Archive of Our Own

You thought that, given the way he watches you, that Simon would never let you go. How right you are to be wrong. Because now he’s gripping the gearshift, his knuckles white, and you can feel his distance by the time it takes for your heart to call out to his and return after bouncing against the unmoving surface of his indifference.

“You’re ridiculous,” he spits once more; he’s beginning to sound like a record.

You wonder if you count up every instance of it falling from his lips, would he even care? Or if his tenderness for you has slipped away with his civility over the past month of leave. You’ve been married to Simon Riley for two years, and whenever you express your concern for the abrupt decline in your relationship, your mother laughs with some consoling look and says, “It’s like everything else that grows—terrible twos, you know? It’ll get better.”

Well, your third wedding anniversary is approaching, and it doesn’t promise any less bite than the previous has held for you.

“I just don’t understand—” you begin, stretching out to touch the sleeve of his dark jumper.

He yanks back so hard you almost think he might crash the car with the way it swerves across the road, and his frustration only deepens as he cusses, low and angry, a string of words that you try to put out of your ears.

But he rights your dinky, little sedan amidst his seething, and his next words scorch your skin, “Princess, you’re really startin’ to piss me off.”

It shouldn’t wound you, but it does. Your tone sours. “What? My feelings? Are you fucking kidding me, Simon? I’m trying to talk to you!”

“I don’t want to talk,” he returns frostily; he’s expressly not looking at you, his eyes glued to the road.

“You never want to talk.” Your glare, you’re certain, is felt, but he doesn’t react. “You’ve been such a sanctimonious ass lately! My feelings matter too—”

“Trust me, princess, I’ve heard enough of those for a while—”

“Oh, my god!” You throw your hands in the arm, your voice only getting louder. “You have to be fucking kidding me! Stop being such a dick about everything! I’m trying to talk to you, Simon.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he retorts. “Can’t get a moment of silence around you—always talking, talking—”

It cuts you to the quick, perhaps because you know you’ve been a bit more verbose as of late, always talking, always trying to get to the center of him. To figure out what the hell has changed.

Because he’s changed. Or maybe this is who he’s always been, and this is the first time he’s dropped the mask long enough for you to see what truly sits inside those dark eyes. He’s always said the skull balaclava was the worst part of him, but lately, you’ve begged to differ. Regular, ol’ Simon Riley’s been giving the devil a run for his money.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to talk so much if you’d fucking listen to me,” you shoot back. “Or even look at me—god! Why are you like this?”

He simmers in his anger, his eyes to the windshield as the wipers flick back and forth. It’s fucking pouring outside, and dark as hell to boot. It’s what started your whole argument in the first place—driving back the hellish distance from your uni friend’s house, where your arguments always began, and he wanted to leave earlier to avoid the storm. You’d wanted a bit more time with your friend, whom you hardly saw as life always seemed to get in the way.

In total fairness, you’d started it. You’d accused him of being rude in hushed whispers when his replies grew clipped, when he looked at the sky warily, and when he merely brushed you off and instead gave his goodbyes to your friend and her husband—effectively making the decision for you. You’d almost had an apoplexy on the spot.

Your argument ramped up, being stuck together as the two of you are in a car, until it eventually, as it always did, comes over to his disregard for your feelings. He said you were perfectly capable of driving to your friend’s house without him, which pissed you off because he’d been the one to insist on going with you, and you’d reared back that you wanted him with you—is it such a crime to want to spend time with you? Especially when you’re always gone?

And he’d taken it poorly—the ‘always gone’ pays the bills, princess. And for all your pretty things, like the jewelry you’re so eager to show off—

—oh, my god, Simon! Your face had been glowing red. You gave them to me! I show them off because they’re a gift from you! God forbid I wear gifts you gave me!

It only tumbles deeper from there, and it always ends here. In the festering resentment between the two of you, and how you yell at him, how he replies in equal measure, and the air feels as sharp and cutting as the torrential rainstorm outside, as the headlights that part through the mist.

“You don’t give a shit about me,” you volley at him, at his silence. “Be like that, then. Be all cold and brooding and ‘I’m just a big man with big feelings that keep them all trapped because I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than spend time with my wife’—”

“Knock it off,” he grits back.

You don’t. You aren’t sure you know how. “‘I’m just a bully who likes to push around my stupid, little wife because I can, and who gives a shit what she thinks because she’s just some dumb slag who’s probably fucking some random guy every day of the week because she doesn’t have an ounce of self-control—’”

“Did I fuckin’ say that?” Simon growls back, his voice gravelly. “I did not fuckin’ say that—”

“You don’t have to,” you return snidely. “The way you were acting today—I swear to fucking god, Simon Riley, you don’t make a lick of sense. Like, why the fuck even marry me if that’s how you’re going to be? Can’t trust me as far as you can throw me, huh?”

His response is a barely tempered order for you to shut the fuck up before I do something I don’t mean—

“What? You gonna hit me?” you retort in deep sarcasm, perhaps leaning closer than you should, and you yank his sleeve again. “Shut me up, huh? Wow, what a big man. Your ma would be real proud of that—”

The car swerves again, and you’d think it was by accident, another result of you pulling at his arm, but it’s not. He pulls over to the side of the road.

“Get out.” His words are only barely measured, and sitting behind them is rolling, boiling anger. “You can walk home.”

The rain is loud, almost deafening in the stunned silence. You’re momentarily surprised upon the realization at how loud the two of you had gotten to argue over it. And you look out into the darkness where the headlights cut through the night.

A pit of dread pools in your stomach. “You’re kidding,” you deadpan, staring at the storm.

“No, I’m fuckin’ not.” Restrained violence in those eyes. “Get out.”

His jaw is clenched as tightly as his fists, and by the way they squeeze the steering wheel, you wouldn’t be surprised if they came back with deep indents in the plastic.

You’d never thought Simon had it in him to ever physically hurt you, but in that moment, for the first time, you’re actually unsure what he would do if you refused.

You stiffen your upper lip and grab your purse from below. “If you’re making me walk, don’t expect me home tonight,” you retort.

His eyes darken. “And where would you go?” His posture reeks of danger, his words of bitterness. “I'm lockin’ the door at 0200 so you better walk fast, princess.”

Your eyes widen, then narrow sharply. “Fuck you, Simon. Fuck you.” You yank your wedding band off your ring finger and toss it at him. “And you can have this too, you bastard.”

Without anything more, still steaming in your fury, you toss open the passenger side door. He’s silent, nothing from his side of the car as you stomp away, off the curb and towards the treeline along the long country curve.

Rain pierces through your thin clothes, the light autumn jacket and flowery blouse you’d chosen for your friend’s dinner party. Icy, little knives into the chill of your skin, and you cringe against it until you’ve hurried over to the relative shelter of a tall oak tree.

Grumbling to yourself, you’re half numb as your hands fiddle with pulling your phone out of your purse, fingers catching on the zipper, freezing against the screen code. You unlock it and curve your body overhead, over the wash of bright light that encases your face.

Google Maps indicates a brisk four-mile walk back home. Not undoable but cruel, given your canvas flats and general disregard for athletics. At least it’s a straight shot—but you don’t plan to walk it.

You naturally hover over your mother’s smiling contact photo, but you hesitate. Your parents are on holiday with your sister’s family, not that they’d be able to help even if they were home. They simply live too far away.

So you dial a friend that lives nearby. Phone to your ear, you wait impatiently, unease prickling along your spine. You hate this, and you hate—the thought falls away as your friend’s cheery answer machine message pours through your ears.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You glance up at the road, running out of options, and your heart drops. The car’s gone. He actually left.

“Bastard,” you mutter under your breath, but your heart aches.

Almost as much as your throat squeezes, tight with emotion, and your vision blurs as you glance down at your phone screen again. You tell yourself it’s just the rain; you know it’s not.

Who the fuck do you even call at this time of night? Your family’s unavailable, if even an option, your friends are all tucked in for the night, and your husband just left you abandoned on the side of the road like you’re nothing.

You’re not nothing, right?

Biting your lip, you resolve yourself as you glance through the contacts once more. There’s not many people left; you haven’t been able to build much of a support system after marrying Simon. You’ve been in loose contact with some of your uni friends, but most of your time is spent at work or with Simon when he’s on leave.

You don’t really have anyone, you realize with a startle. Then your eyes catch on a name.

Maybe. He’s probably up—just as much an insomniac as Simon, you’ve heard your husband say. You’ve only met your husband’s captain a couple times since you’ve been married—a few dinner parties and generalized gatherings—but he’d given you his number with a warm smile once.

“If you ever need anything,” he’d said.

You’re not sure midnight calls of distress count, but at this point, you’re willing to find out.

Resolving yourself to a tongue-lashing, you press ‘call’ and wait. John Price answers after a few rings, his tone gruff with sleep, “This better be bloody important—”

“Your asshole of a lieutenant just left me stranded on the side of the road,” you mumble as simply as you can, the exhaustion bleeding into your voice.

Not much else to say.

And from the other end, there’s a pause, then a sigh. You hate the sound of it. Resigned almost. Not particularly surprised.

“Are you alright?” he asks instead.

“I just…” You bite your bottom lip, not sure how to ask. “I’m not sure how to get home.”

The next part you were hoping for, and for it to arrive  without you asking is nice of him—”Do you need a ride?”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, your voice as small as you feel, “Yes, please.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a groan, followed by the sounds of him pulling himself out of bed perhaps—which only makes you feel worse. You know John has trouble sleeping, the same of Simon; any hours they catch are precious but short-lived.

“I’m sorry—”

“Not your fault, love,” he returns immediately, and you hear him shuffling around. “I blame your boneheaded husband—leaving you there at this hour?”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat out of sheer habit.

Price lets out a brisk huff. “Don’t move. Send me your location, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You nod, although he cannot see you, and curl up against the trunk of the tree, trying to avoid the downpour that rattles through the broadleaf canopy. True to his word, he arrives twenty minutes later when you’re cold and drenched and trying not to shake.

“Thank you—”

“Oi,” he interrupts from the car window, and you barely make out the shake of his head. “None of that. Riley fucks up, and I fix it—I’m well used to it by now. Get in the car before you catch your death.”

You scramble up the embankment, almost slipping in the mud, but you find your footing and clamber into Price’s passenger seat. You try to be delicate as you indiscreetly crank up the heat and lean closer to the sweltering vents to dry your hair.

Price chuckles, but there’s no amusement there as he reaches into the backseat, tosses a big towel in your direction. You catch it with a grateful smile. Then he revs the engine, a short glance in your direction.

“You alright?” he asks gruffly, a bit awkwardly, but it’s hard to blame him, given the situation.

And you make it all the worse. Here, in the stirring warmth of the car, the string of fear no longer tight around your throat, a wave of emotion crashes over you.

“No.” Your voice wobbles. “I just—I can’t believe he left me here.”

Price lets out an unintelligible grumble, and tears well up in your eyes, but you push them back down angrily, staring at your hands, fidgeting with the trim of your phone case.

“He’s a damn fool, love,” Price mutters after a heartbeat. “Don’t cry over him.”

You can’t even dignify that with a response that won’t sound weak, so you keep quiet. He pauses, then adds, his eyes flicking to yours, “I’d assume the two of you got into a bit of a tiff?”

Your laugh is uncomfortable, and you nod before you manage to pull the words forward, “You could say that. I—it’s mostly my fault. He’s just—” You shrug, not sure to phrase it. “He’s been different. Ever since that last mission a couple months ago.”

Beside you, Price stiffens, his expression hardening, and you hate it because you know that those words mean more to him than they ever would to you. You wouldn’t know anything, after all—Simon’s been close-lipped as always about it, if not more so than normal.

Price runs a hand over his beard, not sparing you a glance as if even a look would give it all away.  “You know that our job is—”

“I know,” you snap, so tired of it, of all the damn walls. “I understand that, I do. I know that his job’s hard, and I get that I’ll never really be able to understand what he’s going through—but when he shuts me out like this?”

You huff, dropping your head into your hands. “I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“You know how Simon is,” Price reiterates as if it’s supposed to placate you. “He’s always been solitary, even before I met him. It’s who he is, love. Don’t take it personal.”

“It’s hard not to,” you argue. “I’m his wife—”

“I’m not sayin’ it’s right.  Just what it is,” Price grumbles, shifting in his seat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for it. It's not fair to you.”

It’s not. But what can you do? You fiddle with your fingers, unable to look him in the eye. “I think he’s a lot more open with you guys.”

Price gives a wry chuckle. “Is he? I wouldn’t say that.” Then he leans back against the seat, looking over at you squarely—you’re caught like a small animal under his knowing gaze. “I think we’re all cut from the same cloth, but you, love—you’re his wife. That’s different.”

You squirm under his blue eyes, discontent. “I wish it wasn’t.”

“Ah, no, you don’t,” he says as if the thought is amusing. “You’re his wife. Trust me, that’s how he likes it.”

Given how heavily you disagree, you elect not to answer. Price peeks over in your direction before pulling out onto the dark, country road. The silence between the two of you is sharp and embarrassing, but he breaks it by clearing his throat.

“You have a place to stay tonight?” he asks.

You sink into yourself. “Uh…home, I guess?”

“You can't go back there tonight,” Price says firmly, but his eyes remain on the sloping curve ahead. “Not in this state. Not after what he's done.”

Then he looks to you, his gaze softer. “I have a spare room if you need it for the night. You're welcome to it.”

The words from your previous fight with your husband pour from your mind and pool in your chest, partially yours but mostly his, the resentment tight in his growl as he spat back at you; your fault, you know.

And where would you go?

“I don’t think Simon would like that,” you say instead.

Price rolls his eyes, and maybe he thinks you’re the one who’s being ridiculous—maybe you are, maybe that’s all you are. “Simon will deal with it. He’s the one who left you here.”

But when he looks over at your hesitation, his tone shifts into something more sympathetic but no less concerned. “Listen to me. You don’t want to go back there tonight; it’ll only make things worse.”

You’re sure he’s right. Simon is likely in a piss-poor mood by now, having had time to stew in it. Going back will likely only erupt another argument, and you don’t think you have a second row in you.

But you also know Simon. You know that he's been different in the last month—pushy, impatient, and almost clingy. Wants to be close enough to keep an eye on you, but he's never wanted the type of closeness you desire.

“I think he thinks I’m having an affair,” you admit, harsher than you mean to but feeling trapped against a rock and a hard place.

You think Price visibly pales, and his foot near slams on the gas. “And are you?”

“No!” you snarl, crossing your arms as you face the window. “Thank you for your explicit lack of faith in me, though. Apparently, I just seem the unfaithful type, huh?”

“That’s not—” Price is stumbling over his words as he desperately backtracks. “—no, ma’am, not at all. I just wasn’t expecting—”

“It doesn’t matter.” You bite back bitter words. “All I mean is that if I stay at your place with just the two of us, he’ll be completely set on it.”

Price sucks a breath through his teeth. “You’re right. I didn’t think of that. Do you have anyone else you can call?”

“I tried that already,” you say, misery settling in, a new companion in these passing months. “I don’t have any family in the area, and none of my friends answered at this hour. That’s why I called you.”

“Bloody hell.” Price lets out another long sigh, and there’s a thick sort of frustration that settles into steady determination. “Alright, you’re comin’ with me. We’ll deal with Riley in the morning.”

Your heart clenches, but there’s just the slightest mark of stubbornness to your spine that allows you to agree with a single caveat. “Can you at least call him tonight? Tell him that I’m at your place so he doesn’t think we’re doing anything…inappropriate?”

Something in your expression must stick to Price’s pity because he reaches over, gives you an awkward but firm squeeze on the shoulder. “It’ll be alright, love. I’ll speak to him.”

You cannot help the sourness that slips out. “He’ll listen to you.”

That actually makes Price laugh, a belly-deep sound that you haven’t heard before from him. “Oh, you think that, do you?”

His amusement stings more than you think he ever meant it to, but he continues, “You don’t have to worry about a thing. He’ll have to accept it, or deal with me, hm?”

You imagine your husband squaring off against his captain. Somehow, it’s not exactly hard to picture but no less entertaining. Simon might be quite honestly the largest man you’ve ever met, but you’re sure Price earned his position rightfully so.

So you glance down at your lap, the glow of your phone screen. Still no messages from Simon. Not even a location request sent. Your heart sinks impossibly further; you didn’t know he could make you feel this low.

Even worse, your mobile alerts to moisture in the charging port, and you shut it off, resolving to toss it in a bag of rice when you get home.

It’s in this short, heavy moment of vulnerability that the words come to lips more than you mean, “Sometimes, I think he only married me because he wanted someone to watch the cats when he’s gone.”

It sounds silly, even to your own ears, and you open your mouth to retract the words, but you’re promptly interrupted by Price’s disgruntled noise. “Nonsense. That’s not why he married you. The man loves you—he’s just bloody awful at saying it.”

You know that. You do, really, deep down, know that your husband does love you. He simply cannot look at you as he does without some inkling of affection for you, however minuscule as it might be, but god, you’re tired. Why do you always have to wrestle it out of him? Why do you have to pry reassurances from his lips?

You don’t need to be needed, but god, you’d like to be wanted, and if not that, then at least consumed.

“He loves you,” Price reasserts, his hands tightening on ten-and-two. “You don’t let a spat convince you otherwise. It’ll be right as rain in a couple days.”

Rain? Like the fucking torrential downpour that coats the road and leaves the tires making a thick, wet thwacking sound against the asphalt? The same rain that soaked you head-to-toe, left you dripping under the shelter of a tree as he drove away?

When he left you there?

It’s terrible, and you hate yourself for it, but you begin to cry. The dam of emotions with which you’ve been decisively able to stifle your despair has cracked, and all it leaves is devastation in its wake.

You cry quietly, staring out the window and hoping Price doesn’t notice the tears that roll down your cheeks. God, you’re such a child, but as your fingers dig into your forearms, you aren’t sure what else to you. There’s nothing else you want to do, other than give over to this sorrow that’s thick in your throat and clogging your senses.

You think a sniffle is what turns his eyes in your direction, and there’s a strangled sound, pitiful and terribly sympathetic, “Oh, love, don’t. He cares. He does. He’s just bloody difficult. He builds up, and when it all comes out—well, I’m sorry it’s come out at you. You don’t deserve it.”

“I do.” Guilt clings to your tongue. “I said some pretty nasty things.”

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it—”

“I called him a bully,” you say miserably in some attempt to choke it back. “You know, for a second, I thought he actually might hit me—”

Price’s head whips towards you so quickly you feel the car jolt. “He wouldn’t.” His tone is entirely decisive. “You know he wouldn’t.”

“I know that.” You are equally as abashed at yourself. “He wouldn’t, but I said it anyway—oh, god, and then what I said about his mum…”

The other side of the car is deadly silent. It’s uncomfortable, tingling at your skin, as you sit, your cheeks flushed in shame. You feel Price’s judgment as heavily as your own guilt, and you deserve it, every goddamn bit.

The air is thick as fog, but Price cuts it like glass, “How much do you know about Simon’s parents?”

It’s a strange question, but you suppose you deserve it. You give the captain a short shrug. “Some, I suppose. They’ve both passed away, right? I never met them.”

Price’s hands are curled against the wheel, knuckles white in a way that reminds you of Simon all too well, then they flex, perfusing to a rosier color. He is careful, measured, as he says, “You two are overdue a long conversation on that front.”

Dread rolls through your stomach. “Oh, no, what did I do?”

“Not entirely your fault. You don’t know.” But Price’s brow twitches. “Ask him about it. It’ll explain a bit, but mind you, it’s not pleasant. You’ll have to pull it from him.”

Because you have such a good track record of that, you think pitifully. Look where it’s gotten you—dashed out in the rain.

Whatever strangeness there is about your husband, Price seems to understand the fine-tuned inner workings of him better than you ever could, and it burns to swallow. That your own husband doesn’t trust you the way that he implicitly trusts his superior, and maybe that makes sense. You follow the disorder of trauma and bonds and putting your life on the line for another person with the express hope that they will return the favor—and you know all of that the same way you know explicitly you will never know it like he does. Like they all do.

You aren’t meant for that level of understanding, and something in Simon has realized that as quickly as you’ve tried to rally down his defenses, to force yourself into some vulnerable corner. So you say it before you even have the time to consider it, the tiny, nagging thought that’s been in the back of your mind for the last month:

“John, do you think Simon would be better off with someone like the rest of you? Someone who can understand him?”

To his credit, Price shakes his head immediately and firmly. “No.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.” He doesn’t even give you a sideways glance. “Trust me.”

You need a little more than that. “Can I ask why?”

The captain merely inclines his chin slightly. “As much of an arsehole he can be, I trust Simon’s judgment of character implicitly. He doesn’t open easily, but he chose you. That’s all there is to it.”

Your cheeks heat at that, and the tiny smile that stretches at your lips tugs along the dried tearmarks. “You think so?”

“I do,” says Price. “Besides, that man’s got a lot tied up in that head of his. More than he needs someone to dwell in that darkness, he needs someone who can pull him out of it.”

“I see.” You look down at your phone, at its blank screen, and wonder if he’s thinking of you at home, all curled up with the cats. “So you’d tell me if he said anything different?”

“Why? What’s your concern?”

“I just…” You bite your lip, knowing you’re about to sound silly. “Part of me wondered if his…recent distance…might be due to him finding someone that…does understand him?”

The laugh that erupts from Price is sharp and barking. He shakes his head and gives you a look of amusement. “No. Put that out of mind.”

“Really? You’re that certain?” You look at him skeptically. “Does he talk about me at work?”

“No. He’s as close-lipped as you can get.”

“Oh.” That doesn’t make you feel any better.

“You couldn’t waterboard a word about you out of that man. I didn’t know about you until after you were engaged, and that was only because he wanted to ensure you would be notified in the event of a casualty," Price says, that grin unshakeable as he turns into something like the outskirts of town, and when he sees the dismayed look that’s quite apparent to you, he’s quick to add, “He keeps you close.”

It isn't close enough for you.

More than anything, you want to exist in summation of him.

You want him to point to you and say, this is my wife, and a part of her sits inside my ribcage, and she sings, and dances, and soothes, and knows me better than I know myself.

But you understand exactly how insane that sounds, so you’d settle for ‘proud.’ Or at least ‘enthused.’

Price’s continued verbiage pulls you from your dreary thoughts as he resolves, “Besides, he’d be a fool to ever think he’s better off with anyone else. I don’t know who would tolerate him.”

It makes you laugh a little, even though the tears feel just as close. “That's mean.”

He barks out a sound of amusement, shaking his head once more. “It's true.”

You smile but slump into your seat for the rest of the drive back. The quiet between you is a bit more amicable than before, and Price almost seems in a pleasant mood compared to when you unceremoniously dragged him out of bed. After a few more minutes, he pulls into the driveway of a modest home. Price kills the engine and looks over to you.

“This is it,” he says, and you think you remember visiting it before, but the memory’s half-faded in your exhaustion. He slides out and comes over to your side, popping open your door. “Let’s get you inside and dry you off. I’m sure I’ve got something around that’ll fit you.”

You feel a bit strange about following a man who is not your husband into his home, to wear his clothes, and sleep in his guest bedroom, even if it’s perfectly platonic. The urge to call Simon only nips harder at your heels, chases you through the front door, and you’re momentarily distracted by the inside of Price’s house. The wallpaper is positively grandmotherly, but the rest of the home is spartan. Only a few personal touches here and there—a plant, some framed photos, an ugly lamp.

You remember the plant. Simon had pointed it out, and when you expressed confusion, knowing that Price spends just as much time as your husband away from home, he had smiled at you like it was a secret. When you inspected it later, you realized it was plastic. And somehow, the discovery made you sad just as much as it amused Simon.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” Price says as he leads you to the front room and guides you towards the sofa.

You try to keep the towel wrapped firmly around you so that you don’t get the fabric wet, but Price doesn’t seem to care as he bustles away. You look down at your busted mobile once more and wonder if Simon’s tried to call you by now. Surely, he has. He’d have to, if he loves you like his captain is so certain he does.

Price returns with a bundle in hand. “They’ve got drawstrings, but they might be baggy.”

You’re not sure how to say it, so you just do, “I’m sure they’ll be fine. I manage with Simon’s well enough.”

His cheeks might pinken—you aren’t sure—but he coughs, then nods. “Uh, yes. There, you go.”

And you bestow a little misery, allowing him to guide you to the bathroom. The shirt’s large, so are the sweatpants, even drawn up as tightly as possible, but it’s something compared to the damp, cold fabric you pull off your body and toss over the shower bar to dry. You fix your hair the best you can with what you’ve got and exit the bathroom.

Price is in the living room, and the hallway blooms with cigar smoke. When you enter, he’s holding a stub between two fingers and flicking through his phone, his shoulders tense.

You point to the cigar. “Nervous?”

“What?” he asks, seemingly caught off guard.

You take a seat across from him, in a little armchair that you sink right into. “Simon smokes when he’s nervous. I haven’t been able to kick him of the habit yet.”

Mirth flickers through his blue eyes, and he takes another puff before holding it aside. His other hand, having discarded his phone to the dark wood coffee table, seems to rap against his knee. “Not every day I tell another man his wife’s going to be sleeping at my home. God knows how he’ll take it.”

That same worry has festered inside of you, as has the guilt. “You can take me home.”

“Not an option.” He at least looks resolved in that. “Not after what he’s pulled tonight.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” asserts Price as he leans over his phone, turning through his contacts.

Once he’s hit the call button, he rests the phone between the two of you. It takes a couple rings before Simon picks up.

“Price.” His tone is clipped and cold but strangely impatient.

“Simon,” returns his captain, and even you cringe as the low hum of disapproval that rocks his tone. “I’m callin’ to inform you that I seem to have acquired your wife.”

There’s a pause, and you swear to god, you swear to god, you hear the squeal of tires against wet asphalt. “I’ll be by shortly—”

“You will not. She’s staying here for tonight.” Then he glances in your direction. “Or as long as she needs to.”

“Price, you fuckin’ tosser, I’m comin’ to get my bloody wife—”

“You left her on the side of the road in the fuckin’ rain, Simon! What the hell were you thinkin’?” erupts Price, a spectacle of loud indignation that’s been brewing in you, a mirror image of what lies past the scowl that cuts through your expression.

And really, you’re very eager to hear his answer yourself.

“It’s none of your fuckin’ business,” Simon spits back, venomous as it is unyielding. “I can manage my own wife.”

“Manage me?” you squawk furiously.

For him to say it as if you being his wife is some sort of chore is grossly violating, and you can’t help the way you writhe against the yoke of it.

And it slips out before you can even consider it in your astonishment, “You left me there to die, you arsehole!”

You hear the disdain heavy in his tone. “You weren’t going to die from a little rain, princess. Let’s cut the dramatics—”

“Oh, yeah, because the monsoon coming down is the problem, and not the strangers that drove by a defenseless woman on the side of the road in the middle of the night. God, you're such a dick!” you shout in a slip of your temper.

Simon’s voice cuts through the phone, a dangerous hiss, “Watch it.”

Helplessly, you shove the phone in Price’s direction; it spirals around the table, along with your quickly dwindling hope of a reconciliation. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here, okay? He won’t ever listen to me—” You choke up, struggling to stifle the lump in your throat.

You’re angry enough to scream.

Price extends you a pitying look, dropping down into a whisper, “You don’t have to stay in here. I’ll deal with him.”

“No—” You press your mouth to the back of your hand. “No. I’m fine. It’s just…”

“What the fuck are you two whisperin’ about?”

You don’t know. You don’t know what to say to any of this. Simon’s never acted like this before towards you. It’s almost surreal.

It seems to spark Price’s frustration once more as well. “What do you think? You, you fuckin’ git. You’re workin’ up your bird into a tizzy.”

Oh, god, don’t say that.

“Don’t tell me about my own fuckin’ wife, Price.”

His captain gives you a tired look from across the coffee table. “Is he always like this?”

You can only shake your head. He’s not. Except for the month previous. When he came back from deployment, all shadowed and twisted-up, and he won’t let you any closer while also keeping you firmly trapped by the wrist.

Once, you’d given anything to keep him close, but now it hurts, and it stings, and you squirm against his disregard. How peculiar it is to be married to a stranger, to a man you only recognize through shards of a shattered mirror.

There’s a pausing beat before Simon returns bitterly, “So she called you, huh? And you run on along to her rescue? I’ve always known you’ve got a thing for strays, Price, but my own fuckin’ wife?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, and to your side, Price gives you a wholly perplexed look, but it hardens into resolve, “Look here, Riley, you don’t get to speak about her like that. She deserves far better than that.”

“And you think you’re better for her, yeah? Save her from the big, bad monster?”

His name is only a strangled note on your lips as you wrap your arms around yourself tight. He doesn’t think that; he can’t think that of you.

“Don’t make an arse of yourself, Simon. I don’t want your wife, and even if I did, she wouldn’t have me because she’s well-set on you.” Price’s face is red, a deep red that carries over the shell of his cheeks and down his neck. “The only reason she called me was because you left her with no option!”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“For god’s sake, Simon, do you even hear yourself?” 

Your husband’s side of the line goes quiet, but you feel the sweltering rage even through the stillness.. This is insane, and a part of you is wholly embarrassed to have brought in Simon’s captain into what’s rapidly snowballing into a huge mess.

“I should have gone home,” you mumble, your palms digging into the orbits of your eyes.

Then this wouldn’t have happened. Simon would have been pissed, but it wouldn’t have erupted into this. You had known this was a bad idea, but you convinced yourself that Simon had even the slightest bit of goodwill left for you.

That appears to have solely been dashed away.

“You’re not going home tonight,” Price snaps at you, and by the way his eyes soften after you cringe, you think it’s a case of misdirected aggression. “Jesus, woman, look at the state of yourself.”

Self-consciously, you reach up to brush away the tears, but they’re quickly replaced, little rivulets of distress that stain your flushed cheeks. You’re sure you look like shit.

Then Price redirects himself to the phone. “She’s staying here tonight, Simon. You can pick her up in the morning, if that’s what she wants.”

“Bloody bastard! You’ll keep her away from me like I’m some fuckin’ heavy-handed—”

And it’s so strange, but Simon’s words drop off immediately. The dead silence on the line is unnerving, like cold water trickling down your spine, and you glance warily between the phone and Price.

The captain lets out an exhausted sigh before he tightens his tone, “You’re not your old man, Simon. But god-fuckin’-damn are you straddlin’ the line.”

You freeze in that, a block of ice, at Price’s words. He doesn’t mean…? Oh, god. The thought makes you nauseous, and Simon’s continued silence is only more damning. And if it’s true, all the things you said to him—why the fuck did you say them?

You reach for the phone, and Price turns guarded as if he’s ready to intervene at any moment, but you won’t let him even if you tried—you bring the speaker to your lips and call Simon’s name softly, rubbing away the tears in your eyes as best you can.

There’s a heartbeat of nothing, and you wonder if he’s hung up, but then there’s his reply, gruff. “Yeah?” he retorts cautiously, still cold.

“I love you. You know that, right?”

He responds in a grumble, “Yeah, I know you do, princess. That isn’t the issue here.”

You wipe your face for what feels like the hundredth time. “I’m sorry about everything I said. And for being annoying.”

“Well,” he snorts. “There’s nothing you can do about that.”

It pierces you fresh. You were trying to make amends, dammit, and be the bigger person, but of course, he has to ruin fucking everything. You shove the phone towards Price. “Fine. Fine. Whatever. Goodnight.”

“Christ, Simon,” Price hisses into the phone as he watches you go, to retreat towards the guest bedroom. “You can’t even give her a scrap of decency?”

You don’t hear his grumbled reply, but your feet stick at the top of the stairs. You take a seat, far enough from the chaos to not be directly attacked but close enough to hear his assault.

“Riley, that is your damn wife. You’ve hurt her enough tonight; you’ve got her a mess.”

“She’s just sensitive.”

“Simon, you left her outside in the rain like a goddamn dog. Do you even understand that? Got that through your ugly mug? She could have been hurt.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I didn’t leave her in a bloody warzone—”

Price’s tone drops into something lethal. “I think you’d be the first to understand that bad things happen on the homefront as well.”

Another lengthy pause, then more justifications, “She was pissing me off. She always fuckin’ does that—pushes and pushes until I snap, then acts all surprised like she didn’t even realize she was doin’ it in the first place.”

“Uh-huh.”

“All she wants is attention. That’s all she ever wants, and it don’t matter how much I give her because it’s never fuckin’ enough for that one. She needs more and more, and I can’t fuckin’ do it every second of every fuckin’ day.”

“Because god forbid your wife wants your attention, huh?” Price deadpans. “Simon, you better listen good and well to this: sort yourself out, or you’re going to lose her. You love her; you picked her, for god’s sake. You knew exactly who she was before you married her, and you decided then that you’d be the man for her. Fuckin’ be it, you arse.”

You think he must have hung up by the long sigh that follows. Then you hear him shout up the stairs as he approaches, “He’ll be waiting for you in the morning. Your choice on how you want to handle it—shit.”

Price stares up at you from the bottom of the stairs, his hands on his hips, and he takes you in. You nod blankly at him, your assent, and he takes the staircase by two steps at a time.

“Jesus, love,” he mutters, his expression dipped into worry, and his lips pursed into a thin line. “You don’t deserve it, you know? You don’t. Wantin’ your  husband’s attention isn’t a crime.”

“No, he’s right,” you say timidly. “I want too much of him, and he doesn’t want to share that with me. I can’t force it out of him.”

Price frowns as he lowers himself slowly to the step beside you. “Wanting to be close to your husband isn’t wrong either. What’s got you damned here is tryin’ to be close to him. It’s not on you; that’s his burden. Don’t let him make you think otherwise.”

“He never needs me,” you say very quietly, not sure what else to say. “I’m always the one who needs him. It’s not very balanced.”

You’re momentarily startled when Price lays a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Needing your loved ones isn’t a weakness. And it might not be too balanced between you, but again, that’s on him.”

Your fingers pull tight around your wrist, caressing up the palm of your left hand to the absence of your wedding ring. You hate how your finger looks—so naked without the glint of gold.

“Do you think he’d be happier if I left him?”

His frown deepens. “No, I think he’d be miserable. But if he’s making you miserable, then…well, you’re entitled to your own happiness as well.”

“I’ve thought about it,” you confess, the secret you’ve buried deep in your chest over the last month. “Does that make me a terrible wife?”

“It doesn’t make you a terrible wife.” Gently, his thumbs run under your eyes, collecting your tears. “I think it makes you human—especially to have been dealin’ with that bear for as long as you have.”

You manage the smallest chuckle. “I’d hug you if I didn’t think Simon would beat the shit out of you for it.”

“Simon’s a lot of things,” Price chuckles, “but he’s not stupid enough to pick a fight with me like that.”

So you do. You lean over, give him a side hug, and his arm curls around your waist to give you a gentle, reassuring squeeze. When he pulls back, he ruffles your hair and goes to stand, grunting through the stubbornness of his knees—just like Simon on any rainy day.

“Alright, love. You’re all tuckered out. Head on to bed,” Price orders kindly. “It’ll all look better in the morning.”

But sleep is damn near impossible to find. You toss and turn. The bed’s way too much space without Simon’s big body boxing you into a corner, his entire frame wrapped around the whole of you as if he’d consume you into himself if he had the chance, and you wish he would, but he’d never.

Instead, you think about your wedding ring; you hope that Simon’s got it safe for you somewhere. You hope it’s not rolling around in the carpeting of the car. Abandoned. You wouldn’t be able to take it.

But it sits in your throat as you consider it, as you turn it over in your head—the painful knowledge that you're always going to be the one chasing after him. Because he doesn't want to be caught, doesn't want to be known, and all you've ever wanted is for someone, anyone, to perceive you.

The two of you are disastrously at odds, and you don't see how to make it any better.

You could give up. Sever the thread between you and watch your connection wither. Or you could give up on yourself, on those fanciful dreams you’ve had—of having a partner who you know and knows you, and realize that Simon’s emotionally stunted self is the best you’re going to get.

You don't know which is more painful. So you lay there and watch the clock; you think about what you’re going to say to him in the morning. You love, and you mourn, and you aren’t sure which is worse.

Nothing looks better in the morning. You wake up in an empty bed in a guestroom in a place you don’t want to be, and you drag your slow arse out of the blankets with an equally discerning disdain for the sunlight that pours through the eastbound window. When you check your phone, you’re disgruntled to find it still does not turn on.

Of course not.

Breakfast is awkward as Price pours you something hot, and you sip without regard for its contents. You’re sitting with your anger, simmering in it like a poached egg, and you think if Price offers you a refill on your drink one more time, you might scream at him. You don’t want to, but you feel it crawling up your throat.

Then your husband arrives.

It’s entirely mundane as Simon knocks on the front door, waits patiently for an answer, and when he steps inside, his eyes edge towards you. He must recognize that you are about five misbegotten words from strangling him because he doesn’t say much of anything. Those hands of his, they sit in the pockets of his dark-wash denims, then fiddle with the hem of his jumper, and you wonder if he slept any better than you.

He must know that if he touches you, you’ll snap at him, a flurry of sharp teeth and spine, because those same hands hover over the crook of your elbow. He exchanges a short conversation with his captain, one you’re not privy to as you collect your dirty clothes and your busted phone, as you try to collect the shards of your heart from the corners of the living room from where it imploded the night before.

Simon drives you home. It is a silence you have not experienced in a long time—uncomfortable, itchy. You crackle with tension, and he bleeds of something subdued, and the strangest part is you think you’d rather he yell. You think you want to scream, too. But he pulls into the driveway of your bungalow, the little starter home where you’ve sequestered your past almost-three years like the boxes of holiday decorations stored for the coming season. Briefly, almost in a daydream, you consider grabbing a jerrycan and burning the whole place down. But at the same moment, you take a breath and remember you wouldn’t want to scorch the petunias along the front that you’ve just now gotten hardy enough to stick from spring to spring.

When you step inside, however, it’s a completely different beast.

As he shuts the door behind you, there’s something of a hesitation in his hands, how they flicker from pocket to jumper to you. You may become a widow by day’s end.

“Sweetheart—”

“You put those big, old mitts on me, Simon Riley, and I swear to Christ, I will tear your face off.”

That’s what you want to say. That, and a hundred other things, but that’s the most prominent.

There’s a huff, heavy and impatient. “I want to talk,” Simon grumbles as his palm sears across your arm to hold you in place, but you hear it, and it clings to a corner of your heart—the tiniest twinge of discomfort. Vulnerability. “Can we at least do that much?”

“If I said ‘no’, would you even care?” you retort.

“Don’t start with me. Not like this.”

You want your arm back, or else you’re liable to let your hands fly. You could stomp off; you want to. But Simon seems to recognize this as he keeps a firm hand on you. He’s standing behind you in the walkway, his shoulders hunched to give way to the sloping slouch of his back. His head dips when he leans for you again.

You nearly elbow him in the face with a dry laugh. “Don’t. Fucking don’t. I don’t want to fucking look at you.”

There’s a flicker of something wounded against the brown of his eyes, and you can’t help but feel satisfied in it. Good. You want to hurt him. You want to eviscerate him, twist your hands into the coils of his intestines and rip. You want to revel in the grunt of pain that would follow. You want to target the softest, choicest bits of his belly until he’s pooling all across the hardwood of the entryway.

Another wicked yank to your arm, but he’s stuck tight like a leech. “And you’re a complete dick, in case you were wondering,” you snarl out. “I can’t believe you left me out there. I’m supposed to just get over that? Fuck off.”

He rumbles, irritation coloring his dark eyes, but you don’t give it a second to take root.

“What the fuck was that bullshit over the phone, hm? You’ll fucking manage me? Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“Your—”

Your fury is swift. “Simon Riley, if you say ‘your husband,’ you will not live long enough to regret it.”

That same husband grows silent, frowning as that hand squeezes your wrist. His expression is strange—conflicted—and his gaze falls over you, all over you, every disheveled piece. He lets go. Something in your chest, spring-loaded, relents, and that sense of rage swells. You scoff in disgust as you pull away.

Toeing off your shoes, you dissipate down the hall, into the shower. You put on your own clothes and bag up the articles Price lent you. When you come out, he’s hovering just beyond the door of your bedroom, his feet never crossing the threshold. You might pity him, the way frustration peaks in his gaze, the way his hands coil and extend at his sides.

You slap the plastic bag against Simon’s chest, your gaze downcast. “Here. When you see John again.”

“Sweetheart, look at me—”

“If I look at you, I will kill you, and I won't last in prison.” You are brittle, but each syllable is the splintering of ice across a frozen lake. “When you see him again, you will give him back his clothes and thank him again for me—”

That seems to spur him to action. His tone strikes sharp with indignation as he barrels forward, up against you, chest to chest. You’re glaring at him now, eye-to-eye, a clear challenge for him to say a goddamn word of dissent. Of course, he does.

“Thank him? For what? Interfering?”

“For standing between me and mortal peril after you left me on the side of the goddamn road,” you return, perhaps a bit bitchier than you intend, but it’s bitter on your tongue.

Simon tenses at your accusation, agitated, but there, you think there might be something, some part of him that bleeds with remorse. There is the worst piece of you—wanting to soothe the furrow of his brow, to press kisses to his face, run your thumb along the back of his hand, to provide comfort when you want to be wanted, and he doesn’t want you at all.

What are you? A toy? A trophy? Something to bring down from a dusty shelf and discard when it no longer sparks joy?

But you pull yourself together, crossing your arms over yourself, over slovenly-dressed you, and you speak your mind, “You left me there like I don’t mean shit to you, and maybe I don’t. Maybe I really pissed you off, but that wasn’t okay.”

You think guilt’s got a taste; it must by the way his expression screws up, his frustration palpable, and he struggles to put together the words the same he does for anything. There, clumped in the back of his throat, is the defensive note when he does:

“I didn’t do it to upset you,” he mutters, his jaw clenched, and he’s the one to look away. “I needed some space. I needed to get away, or I—”

It crumbles when brought to tongue, sharp and salty. Simon tilts his head upwards; one might think of it as arrogance, but you know him well enough to know that’s how he gets when he’s trying to control himself.

You don’t particularly give a shit.

“You needed space?” You’re not sure you could be more astonished than if he slapped you across the face. You make some sound of disgust. “Oh. Okay. Fuck you.”

When you violently yank away from him, trying to duck under his arm, Simon loops an arm around your waist. He draws you back again, back to the doorframe, and he’s there, pressing against the length of you. His hand curves around your hip. Simon leans until you’re boxed into his space. At his mercy—how damned, you are.

Your face heats, and you give a preliminary shove. Might as well shove a door. It might have more of an effect.

Restructuring your stance, you snarl, “My patience is limited, and you’re quickly reaching the extent of it—”

“How do I make it up to you?” 

Simon holds you there, ramrod straight, his nostrils flaring and hands pinched tight against your waist as if the last ribbon of his restraint lies between those fists. But those eyes—those eyes eclipsed against your neck fall upon you, and they’re as smothering as petrol, harsh and heavy and so, so ashamed.

“What? You want me on my knees?”  he growls, his voice gravelly with wavering control. “You want me to beg? Just tell me what to do. Anything.”

It’s all over him: will that be enough? Is that what you want to hear?

Is it?

Because nothing has felt quite right since you looked up to see an absence of tail lights, to know he left you. And having to wonder if he’s done it once, will he do it again?

“Simon,” you say quietly, strained, pulled from your lungs, “I don’t know how to trust you anymore.”

He makes a strangled sound, the stiffness moving through his entire body—those large hands of his flex before they’re on you, running down your waist, down your hips to your thighs. He leans against you like he might pull you up into his arms, but instead, his head drops against your shoulder. Your instinct is to wrap him up, but you push back. He doesn’t even budge.

His breath is hot. “Don’t fucking say that. It’s not true.”

You shove again. “Simon, back off.”

“No. Take it back.”

“I’m not playing this game with you—”

“It’s not a fuckin’ game!” he bellows as he finally, finally puts distance between you. “You think that’s what this is? You don’t get to say that to me. You don’t fuckin’ trust me?”

“How am I supposed to?” you shout back. “You kicked me out! You drove away and left me there, and—”

Your voice cracks as tears clammer up to your waterline. You cough, trying to erase the tickle from the back of your throat. Dammit. You didn’t want to break. You wanted to be strong in your anger, but when you think of it, of that moment in the pouring rain, it pierces you fresh all over again. The anger in his eyes, the fear that clogged your throat when you looked up to find him gone. When you tried to figure out who to call. When your phone died, and you sat there, just praying that every car that passed by would just keep going.

There isn’t a good way to describe that gnawing anxiety to him because Simon’s who he is, and you are what you are. Maybe you can’t ever get him to understand that.

Instead, you knock a hand against his chest, the hard plane that cuts immobile to your front. “It scared me, you dickhead. Do you even understand that much?”

He’s quiet. You think maybe he does. But he crowds forward until you’re flush to the doorframe, and his lips case your shoulder, along the curve of your neck. What the fuck is he doing? Did he hear a goddamn thing you just said?

“Simon—”

“What happened—it’s not you. It’s never you,” he murmurs as his mouth tracks your collarbone. “Okay? It’s because of me. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

A vexed sound escapes you. “Of course, it wasn’t me. I don’t care what the fuck I say, and yeah, some of what I said was fucked up, but that’s never an excuse to put me in danger to teach me a fucking lesson—”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—” He swallows. “It’s not like that. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, really?” You snort derisively. “If you didn’t want to hurt me, maybe you shouldn’t have kicked me out of the fucking car.”

His response is loud, flustered, and humiliated. “That’s not what I mean.”

And it stills you for a moment, taking in the whole of his guilt. It pours out of him, over him, and there, it rests. That damn cloud of darkness he’s bound to toil within, what sits as the make and mould of him. You wonder if he’s comfortable in there; you know he’s not.

You bite your lip, inwardly cursing at him as you force your arms up to your chest, between you. “I just want to know why.”

Because it’s somewhere in there, and you’re keen to fish it out of him. The start is rocky, his gaped mouth opening and closing—the frigid uncertainty of not knowing if he should continue forward, but you will him to with a firm look.

And he does.

The confession comes quiet as the grave, barely disguised self-loathing. “All I could think is how much I wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you stopped talking. And I—I won’t ever lay a fuckin’ hand—”

His voice drops away at the crest of emotion. He looks at you uselessly, at all the words he’d like to say but never can put to tongue.

But you think you could. “I understand, Simon—”

“No, you don’t. You can’t.” His eyes darken in a way you don’t know how to pinpoint, other than an anger you cannot touch. “Because I won’t ever allow you to know how it feels to live like that.”

You button your upper lip, feeling this is something between you, some irreconcilable difference, and it seems that Simon is well-suited to never pull you into that darkness, to allow you to peer into the well of his stemming rage. So you stay quiet because sometimes it’s easier to pretend one’s speaking to an empty room, or perhaps a mirror, how you can neutralize your expression and sit evenly to collect the snippets of what he does give you.

“If I ever hurt you—” He lifts both clenched fists to you, hesitant as they nudge against your chest, the lack of distance separating you, before he loosens with the slightest tremble. “—fuckin’ hell, I’d sooner cut them off.”

“Simon,” you whisper, your chest heavy at the weight of his words.

There’s a lot you want to say. To apologize. To soothe him. To reassure him that you don’t think he’s a danger to you. Yet your mind flickers back to that moment in the car, when you looked at him and didn’t know man from monster merely by the shade of his eyes.

But you don’t think he’s angling for comfort right now. He doesn’t think he deserves it, and maybe he doesn’t. Either way, you extend your hand as gently as an olive branch, caressing his scarred cheek.

Given how he inhales, a stiffness working through every muscle, you expect him to clutch your hand tightly, but you don’t quite expect how he drops to his knees, pressing between your thighs. Your palm against his scowl, he wraps his other arm around your legs, drawing you as close as he can, until there’s no space at all.

You think there’s relief there, but just as much is the self-flagellation under your gaze.

You stroke his head, fingers twisting into tufts of blonde from his buzzcut long overgrown. A quiver moves through him, apparent most in his shoulders, in those inquisitive fingers that intertwine with yours, and your hand is crushed to his lips. He mouths at your palm like a simpering creature, brushes his apologies along the skittering of your pulse.

Yes, this man loves you, you feel all at once, and it pours through you with honeyed warmth. His devotion rests at your feet, his heart in the shell of your hands.

You pat his face. “Hey, come on, Si. Don’t. You’re going to wreck your knees.”

It settles in the unwitting affection of your begrudging tone: I still love you.

You don’t know how to say it. Not right now. But you want him to know.

There’s a moment of silence. A breath between the two of you. When he finally speaks, it is rough, tremulous.

“Christ, my heart almost gave out on me when you weren’t where I left you,” he admits against your belly, and his fingers dig possessively into the give of your flesh. “When I called you, and it went to bloody voicemail. When you weren’t fuckin’ there.”

You don’t say anything, just continue to card your fingers through his hair soothingly. Your thumb curves along his jaw, down his cheek, and you pet the side of his face, holding him close against your stomach.

“Though I’d lose my fuckin’ mind.” The words are barely above a whisper. “If anything had fuckin’ happened to you—”

He doesn’t need to say the rest, nor does he as he instead nestles his face into your waist.

The yielding of your temper sours you. You want to say something, to try to convey how his guilt doesn’t make up for what he’s done, doesn’t begin to touch on the deep pool of dread he’s set in your belly—to make you wonder, to make you question the entire foundation of your marriage in one action—

—but you aren’t given the chance.

He’s taking each finger of yours, his touch dancing over them, when he pulls back, rocking onto his haunches. Simon reaches into the neck of his jumper, and with a clang, his dog tags fall against the dark fabric. But there’s something else there—glimmering, a glint of metal the wrong shade.

You swallow hard when Simon removes the chain from his neck before carefully separating your wedding band. You couldn’t have stopped him if you tried, and you don’t want to as he grabs your left hand. The ring catches over your nail as he hurriedly shoves it back on your finger like he’s worried you’re going to protest.

“There.” He kisses over your ring, and the look in his eyes is cumbersome as he grabs your chin, angles your gaze to his. “You don’t ever take this off again, princess. Ever.”

“Simon,” you protest softly at his grip. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, look at me.”

He’s worked up, all rolling temper, so you capitulate as you’re wont to do. His digits stroke tight circles along the curve of your face, insistent and tender. He raises his left hand, the twinkle of his own matching ring catching your eye.

His brow dips, and the way he’s watching you, taking you apart piece by piece, is a little too much to bear. “I’ll be buried with this fuckin’ ring, you understand?”

You don’t say anything, finding no point in it, even if your gut twists at the thought of him buried in any significance beyond being completely enraptured with you.

“Go on. Tell me it’s so,” he mumbles, his dark eyes curtained grumpily.

You sigh. “It’s so, love. Even when you’re being a terrible shithead.”

Simon grins at that, all warmth, as he nestles his face back into your belly. The smile on his thin, bisected lips is slight, denoting amusement, but there’s something in his hands, in how they grasp your hips and knead as if straining for comfort—you’re completely lost to him.

It’s not fair.

But none of this is fair. You’re not naive enough to believe love ever is.

When he stands, he kisses you. It’s something of a promise as he parts your lips, one you’re not sure he’s qualified to give. But he holds you close, like he physically cannot let you go. Not now. Not again. You think for a moment, light-headed, that if you’ve managed to crawl under his skin this far, maybe he wouldn’t mind if you slip past his ribcage and settle against his heart—even for just a moment.