to have sounded coherent despite the night. Maybe you were sobering up.

“You sound like you seen it all, lass.” Simon said, kore quietly now.

He could hear both your breathing and soon, your sloppy chuckle joined in. Soft, and airy. His heart lurched—and the stoic man found himself reeling.

Trying to maintain control, and trying to find ease.

“No—I’m sure you have…” You trailed off, sighing. Your lashes brushed your cheek, as your eyes shut. You felt like waves were washing over you, and you were floating admits the sea. And his voice was calming— soothing despite the usual gruff tone.

‘’Get some sleep, lovie.’’ Simon said, the nickname slipping. You would’ve been startled at the nickname, but sleep over came you.

——

The next few classes passed with a drag. You just finished from the gym—deciding to start some workout routine. You only went on the treadmill and could hear your friends voice in your ear: Don’t become one of those people who get stuck to it, along with her snort. You turned off the treadmill and glanced up at the tall windows, revealing the sunset of the cold November. You wiped some sweat from your forehead, all snug in a fitted black top and matching leggings, sneakers laced up.

Your phone rung and you found yourself reaching for it, brows furrowing. It was Johnny. He never called you, as he proffered to blow up the Molly’s group chat with memes and barrages of broken text.

‘’Hello? Johnny?’’ You say, somewhat amused.

A pause. There was a clank and Johnny answered with a chuckle.

‘’Uh—Lass? Think ya can handle a shift? Kyle called in sick—lads not here.’’

You glanced around the gym and moved to your bag, picking it up. ‘’On my way.’’

Today was your day off—Saturday but you figured you could use the extra pay.

Then you found yourself hobbling in the cold. Clutching your jacket—having changed into a black button up and jeans.

The bar was horribly busy. People ambled everywhere drunk and whistling. They were cheering and unionizing as someone chugged—and you found yourself used to the antics.

You hastily unfastened your jacket, bumping into some guy—who mumbled an apology. You hung your jacket up, striding behind the counter and meeting Johnny and Priced who was cooking. Johnny flambé the vegetables—jostling the pan expertly back and forth, sweating.

Price was working up a fit, seasoning the chicken breast freshly cut— eyes meeting yours.

‘’Recruit, get over here.’’ Price grumbled, although a hint of warmth in his tone.

“Where do you need me?”

‘’You better hope you’re good with a knife.” Price grinned at you, seeing as you then turned to grab it from the stand. The blade gleamed and you chuckled amused.

“The things I can do.” You winked, playfully.

Price chuckled heartily.

Sometimes as you worked, you caught eyes with Simon who eventually came in. Memories of the night he took care of you—vividly flashed in your mind. You hadn’t said a word to him since, which he found odd.

He then thought you probably needed space, but from what?

You knew what it was.

Your feelings were eating you up. The way he spoke, his scent, his jokes. The way you two seamlessly got along, only to sometimes butt heads at work when your schedules didn’t align. He was something that surrounded you non stop.

The way he opened up just a bit about his past had you wanting to know more. More of his past, who he was. The things he faced.

But it scared you. It terrified you. These feelings. The change.

It suddenly became more than just, “a passing,” between the two of you.

As the shift ended—nearing 2am, you were absolutely exhausted. You groaned and walked to your dorm building, hiking up the path. It was quiet, a striking contrast from the busy bar with all the shouting. You sure as hell were going to be paid in full, that’s what.

‘’Lass—‘’ Someone called out to you.

Turning around as you recognized the voice, you widened your ears to see Simon jogging up.

He wore some dark wash jeans, a hoodie pulled over his head, and his rugged face shadowed. He grabbed your wrist—to your surprise, and you flushed at his touch. It was easy to blame it on the biting cold. Your eyes met his as he slapped his tips into your hands.

If it was even possible, your heart melted more.

‘’For house keeping.’’ Simon gruffly said, shoving his cold hands in his sweater pockets, looming over you. He was close to you, shifting his weight onto one leg.

‘’You didn’t have to—‘’

‘’Don’ go back on y’er word.’’ He scoffed down at you, slightly smirking, ‘’Remember I owed ya for that shift.’’

Nodding, you swallowed. You glanced up at him, unspoken words lingering in the air. Your breath caught in the cold, and flashes of the night being drunk, smelling his pillow and the sheets crossed your mind.

You swore you could still smell it.

Behind him cars drove and neon lights flickered from the store fronts, his eyes not leaving yours.

Get some sleep, lovie.

It echoed in your mind and you gazed up at him. Your nose was red and cheeks too, hair blowing slightly in the wind.

“Ya look tired.” Simon said, cutting through the air.

“Of course. Its 2am.” You scoffed, moving your eyes off of him. You turned around, huddling to keep warm and continued your trek up.

Simon knew that night weighed on your mind. He wasn’t sure if it was right time to talk about it, being that it was 2am. You both were tired and fatigued, and his eyes drooped more than usual.

He sighed, tapping a finger against his thigh—before deciding to follow you. His boots thudded and the brute needed to talk. Needed to get it out.

To see you again.

He called your name.

You froze and your heart pounded.

Slowly you turned around and faced him, close to your dorm entrance.

‘’What is it? I need to get inside its cold—‘’

He gave you no room to respond and scanned his ID. He followed you inside, starring holes in your back.

‘’You’ve been avoidin’ me.’’ He started, coming right in tow behind as you met your room. You bit your lip, reaching for your key replacement.

‘’I’ve just been busy—‘’

‘’I know.’’ He said, although calmer. Warmer, almost.

You turn your head to him. Regrettably, you spoke, ‘’Look, I gotta sleep. I’ll see you, yeah?’’ You didn’t want to cut the conversation short—but it was late. And you had other pressing matters to attend to. Like becoming a couch potato and daydreaming about him.

Damn it, Simon thought with a frustrated sigh as he watched you leave with a certain kind of irritation, and longing in his eyes. Almost like he didn’t want you to go. His eyes tracked you as you went in, closing the door.

Even the sound of it felt harsh.

That night he didn’t sleep, as usual. But not because he found the usual horrors of his past haunting—but because you, the nightmare of a woman was haunting his mind.

A pleasant nightmare.

He scoffed, shaking his head.

——

“We need to talk.” Simon said gruffly, the next day at your shift. You were leaning on the bar counter, weight on one leg, shoulders shrugged in concentration. His eyes couldn’t stop staring at your figure, the way the jeans hugged in all the right places, and the shirt.

He happened to be leaning on the archway of the kitchen, Johnny Price and Kyle working like mad hens behind him.

Damn it. He needed to stay focused.

You ‘re at the POS system, punching in an order and then you threw a glance at the Brit.

“Is it work related?” You say, a bit too stiff for his liking.

“No.”

You tap your finger at the side of the system and sigh, then turn. Your lower back leans against the bar counter, and you eye Simon. Your arms are crossed.

“Make it quick.”

Simon grunted. He could think of something else considered quick—

He shut himself up, shifting against the wall, and crossing his arms. The muscles flexed as rugged eyes stared you down. You felt like you were shrinking under his gaze if it were even possible.

“Why did you run off to your room?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” He persisted in that damned accent.

“I—“

Simon crossed the floor in an instant and ushered you aside—a hand on your arm. You bristled and swallowed, as Simon pushed you into the janitors closet.

Shit, Johnny was going to start asking around for us soon, you thought. You crossed your arms, head tilted up to the Brit, waiting for his response.

He shut the door of the closet and his boots thudded when he turned to face you, leaning in. All of a sudden that frustrated dissipated—being replaced by an unknown feeling. His cologne surrounded you, just like that night in his bed. You unconsciously took a whiff, and then gripped your arms tightly.

The hell was he doing?

“Lass,” he breathed out, now eyeing you, he then saw you clenching your arms and leaned in more, a hand raising to rest by your head, caging you in.

The shadows of the closet shaded his eyes—you couldn’t see what was behind them.

He said your name when you didn’t respond—causing your eyes to snap to his. How could you respond? Suddenly both your chest were pressing against each other, and you breathed heavily, heart hammering.

“Simon, I said make it quick.”

Again, the way you said it. This time he groaned audibly, his hoodie straining from the angle as he leaned forward for eye you, leaving you nowhere to run.

“I need to know why you’re avoiding me, lass.” He repeated, firmly. His shadowed eyes never left yours, the sight of his lips moving made your heart pitter patter.

You took a breath to still yourself.

“I’m sorry—ever since that night…” You froze, realizing how this was coming across. Romantic, maybe? Were you actually beginning to open up? Fuck.

You sweat and shifted on your feet, swallowing.

“Ever since the night you were drunk?” He picked up, brows furrowing.

“Yeah, that…I just…well no before—“ Your breath hitched and the closet room spun. You swallowed thickly, sweating a bit and now your eyes darted everywhere but him. But his big broad chest blocked the exit—behind him.

“Before what?” There it was again. That thick, barrel smooth voice. Your eyes met his and you nodded, going silent. For a second it was you and him, just gazing and hearing the loud buzzing of the bar.

Before, I caught feelings.

“Why did you drag me in here?” Now you demanded, keeping your voice down. You eagerly looked up at him, brows furrowed and lips pressed firmly.

You were getting uncomfortable by your own feelings, and it was rolling off of you in waves. Irritated at his constant demands.

Irritated at your own inability to just say it.

Simon scoffed, his breath hitting your face softly. You swallowed.

“Only way to get you alone.” He admitted, the words rolling out smoothly. His eyes roamed all over you, taking in the defensive look you had, arms crossed, tight. That pinch between your brow—but if anything he found it endearing. He had gotten used to this side of you, so it was no surprise.

Right. You mentally face palmed. Of course that’s why he brought me in here, you thought.

You shifted your gaze away to which he noticed and Simon felt a kick to his stomach. He saw the frown—the way you lowered your head to avoid him. He stiffened up, brows raising slightly.

Suddenly, he withdrew and dropped his hunky arm to his side.

“Don’t tell me I made you uncomfortable.” He said, surprisingly with a shake to his voice. The tremor was slight, and he sounded almost hesitant.

Your eyes widened and you realized he misunderstood. Your stomach dropped and inwardly you cursed. Bloody hell—

“No—Simon—“

“Lass, you can always tell me.” Simon reminded, his hand gripping into a fist. He didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and now his lips pressed thin, nostrils flaring.

“Simon—“ You said again.

“I’ll be outta’ your way.”

He went to turn to open the door but in an instant, you lunged.

You don’t know what came over you, but your lips captured his—hands flying to angle his head to meet yours.

Maybe it was the need to communicate how you really felt.

Maybe it was the frustration of being misunderstood. Or all of it.

You could feel how tensed up under you, not expecting the kiss at first. Then his fingers twitched with life, his heart pounding with vigor.

And then, his lips moved—almost hesitant to test the waters even though you kissed him first.

Soon—your back was to the wall of the small closet as his hands roamed, clutching gently at the fabric of your shirt. His hands rested on your waist, holding you and eyes shut, kissing slowly. He was drinking you in—your sounds, your taste, your smell.

Your heart was hammering and with the way you were pressed against his, his was too.

“God—“ You pulled away, panting softly. Your eyes met his.

You sucked in air sharply at the sight.

Simons eyes were ferocious, a bit of hunger, desire and longing in his darker eyes. He panted softly, fingers tightening slightly on your waist so you wouldn’t run—and his nose brushed yours.

His voice came out low, hushed, as his breath fanned your cheek. “You ave’ no idea how long I’ve been needing that.”