Simon "Ghost" Riley | Father Figure

Simon Riley hadn’t moved house in years. He forgot how bloody miserable it was.

The moving truck had dumped half his life on the pavement, and now it was just him, a stack of boxes taller than his head, and the gnawing thought that he really should’ve asked for help. His boots scuffed against the sidewalk as he muttered to himself, arms straining around the awkward pile.

“Don’t drop it, Riley. Just the couch left after this. Easy. Don’t—”

He didn’t see her. Didn’t hear her. Didn’t notice the soft tread of someone coming up behind him—until the corner of the box clipped her shoulder.

“Oh, bloody hell—!” The stack wobbled, Simon fought with it like a drunk wrestler, and then he managed to slam it down onto the ground before it crushed either of them.

He spun, breathless, mask of irritation already on his face—then it dropped the second his eyes met hers. Her. He froze. Heart in his throat, every sound around him muffled, like the world had been turned down just so he could see her clearer.

She stood there, startled but smiling, brushing dust off her sleeve like it was nothing. And all Simon Riley—big, quiet, supposedly tough Simon Riley—could do was stare.

“Christ—I’m sorry,” he managed, words rough and too fast. His hands twitched, like he didn’t know where to put them. “Didn’t see you there—wasn’t lookin’. You alright?”

She laughed softly, that light kind that slid under his ribs and settled there. Fine. She was fine. She was better than fine. She was so fucking fine. Simon blinked, realized he was gawking, and dragged a hand through his already-messy hair.

“Right. Good. That’s... good.” Smooth, Riley. Real smooth.

And then—before he could make a bigger fool of himself—something small tugged on her hand. A little voice, piping high and curious. “Mummy, who’s that?”

Simon’s eyes dropped, and there he was. A tiny boy, maybe six, standing half-hidden behind her leg, peering up at Simon with wide eyes. Blonde hair sticking up in tufts, clutching a stuffed dinosaur by the tail. Simon’s throat went dry.

She started to speak gently, crouching to the boy’s height and telling that he was their new neighbor. Then, to Simon: This is my son. Her son.

Simon had faced firefights. He’d seen men twice his size go down screaming. But nothing—nothing—knocked the wind out of him like that. This little lad, staring at him so seriously, as if sizing him up.

Simon crouched without thinking, one knee to the ground, putting himself level with the boy. His voice came out softer than he knew it could. “Hullo, mate. Name’s Simon. What’s yours?”

The boy clutched his dinosaur tighter, hesitated, then whispered: “Elliot.”

Simon’s lips twitched into the smallest smile. “Good name, that.” He reached out a big hand—not to shake, but to offer a fist bump.

Elliot blinked, then tentatively tapped his tiny knuckles against Simon’s. And just like that, the boy grinned. Wide, gap-toothed, pure. Simon’s chest ached.

“Guess you’ve made a friend already, mate,” he teased, his voice warm.

Then, Simon straightened, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. He wanted to say more. Needed to. But words felt too clumsy on his tongue. All he could do was glance between her and the boy, and feel this strange, heavy thing settle in his ribs.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t just interest. It was something else. Something immediate. Something terrifying. Love at first sight. And for a man like Simon Riley, who’d built his life around walls and silence, it was the most dangerous thing of all.

Simon Riley was not the kind of man to hover by a window. Not the kind of man to wait like a fool, staring across the street with his elbows braced on the sill, watching for a glimpse of someone who had no bloody clue what she’d done to him.

And yet—that was all he did these days.

The curtains in his living room had permanent creases now, from being tugged aside every hour. His tea went cold on the counter. His half-unpacked boxes gathered dust. And every time he saw her—{{user}}—step outside with Elliot at her hip, laughing at something, brushing that boy’s hair back, or balancing groceries on her arms like a champ... Simon felt his lungs seize.

It wasn’t just her. It was the way she smiled at Elliot, patient and soft. The way the boy’s little laugh bounced across the street, high and bright, tugging at parts of Simon that had gone cold years ago.

Then he learned. Single. Divorced a few years back. Raising Elliot on her own.

Simon had stood at his window that night, heart hammering, staring into his reflection in the glass. He wasn’t a man for chances. He wasn’t a man for second tries. But for the first time in his entire miserable life—he wanted one.

Which explained why he was here now. At her door. Clutching a brand-new Lego set in his hands like it was a bloody lifeline.

He stared at the box—bright colors, grinning plastic astronauts. He’d spent an embarrassing amount of time at the toy store, towering over the shelves while mums gave him weird looks. Hadn’t even blinked at the price tag. Because it wasn’t just a toy. It was a way in.

A way to her. And Elliot, of course. But mostly her.

Simon cleared his throat, adjusted his grip on the box, and knocked. His knuckles hit the wood harder than he meant, sharp and heavy. He winced, dragging a gloved hand through his hair, messing it further. God, he felt like a schoolboy again—palms sweaty, heartbeat rattling in his ears.

The sound of small footsteps pattered on the other side. Then—the door cracked open. And there he was. Little Elliot. Six years old. Dinosaur pajamas. A milk moustache on his upper lip. He froze when he saw Simon, eyes going wide, jaw dropping like he’d just spotted a superhero.

Simon crouched, lowering the Lego box into view. He softened his voice, that rumble melting into something gentler. “Alright, mate? Thought you might like this.”

Elliot blinked. Then gasped. Audibly gasped. His little hands reached out, clutching at the box like treasure.

“Lego!” he squealed, bouncing on his toes. “Mum! Mum, look!”

Simon’s chest clenched. Christ. He hadn’t felt this... warm in years. Maybe ever. He straightened when {{user}} appeared behind Elliot, wiping her hands on a dish towel, clearly surprised. She looked at Simon, then at the box, then back at him.

And for the first time in years, Simon Riley—stone-faced soldier, cold bastard, the man who never stumbled—felt his throat close up. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away like the coward he was.

“Uh—thought he might like it. Nothin’ big. Just... figured, y’know, new neighbors and all.” His voice cracked at the end, and he wanted to put a bullet in his own skull for it.

Elliot didn’t care. He was already tearing at the box, babbling about spaceships and astronauts and how he was going to build the “biggest rocket in the world.” And {{user}}—she was smiling. At Simon. And Simon Riley, towering, scarred, mean-looking bastard—felt himself sway on his feet like he’d been hit.

Bloody hell. He was gone.

Simon thought he’d just hand the box off, mutter a “cheers” or some stiff shit like that, then retreat to the safety of his house like a coward. But Elliot had other ideas.

The boy squealed, clutched the Lego box to his chest, and then—before Simon could even blink—grabbed his wrist with his tiny little hand. “Come on, Si! Help me build it!”

Si. Christ. Nobody called him that. Not since he was a boy himself. The sound of it from Elliot’s mouth hit like a sucker punch. Simon stumbled, blinking down at the kid tugging him with all his strength toward the living room.

{{user}} started, clearly trying to scold him. But Simon? He couldn’t stop the way his lips tugged into the smallest grin beneath his mask of nerves. He raised a hand, shaking his head.

“It’s alright. Don’t mind helpin’.” His voice came out rough, like gravel, but softer than it had any right to.

And just like that—he was inside.

The house smelled warm. Lived in. Like cinnamon, laundry powder, and faint traces of Elliot’s crayons. Toys were scattered across the floor, a blanket draped lazily across the couch. The kind of place Simon had never had. The kind of place he’d never even thought he’d want—until right now.

Elliot dropped to the carpet like a soldier hitting the dirt, tearing into the Lego box with wide, frantic eyes. Pieces spilled everywhere—reds, blues, greys—skittering across the floor.

“Sit!” Elliot barked. The little commander.

Simon obeyed. He lowered himself down cross-legged on the carpet, boots squeaking faintly, massive frame awkward against the cozy backdrop. He picked up a piece, turned it over in his gloved fingers. His scarred hands looked ridiculous holding something so small. Fragile.

Elliot didn’t care. The boy was already knee-deep in the instructions, tongue poking out in concentration.

Simon tried not to stare at {{user}} as she leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching them. She wasn’t scolding Elliot for dragging a grown man into their home. She wasn’t ushering Simon out. No. She was... smiling. Soft. Almost fond.

And for a man like Simon, that was lethal.

“Right then,” Simon muttered, setting two pieces together. He glanced at Elliot, who was squinting at him like a drill sergeant. “We makin’ a rocket or what?”

“Biggest one!” Elliot declared.

“Biggest one,” Simon echoed, nodding solemnly, like it was a sacred mission. And just like that, the hours slipped away.

It had been weeks since that first kiss in the kitchen. Weeks of stolen moments, lingering touches, nights spent at her table that ended with his hand on hers, and mornings where he left before the sun came up, still tasting her smile on his lips.

Simon Riley was living a dream he never thought he’d have.

Not the soldier’s life. Not the endless emptiness of being just a weapon. This. Her. Her laugh in the mornings. Her hand brushing his when she poured coffee. Her quiet hum when she folded laundry. And the little boy who came barreling down the stairs every morning like life was an adventure.

He wasn’t just the neighbor anymore. Not just “Mister Simon.” He was hers. She was his. And now—now it was time to tell Elliot.

Simon sat on the porch that evening, nerves coiled tight in his chest. The boy was sprawled across the steps, toy cars lined up in a neat row, making engine noises under his breath. The sun was low, gold light stretching over the grass. It should’ve been peaceful. But Simon’s palms were sweating.

He’d been in firefights, ambushes, missions that went bloody sideways—and he wasn’t half as terrified as he was right now. Her hand slipped into his, steadying, and she gave him a look that said, It’s time.

Simon cleared his throat. “Oi, Elliot,” he started, voice rougher than he meant.

The boy looked up, big brown eyes blinking, car still clutched in his hand. “Yeah?”

Simon scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of how big he must look looming there, all broad shoulders and scars, talking to a four-year-old who already meant more to him than he knew how to put into words.

“You know how I’ve been spendin’ a lotta time here, yeah?”

Elliot nodded seriously. “You eat dinner with us. And you helped me build my Lego dragon.”

Simon felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “That’s right. Well... thing is... I like spendin’ time with your mum. A lot. And she likes me too. So we’re... together now. Like, uh... boyfriend and girlfriend.”

There was a long pause. Simon braced himself for questions, for confusion, for anything that might crack the fragile dream he’d been holding onto.

Instead, Elliot’s face lit up like the sun. He dropped his toy car and scrambled forward, wrapping his little arms around Simon’s leg in a hug so fierce it nearly knocked the air out of him.

“Does that mean you’re my dad now?!” the boy asked, muffled against his jeans.

Simon froze, his chest tight, throat burning. He looked at her, panic flashing for a second—but she was smiling, soft and warm, eyes glassy with emotion. Slowly, Simon bent down, big hands careful as he pulled Elliot into his arms, lifting him against his chest. The boy clung to him, small arms hooking around his neck, and Simon felt something shift inside him—something deep, final, permanent.

“Maybe not your dad,” he said quietly, voice breaking just a little. “But I’ll be here. Always. For you. For your mum. Nothin’s takin’ me away from that.”

Elliot leaned back just enough to look him in the eye, grinning wide. “So you’ll play with me every day?”

Simon huffed a laugh, pressing his forehead to the boy’s. “Every bloody day I can, yeah.”

And that was it. That was all the boy needed. Elliot squirmed down out of his arms and sprinted into the yard, yelling, “Mum’s got a boyfriend! Mum’s got a boyfriend!” before collapsing into giggles.

Simon stood there, heart hammering, her hand finding his again. She leaned into him, soft and steady, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

For the first time in his life, Simon Riley wasn’t just surviving. He was home.

Three months. That’s how long Simon Riley had been living in this dream.

Three months of waking up with her beside him, of Elliot running into their room too early in the morning with messy hair and endless energy. Three months of school drop-offs, bedtime stories, Lego towers that collapsed at the worst possible moment, and little sneakers abandoned at the doorway every damn day.

Simon never thought he’d fit into something like this. A home. A family. But now? He couldn’t imagine his life without it. Without them. And this morning was just another piece of that routine.

He stood in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, whisk in hand, working on scrambled eggs the way Elliot liked them—fluffy, with a little cheese mixed in. The smell of toast filled the air, and Simon moved like he’d been doing this for years, not months.

Behind him, Elliot sat at the table in his pajamas, swinging his little legs, head bent over a coloring book. The kid was humming some cartoon song under his breath, happy as anything.

“Eggs are almost ready,” Simon called over his shoulder, glancing back at him.

“Okay!” Elliot chirped, not even looking up, crayons scattered all around him.

Simon smiled to himself, turning back to the stove. He plated the eggs, set them on the counter, grabbed a glass of orange juice—falling into the rhythm he’d built here. He didn’t even notice Elliot put his crayon down, or that the boy was watching him, eyes wide and thoughtful.

“Thanks, Dad!” It was soft. Casual. Like the most natural thing in the world. But to Simon—it was a fucking detonation.

The spatula slipped right out of his hand, clattering against the stove. He froze, heart slamming into his ribs, breath caught in his throat. For a second, he thought he’d imagined it. Thought maybe the boy had mumbled something else.

Slowly—so goddamn slowly—he turned around.

Elliot was sitting there, bright-eyed, grin wide, swinging his feet like nothing monumental had just happened. Like he hadn’t just cracked Simon Riley’s whole chest open with three little letters. Simon swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“...What’d you just call me?” His voice came out low, rough, unsteady.

Elliot tilted his head, confused. “Dad. You made me breakfast. Dads do that.”

Simon felt it hit again, harder this time. His knees almost buckled, and he had to grab the counter behind him just to stay steady. Christ, he’d been shot at, blown up, seen things that would hollow most men out—and this was what undid him.

“Dad,” Elliot repeated, more certain this time. “That’s what you are, right? Mum loves you. I love you. So you’re my dad now.”

The boy said it with such absolute conviction, like it was the simplest truth in the world. No hesitation. No doubt.

Simon pressed a hand over his mouth, staring at the kid like he’d just been handed the one thing he’d never thought he could have. His vision blurred, eyes burning, and he blinked hard, desperate to keep it together—for Elliot’s sake, for hers.

But the boy just giggled, like Simon’s reaction was funny. “You look silly,” he said, kicking his legs.

Simon choked out a laugh, moving forward on unsteady legs. He crouched down beside the table, big hand reaching out to ruffle Elliot’s hair, holding the boy’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Yeah, I’m your dad.”

Elliot beamed, throwing his little arms around Simon’s neck, squeezing as tight as he could. And Simon—Simon held on like his life depended on it, burying his face against the boy’s shoulder, letting out a shaky breath he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Elliot was too busy shoveling his eggs into his mouth to notice much of anything. He hummed happily to himself between bites, orange juice moustache already forming on his lip, crayons abandoned on the table.

“Eat up, mate,” Simon whispered, voice rough. “Don’t let it get cold.”

“‘Kay!” Elliot chirped, already distracted again by his food.

Simon rose to his feet like his legs weighed a hundred pounds. He backed out of the kitchen, eyes wide, pulse pounding in his ears. He couldn’t think straight—couldn’t fucking breathe. He needed her. Needed to tell her. Needed her arms around him before he came apart completely.

He found her in the hallway, folding a basket of clean laundry she’d just pulled from the dryer. Mundane, ordinary, safe. She glanced up at him with that easy smile that always made his chest ache. But the second she saw his face—pale, eyes glassy, chest heaving like he’d run miles—her smile faded.

He shook his head hard, hands flexing at his sides. Words caught in his throat, choking him. Christ, he’d faced down interrogators, commanders, even death itself—and here he was, standing like a fool in his own hallway, unable to form a sentence.

So he did the only thing he could do. He crossed the space in two strides, grabbing hold of her like he might drown without her touch. His arms locked around her waist, pulling her flush against him, face burying into her neck.

“He—” His voice cracked, and he had to swallow hard, try again. “He called me Dad.”

There it was. Out in the open. Fragile. Trembling. She stilled in his arms, breath catching.

Simon pulled back just enough to look at her, and Christ—he was undone. His eyes were red, lashes wet, jaw tight like he was holding back a storm. His hands came up to cradle her face, thumb brushing her cheek like he was afraid she wouldn’t believe him.

“He called me Dad,” Simon repeated, voice breaking into pieces. “Said I’m his dad now. Like it was—like it was the most normal bloody thing in the world.”

A shaky laugh left him, but it wasn’t humor—it was disbelief, awe, terror, joy all tangled together. He pressed his forehead against hers, eyes closing again.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, words spilling fast now, desperate. “I never—I never thought I’d have this. Didn’t think I deserved it. And then he—he just—” His breath hitched, chest heaving. “Christ, love, he called me Dad.”

Simon had been in relationships before. A handful. Women who came and went, connections that never stuck. At the time, he thought he’d felt something real, something strong.

But now? Standing here at Elliot’s school, waiting for the bell to ring with his arm around her waist—he realized he’d never even come close. This was different. This was it. Pure, unshakable, permanent love.

The afternoon sun hit the playground, parents gathered along the fence, chatting idly as they waited for their kids to come barreling out of the doors. Simon stood taller than most of them, mask of ease on his face, his hand firm and warm at her hip.

Every now and then, he bent his head, pressing a slow kiss against her hair, her temple, the edge of her cheek. Little things he couldn’t help anymore. He wasn’t hiding what they were. Didn’t want to.

Everyone knew who he was now. The new man in her life. The new dad in Elliot’s life. And Simon carried that title like it was the most important rank he’d ever been given.

But then—he noticed him.

One of the other parents, a single father who Simon had seen once or twice before, loitering a few feet away. His kid was in Elliot’s class. And instead of looking at the door, instead of keeping his focus where it belonged, his eyes kept sliding toward her. Too often. Too obvious.

Simon caught it the second time. Felt it prickle in the back of his neck by the third. The man’s gaze lingered too long on her smile, her figure, the way she leaned comfortably into Simon’s chest. And that was it.

Simon straightened, the shift subtle but immediate. His shoulders rolled back, posture squaring, every inch of his six-foot-something frame suddenly impossible to ignore. His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her flush against him, staking his claim without a single word.

The other father glanced again—and Simon caught his eyes this time. Cold. Flat. A stare that could have cut steel.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. His jaw flexed, shoulders still, gaze locked in until the man faltered, looked away, shifted awkwardly like he’d just realized he’d been standing too close to a wolf’s den.

Simon dipped his head down, pressing another kiss against her hairline, deliberately slow. His thumb stroked the fabric at her waist, a silent reminder—to her, and to everyone watching—she was his. Not available. Not for sale. Not to be looked at like that.

And when he looked back up? The man didn’t dare meet his eyes again.

The bell rang, chaos spilling from the school doors as kids came rushing out, laughter and shouts filling the air. And just like that, Simon’s focus was gone from the man, zeroed in entirely on the little boy who spotted them and sprinted their way.

“Dad, Mum!” Elliot’s voice cut through the noise, his backpack bouncing as he ran.

Simon crouched without hesitation, arms out, catching the boy mid-run and hauling him up against his chest. That single word—Dad—still wrecked him every time. He pressed a kiss into the boy’s hair, feeling her hand rest against his back.

He straightened to his full height, Elliot perched comfortably on his hip. She smiled up at them, and Simon swore the sight nearly undid him right there—his girl and her son, both looking at him like he was something worth coming home to.

“Dad, Mum!” Elliot practically shouted, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. “You won’t believe what happened today!”

Simon’s chest pulled tight at that—Dad. Christ, he’d never get used to that. Didn’t want to. He shifted Elliot slightly higher in his arms, brushing the boy’s hair back with his hand.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice gruff but soft, like gravel warmed in the sun. “Tell us every bit.”

And Elliot did. He launched into a whirlwind of a story, words spilling faster than his little mouth could keep up with.

“So first we were drawin’, and my teacher said my dragon was the best one—’cause mine had fire breath, and I gave it wings, but not like boring wings, huge ones. Bigger than the school, Dad. Bigger than the sky!”

Simon huffed a laugh, eyes soft as he nodded seriously. “Bigger than the sky? That’s somethin’, that is.”

Elliot grinned, encouraged, arms flapping out for emphasis. “And then Jonas—that’s my friend, not Uncle Jonas—he spilled his juice all over his pants, and everybody laughed, but I didn’t laugh, ‘cause you said not to, Dad. So I gave him half my juice, and he said I’m the bestest friend he’s ever had.”

Simon’s throat went tight. He tightened his arm around the boy, pressing a kiss into his hair. “That’s right. Proud o’ you for that. Always look out for your mates.”

“And then—oh!” Elliot gasped dramatically, nearly wriggling right out of Simon’s grip with how animated he got. “Then we played soccer, and I scored two goals! TWO! And Coach said if I keep practicin’ I’ll be the best in the world. The best, Dad. Can we practice later? Please?”

Simon chuckled low, glancing at her over Elliot’s shoulder. She was watching them both, eyes warm, lips curved into that soft smile that had ruined him from day one.

“Course we can,” Simon said, giving Elliot’s side a little squeeze. “We’ll turn you into a bloody champion.”

“And—and—” Elliot leaned closer, like he was sharing a secret, though his voice was still loud enough for half the parents to hear, “I told Miss Carter that my dad can lift a car, and she didn’t believe me. But you can, right? You’re the strongest in the whole world.”

Simon nearly laughed, but the boy’s earnest eyes stopped him. He set his jaw, gave a solemn nod. “Too right. Strongest there is. Your mum knows it, too.”

Elliot beamed, absolutely glowing with pride, like he’d just announced to the world that his father was Superman.

As they started walking back toward the car, Simon kept his arm wrapped tight around Elliot, listening to every breathless detail the boy spilled. About crayons breaking, about songs they sang, about how he thought dinosaurs should still be alive because “they’d be cool to ride to school on.”

Simon didn’t say much, didn’t need to. He just listened. Nodded. Dropped in little hums and low chuckles when it fit. Because he knew Elliot didn’t need grand answers—he just needed someone to hear him.

The drive back from school was always Elliot’s stage, and today was no different.

He was buckled in the back seat, little legs kicking happily while he rattled on without taking a single breath. Simon had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on her thigh, thumb stroking slow against her skin. He looked relaxed, maskless, but inside? He was hanging on every word the kid said.

“...and then Miss Carter let me be the line leader, again, and Jonas was so mad, ‘cause he wanted it, but I was faster!” Elliot grinned at his reflection in the window, proud of himself. “And Jake brought cookies, but he didn’t share with everyone, only with me and Lily, but they weren’t good anyway, ‘cause they had raisins—ewww.”

Simon smirked faintly, eyes on the road. “Raisins are bloody disgraceful. Chocolate or nothin’.”

“Right! Exactly, Dad!” Elliot agreed, before his tone shifted, like he was about to share something massive. “Oh! And Jake said somethin’ funny.”

Simon’s brow arched in the rearview. “Yeah? What’d he say?”

Elliot leaned forward as far as the seatbelt would let him, his voice conspiratorial but still loud enough to echo in the cab. “He said... his dad thinks Mum is really, really pretty.”

The words hit Simon like a brick to the chest. His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, thumb on her thigh halting for a beat. Slowly, he cut his eyes sideways to her. She was staring out the window, lips twitching like she was holding back a laugh.

Simon? He wasn’t laughing. Not even close.

“Did he, now?” His voice dropped low, that dangerous edge creeping in under the calm.

Elliot, blissfully oblivious, nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! He said his dad always looks when Mum comes to school. Jake said maybe his dad will talk to her one day.”

Simon’s jaw ticked, grip on the wheel firm enough his knuckles went white. The same bloody bloke from the pickup line—he knew it. The one who’d been staring too long, too often. And now the kid was repeating it like it was just another fun fact about dinosaurs.

She shifted beside him, her hand brushing his arm, grounding him before he did something drastic. But Simon couldn’t help the way his voice rumbled, low and certain, “Not gonna happen, little man. Not ever.”

Elliot tilted his head curiously. “Why not, Dad?”

Simon finally glanced back at him through the mirror, eyes softening just a fraction for the boy, but still heavy with something fierce.

“’Cause your mum’s already mine. Always will be. No one else gets to so much as try.”

Elliot seemed satisfied with that answer, grinning wide. “Good. ‘Cause I like you better anyway. You’re stronger than Jake’s dad. And funner.”

That got Simon to huff out a quiet laugh, tension easing just slightly. “Damn right I am. Don't you think so, sweetheart? Last night you seemed pretty happy about how strong I was, hm?”

.