omg THIS

you and simon have been tucked away on the outskirts of manchester for a while now. long enough for things to settle—soft, worn edges and quiet routines all set in stone already. the kind of domesticity that feels like it belongs to other, more deserving people, but you don’t dare question it. you both made a quiet agreement early on: he wouldn’t tell you what he did when he disappeared at night, and you wouldn’t ask.

as long as whatever it was stayed outside the walls of your home, you could live with it.

he came in late last night. didn’t say a word—just slid in behind you, all warm and strong, one thick arm slung around your waist like he was anchoring himself. he pressed his face into your hair, breathed you in like it was the only thing grounding him.

it’s a little after nine when you wake. simon’s still asleep, sprawled beneath the covers, the sun cutting gold lines across his chest. he’d been having a lot of late nights lately. you let him sleep.

you slip out of bed as carefully as you can, pulling one of his shirts over your head—worn with time and oversized, falling to mid-thigh. one of his rules: no clothes in bed.

you look back once. at his bare chest half-covered by the sheet, the way the wrinkle in his brow only smoothes while he sleeps. then you pad into the kitchen, and turn the radio on low. you start on breakfast—eggs, toast in the pan not the toaster, just how he likes.

you’ve been at it maybe fifteen minutes when you hear it. a low whistle from the archway.

you don’t turn, just smile to yourself.

a few seconds later, his hands are on your hips, lips brushing against the slope of your shoulder.

“thought you’d still be sleeping,”

“can’t, not without you anymore,” he murmurs against your skin, voice raspy with the remnants of deep sleep.

you hum in response, the silence stretching between you, soft as the morning light. he groans and lets his head rest against your shoulder.

“smells good,” his eyes are closed as he nuzzles your neck, arms wrapped fully around you.

“wonder what gave it away?” you chuckle at your sarcasm.

he doesn’t answer right away. just breathes you in again, like you’re something holy.

“what y’makin’, doll?”

“your favorites,” you reply, like it’s obvious. because it is.

he presses some open-mouthed kisses down to your shoulder, then steps back, hands gliding down your arms on the way out. you tilt your head backwards to look up at him.

“such a sweet thing i picked, hmm?” his hand finds your cheek, thumb stroking the plush fat there.

you smile, and he swears it’s like looking heaven straight in the eyes. it’ll never get old. he leans down and kisses you—just a quick, upside-down brush of lips.

“set the table,” you whisper against his lips, “and I’ll show you how sweet I can be.”

he laughs under his breath, already reaching for the plates in the cabinet you can never reach.

“yes, ma’am.”

I need him on a spiritual level.