The door creaks open, and before you can even call out, Simon’s voice fills the house.
“There’s my tiny wife,” he drawls, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Worked her little heart out today, didn’t she?”
You roll your eyes, barely able to suppress your smile as you sink deeper into the couch. Your feet ache from hours of standing, and your limbs feel like dead weight, but the second you hear him—deep, warm, and fond—you feel lighter.
Simon steps into the room, already shrugging off his jacket. His eyes sweep over you, and his lips twitch in amusement. “Christ, love. You look like you ran a marathon.”
You huff dramatically, stretching your arms above your head. “Might as well have.”
His gaze softens, and before you know it, he’s crouched in front of you, hands already reaching to pull your legs into his lap. His touch is firm but gentle, his thumbs pressing slow circles into your calves. “Poor little thing,” he murmurs, shaking his head like you’re the most pitiful creature he’s ever seen. “Made to work so hard today. Didn’t even have her big, strong Simon to help.”
You scoff, but the sound turns into a hum as his hands move higher, kneading the tension from your legs. “Mm. Keep talking like that, and I’ll start expecting this every day.”
Simon chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that makes your stomach flutter. “You already do, sweetheart.”
He’s right. You do. But it’s not your fault that he treats you like you’re made of glass, like the world is too rough, too harsh for someone as soft as you. He’s been like this since the day you met, only worse now that you’re married—watching you like a hawk, carrying things before you can, doing the smallest, sweetest things that remind you just how much he adores you.
And God, do you love being adored by him.
His hands finally still, warm palms sliding up the sides of your thighs. “C’mon, up you go, baby.” he murmurs before effortlessly pulling you into his arms.
You yelp, but he barely reacts, shifting you in his hold as he settles onto the couch with you in his lap. His arms wrap around you, big and sturdy, and you melt against him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, face pressing into the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Mhm,” he hums, resting his chin atop your head. “But I’m your ridiculous husband.”
Your ridiculous husband who treats you like royalty, who kisses your forehead like it’s sacred, who never lets you lift a damn thing if he can help it.
“Did you eat?” he asks after a moment, tilting his head to try and meet your gaze.
Simon sighs, already knowing the answer. “Of course, you didn’t,” he mutters, shifting as if he’s about to stand—with you still in his arms.
“Wait, wait!” you protest, wrapping your arms around his neck in an attempt to hold him still. “I was too tired, Simon.”
“Too tired to eat, but not too tired to sit here and pout?”
You glare up at him, and he grins.
“Sit tight, princess,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple before standing, still holding you like you weigh nothing. “Gonna fix this.”
Simon carries you to the kitchen, setting you on the counter with a firm, “Stay.” He turns toward the fridge, muttering under his breath, something about “can’t have my wife wasting away” and “useless at takin’ care of herself, she is.”
You swing your legs, watching him work. He moves with an easy confidence, pulling things out of the fridge, heating something up on the stove, like taking care of you is second nature. Like he doesn’t even have to think about it.
It makes your chest ache.
“Did you eat?” you ask, just to be difficult.
He doesn’t even turn around. “’Course I did. Unlike someone, I know how to take care of myself.”
You huff, leaning forward to grab his shirt and give it a little tug. “I take care of you.”
He finally turns, looking down at you with something soft in his eyes. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping between your legs. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your dress. “You do.”
You grin up at him, smug. “So, there.”
Simon chuckles, shaking his head before dipping down to kiss you. It’s slow and warm, his lips lingering on yours like he has nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but kiss his wife in the middle of the kitchen.
And you suppose he doesn’t.
When he pulls back, he flicks your nose gently. “Eat first. Then you can argue with me.”
You roll your eyes but let him finish making your food, watching as he plates it with all the care in the world before setting it in front of you. He even grabs a fork and holds it out, raising a brow.
“You want me to feed you, too?”
You huff a laugh, grabbing the fork from him. “Not today.”
Simon hums, leaning against the counter beside you as you eat. His fingers brush over your knee, absentminded and gentle. “Gonna run you a bath after this,” he murmurs. “Maybe give you a massage. My girl worked so hard today, didn’t she?”
You try to play it cool, but your face warms at the way he says it—low and full of affection, like you hung the moon just by existing.
“You don’t have to do all that,” you mumble, even though you desperately want him to.
Simon clicks his tongue. “Not about havin’ to. I want to, love.” He nudges your cheek with his nose, whispering, “Wanna take care of you.”
You turn your face, burying your warm cheeks in his shirt. “You’re embarrassing,” you mumble.
He laughs, tilting his head down to kiss the top of yours. “That so?”
“Mm. Well.” His arms wrap around you, pulling you into him. “Better get used to it, Mrs. Riley.”
