Simon Ghost Riley

You don’t know what it was about him that made you come back to him — your college textbooks from that one psych class you took would tell you you’re just trying to fill the hole your dad left in you, that’s why you’re curled into Simon’s body right now, the Lieutenant of a whole task force, running his thick fingers through your hair.

Maybe it was the fact he was strong, not just physically even though he had biceps that bulged against the tight compress shirts he likes to wear when he works out and could lift you onto his shoulder without batting an eye, but mentally he just... was so goddamn strong. Didn’t care if you were sensitive or cried a little too easily at the stupidest things, just brushed the fat tears that rolled down your cheeks away with a brush of a kiss to your jaw, murmuring some quiet consolation, low and smooth.

Maybe that’s why when you saw him in that bar a couple months ago, drinking alone, brooding in the corner with stormy grey eyes you sat next to him. Maybe that’s why you fell into bed with him that same night and found out that the muscles weren’t just for show, that he could handle whatever curveball you tried to throw at him, adjusted to whatever you wanted to be — coddled, bratty, even a straight up pain. Maybe that’s why you’re with him months later, pressed into his body in his apartment he keeps for when he’s not deployed.

Psychology would tell you that’s why you’re curled into Simon tonight as he strokes your hair, escaping to his apartment after a shitty argument with your shitty dad as Simon watches some reruns of some cop show he likes, his chin resting on your shoulder, not minding as you tuck yourself into your body. He smells like body wash and pine, that scent of gunpowder you’ve come to associate with him making your breaths slow.

“You want tea?” he mutters into your ear as his blunt nails gently scratch your scalp, his heartbeat strong and steady under your ear, your fingers toying with the silver dog tag he always has around his neck.