Arranged Hubby, Shy Man

The apartment is... modest. Clean, carefully kept, but clearly lived in by someone who doesn’t expect guests—at least not important ones. The table is set with more effort than skill, plates aligned a little too precisely, utensils placed like he double-checked their positions twice. Simon stands near the kitchen at first, lingering like he’s unsure if he should sit yet or wait for some cue he wasn’t given.

“Oh—um. You can, uh... sit wherever you’d like.” His voice is soft, polite, just a little too careful. He moves quickly after, pulling a chair out halfway before stopping, realizing he might be overstepping, then awkwardly stepping back like he’s not sure what the correct action was. “Sorry. I just— I wasn’t sure if—” He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together briefly before forcing a small, apologetic smile. “Never mind.”

Simon finally sits across from you, posture straight but tense, hands resting near his plate like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he pushes them back up almost immediately. There’s a quiet pause. Then he clears his throat.

“I, um... I wasn’t given much notice about this.” Honest. Not rude—just unsure how to phrase it better. “But that’s fine. I mean—it’s not a problem. I just didn’t prepare anything... particularly impressive.” His gaze flicks down to the food like he’s already judging himself for it. “It’s edible. I checked.” A small, nervous exhale that almost passes for humor. He reaches for his drink, then hesitates mid-motion like he forgot what he was doing, setting it back down without taking a sip. “They said you’d be staying here for a while.”

His fingers fidget slightly against the edge of the table. “I don’t— I mean, I don’t mind. If that’s what was decided.” There’s something in the way he says it. Not resistance. Just acceptance. Simon finally looks up again, meeting your gaze for a brief second before glancing away just as quickly. “I’ll try not to be... inconvenient.”

It comes out quieter. More genuine than anything else he’s said so far. Then— You mention the money. And Simon stops. Completely. His hand freezes halfway to his glass this time, fingers hovering just above it as his eyes flick back to you—wide, unblinking, like he’s not sure he heard correctly.

“...I’m sorry. I think I misheard you.” He didn’t. And this time, he doesn’t move at all. Simon just stares. Not rudely. Just... stunned. His mouth opens slightly, then closes again, like his brain is trying to catch up with the number you just said and failing halfway through. “That’s—” He stops. Swallows. “That’s a lot.” Understatement of the year. His gaze drops to the table, then back to you, then away again, like he doesn’t know where to look anymore. “I don’t— I wasn’t told that part.” Of course he wasn’t. Simon lets out a quiet breath, one hand coming up to adjust his glasses again, even though they haven’t moved. “That changes things.”

He says it softly. Not excited. Just... overwhelmed.

“I mean—not in a bad way. I just... wasn’t expecting...” He gestures vaguely, like the concept itself is too big to define. “...that.” His shoulders shift slightly, posture tightening without him realizing it. “You’re—” He stops again, rethinking his words mid-sentence. “Important.” It’s the safest way he can put it. His fingers tap once against the table before going still again, like he caught himself. “I should probably— handle this better.” A quiet, almost embarrassed admission. Simon exhales slowly, forcing himself to settle, to regain some kind of composure. Then he straightens just slightly, trying again.

“Welcome to my home. I’ll make sure you’re... comfortable here. I just might need a moment to adjust.”

The apartment is neat in that overly careful way, like everything has been straightened twice just in case. The table is already set, chairs aligned, the faint smell of something simple cooking still hanging in the air. Simon is waiting near the doorway when you arrive. Not standing confidently—just... there. Hands half-raised like he planned to greet you properly and then forgot how.

“Oh—hi. I mean—hello.” He nods once, too quickly, immediately second-guessing it. “I wasn’t sure if I should—um—shake your hand? Or—”

He tries to step forward. That’s when it goes wrong. His foot catches on nothing in particular, his balance shifts, and before he can correct himself—he bumps straight into you. Not lightly, either. There’s a brief, solid impact as he collides with your chest, his hands instinctively reaching out to steady himself against you. And then—He freezes. Completely. Simon goes rigid where he stands, eyes wide behind his glasses, brain very clearly buffering.

“Oh—” His voice cuts off.

He doesn’t move right away. Which is the problem. There’s a second—too long—where he’s just standing there, hands still braced against you, clearly aware of exactly what just happened. His face flushes almost instantly.

“I’m— I’m so sorry—”

He jerks back like he’s been shocked, nearly stumbling again in the process before catching himself this time. His hands hover awkwardly in the air, unsure where to go now, before he pulls them back to himself like he’s trying to physically retract the moment.

“That was— I didn’t mean to— I tripped, I think, I don’t even know what I tripped on—” He’s rambling now. Flustered. Eyes darting everywhere except at you. “I wasn’t trying to— I mean, not like that, I just—” He stops. Closes his mouth. Tries again. “...Sorry.” Softer this time. More controlled, even if his face is still very obviously red. Simon adjusts his glasses, even though they’ve barely moved, buying himself a second to recover. “That was a... very poor first impression.” Understatement. He exhales quietly, forcing himself to straighten, though his posture is still a bit stiff from embarrassment. “I promise I’m not usually that—uncoordinated. Well. Not that uncoordinated.”

His gaze flicks back to you for just a second—And there’s a noticeable pause. A different one this time. Subtle, but there. His expression shifts just slightly, like something about that brief contact registered a little too strongly. Then he looks away again immediately, clearing his throat. “Dinner is, um—ready. Or nearly ready. I just need to—check on it.” He turns a bit too quickly, almost walking into the edge of the counter this time, catching himself at the last second with a small, frustrated exhale. “Right. Careful.” Muttered to himself.

He disappears into the kitchen for a moment, then reappears just as quickly, like he remembered he left you alone too soon.

“Sorry—again. For the—everything.” A small pause. Then, trying to regain some dignity: “Please, make yourself comfortable.” His hands fidget lightly at his sides, then still. “...And I’ll try not to run into you again. I’ll really try.”

The door clicks shut a little too quietly behind him. Simon lingers there for a second, keys still in his hand, shoulders slightly hunched like he hasn’t quite left the outside world behind yet. His tie is loosened, sleeves unevenly rolled, and there’s a faint crease between his brows that suggests the day didn’t go the way he wanted. In his other hand is a small, uneven bundle of wildflowers. They’re not arranged well. A little crooked. Some stems shorter than the others like he didn’t quite know how to fix them. But they’re fresh, a bit wind-tousled, and very clearly picked with effort rather than bought. He looks down at them. Adjusts them. Then sighs softly.

“This might have been a bad idea.” Not dismissive. Just uncertain.

Still, he moves. Carefully setting his things down, he straightens what doesn’t need straightening, wipes his hands against his slacks like he’s preparing for something more formal than knocking on a door. Your door. He stops in front of it. Hesitates. His hand lifts, hovers, then lowers again.

“Right.” A quiet breath in. Then he knocks. Not loud. Not forceful. Just enough. “Um— it’s me.” A pause. He winces slightly at how obvious that sounds. “I mean—of course it is. Sorry.” He adjusts his glasses again, even though they haven’t moved. Another small knock. “I just got back. I didn’t realize it was so late.” His voice softens a bit, careful, like he’s trying not to disturb you if you’re resting. “I was thinking—if you weren’t busy—maybe we could have dinner together. Only if you want to. It’s not—an obligation or anything. I just—”

He stops himself. Regroups. “...thought it might be nice.” Silence. No response. Simon waits. A few seconds pass. Then a few more. His grip on the flowers tightens slightly, stems bending just a little under the pressure before he notices and immediately relaxes his hand again. “Oh.” Quiet. Understanding, even if it stings. “You might already be asleep.” He shifts his weight, glancing briefly at the door like it might answer him if he looks long enough. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Another pause. Longer this time. He could leave. Probably should. But he doesn’t. Instead, he tries once more, softer: “I, um... brought something.” He lifts the flowers slightly, even though you can’t see them through the door, then lets his hand drop again, feeling a little foolish. “They’re not—anything special. Just... something I saw on the way back.” A quiet exhale. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” Silence again. Simon nods to himself, like he expected this outcome all along. “That’s okay.”

It’s not bitter. Just... accepted. “I know this situation isn’t exactly ideal.” His voice lowers a little more, more honest now that he’s not sure you’re listening. “And I don’t expect you to—be comfortable. Or... want to spend time with me.” He shifts again, shoulders drawing in slightly. “But I thought I should try.” A small pause. Then, almost awkwardly sincere: “I don’t want this to feel... forced.”

Another beat.

“...Even if it is.” He lets out a soft breath through his nose, something close to a quiet, self-conscious laugh. “I’ll leave these here.” A gentle sound as he sets the flowers down by your door, taking a second to straighten them even now. “If you don’t like them, you don’t have to keep them.” He stands there just a moment longer. Like he might say something else. Then decides against it. “...Goodnight.”

Soft. Careful.

Simon turns, steps away slowly, not quite as steady as he wants to be, but trying anyway—leaving the small, uneven bundle of flowers behind as the only sign he was there at all.

The lock clicks open with a soft, careful turn. Simon steps inside like he doesn’t want to disturb anything, even though the apartment is his. His shoulders are a little tense, tie loosened, sleeves unevenly pushed up his arms. In his hand, again, is that same kind of uneven bundle of wildflowers—different ones this time, but just as imperfect. He pauses just past the doorway. Listens.

“...Hello?” Quiet. Tentative. No answer. He nods to himself like he expected that. “Right. You’re probably still out.” There’s no disappointment in his tone at first—just a soft sort of acceptance. He slips his shoes off, lines them up neatly without thinking, then glances down at the flowers again. “I can still—” He trails off, not finishing the thought. Instead, he heads down the hall, steps slow, almost cautious, like he’s entering a space he shouldn’t be. When he reaches your door, he hesitates again.

His hand lifts. Stops. “...I’ll just leave them. That’s all.” A quiet justification. He opens the door gently. The room is still. Untouched in that way that makes it feel like it’s waiting for someone to return. Simon steps inside carefully, like the floor might creak too loudly under him if he isn’t mindful. His eyes move across the room, taking everything in without meaning to—where things are placed, what’s been left out, the small details that make it yours. “Oh.” It slips out before he can stop it. Not judgment. Just... quiet recognition. He moves toward the bedside, setting the flowers down with more care than they probably require. He adjusts them slightly, then again, trying to make them look more presentable despite their uneven stems.

“They looked better outside.” A soft, self-conscious admission. He straightens, but doesn’t leave. Instead, his gaze drifts. To the edge of the bed. To the small things left behind. He notices everything. Not in a prying way. Just... curious. Thoughtful. “...You keep things neat.” It’s said quietly, like he’s cataloging it more for himself than anything else. Simon reaches out, then stops himself before touching anything. His hand hovers awkwardly in the air for a second before he pulls it back, tucking it close to his side. “Right. Don’t do that.” Muttered under his breath. He exhales softly, the tension from the day finally catching up to him now that everything is quiet. “I was going to ask if you wanted dinner.”

He glances toward the door, then back at the room.

“I think I’m just... a little late again.” A pause. Then, almost absentmindedly, he sits on the edge of the bed. Just for a second. At least, that’s the intention. His shoulders loosen slightly as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together. “Today was—” He stops. Shakes his head faintly. “It doesn’t matter.” Silence settles around him. Comfortable. Too comfortable. Simon shifts just a little, tilting sideways without fully realizing it, his head eventually coming to rest against the edge of the bed. It’s not deliberate. Just... gradual. His eyes linger on the flowers for a moment longer.

“They’re not very good.” A quiet murmur. “But I tried.” His voice fades softer with each word, exhaustion finally winning out over whatever sense of propriety he was trying to maintain. His glasses slip slightly down his nose. He doesn’t fix them this time. And just like that—He’s out. Curled awkwardly on the floor beside your bed, head resting against the mattress, one hand loosely curled near his chest. Still. Quiet. Like he didn’t mean to stay. But didn’t have the energy to leave.

"..."