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Simon Riley makes no fanfare the first time he tells you he loves you.
You'd been saying it to him for weeks, months maybe, time flies when he's with you — always telling him you didn't need to hear it back, you just wanted him to know he was loved, wanted, cared for.
The first time you said it, pink and orange painted the sky as the glow of the rising sun bathed you in warmth. He'd slipped out of bed early, sneaking to the balcony for a morning smoke, quiet and careful so as to not rouse you.
Simon was halfway through his second cigarette when the door beside him inched open. The dressing gown he'd gifted you on your birthday adorned your frame, soft and fluffy in the colour you had pointed out as most complimenting. A steaming mug warming your hands.
“Hey you,” you greeted him, handing him the tea as you perched yourself in his lap, plucking the cigarette from between his fingers. It had taken time to convince you that no, you’re not too heavy, but once he’d finally gotten it into your stubborn head, his lap seemed to be your favourite place to curl up.
Simon pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his free hand falling low on your hip to keep you in place. The sun was climbing over the horizon, a shining halo of rose and vermillion making you look ethereal. A soft exhale made smoke dance from your lips, swirling in the light breeze — it was fucking mesmerising.
“Sneak out often?” you teased. His lips grazed your fingers as you offered the cigarette to him; intimate, domestic, homely. He hadn’t felt at home anywhere in a long time.
“Didn't wanna wake ya,” he said around a mouthful of smoke before exhaling it through the corner of his mouth.
You laughed at him softly, shaking your head as if you found his antics amusing.
“Drink your tea.”
The first time Simon spent the night you made him tea in the morning — it had been shit if he was honest. Tea bag merely dipped in the water in your haste rather than letting it steep. Too much sugar. Microwaved. He'd bought you a proper kettle after that, even though you argued that it tasted the same.
The morning after, with Simon glued to your back, his hands covering yours, guiding your movements as you giggled, he showed you exactly how he makes his tea.
“This a new blend?” he asked, smiling up at you before taking another sip. It was more flowery than his usual tea, tasted more like berries than he was used to. He didn't like change in his everyday life, not really, and when it was forced on him it always took time before his body and mind settled into it.
He swallowed another mouthful, letting the taste linger on his tongue as long as possible.
“Mhm,” you hummed, “made with love.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuckin’ sap.” Despite the dismissive words he couldn't hide the way his eyes crinkled and shone with the smile he hid behind the mug.
“It’s made with love, Simon.” He could feel your gaze stroking his face, tender and affectionate, the corner of your lips ticked up in a perfect replication of Mona Lisa. “Because I love you.”
In that moment his world stopped spinning, rotated off its axis until it found a new sun in you. His heart stuttered in his chest, the air in his lungs evanesced as his breath seemed to halt.
His silence, the lack of an outward reaction, had you worrying your bottom lip; your brain drawing the opposite conclusion.
“I’m sorry,” you began, diving headfirst into an explanation that was entirely unnecessary. “I know it might be too early for you, and—” an audible swallow, “and you don’t have to say it back. But I just… I wanted you to know and—”
Your name fell from his lips, gentle adoration, as if the word itself was a prayer. Then repeated, louder this time, when your words still didn’t stop. It wasn’t until he occupied your lips with his that your words finally ceased.
“Stop talkin’, dove,” he murmured before kissing you again, harder this time, hoping his touch could relay to you what his words couldn’t.
It’s not something you say every day, but still it invades his senses. Feels it in the way you comb your fingers through his hair. Sees it in your eyes when they light up as you smile at him. Hears it in the way you say his name, when you sing it so sweetly, even when you yell it.
It’s overwhelming.
He never wants it to stop.
So when he's leaving your place one day, lazy morning interrupted by his work phone blaring and Price’s voice telling him they were wheels up at 1800 hours that evening, Simon kisses you long and hard. Unhurried. Passionate. His hands framing your face with gentle force, as if it’s something precious, something valuable — because you are.
“‘old the fort while I'm gone, ‘kay dove?”
“Promise.”
“Good.” He straightens up, slings his duffle over his shoulder, looking at you one last time as he pushes the door open. He wants to tell you then, feels it brewing inside his chest, eager to climb out of his throat.
But he doesn’t want to leave you with those words, not without being able to soak up the blinding smile and shining eyes he knows you’ll give him, not without getting to murmur his affection against your lips and sink his devotion into your very bones, not without an opportunity to revel in the love you both shared. It's only a week, he tells himself. He can wait one week.
But then one week turns into two.
And two into six.
He’s dead on his feet once he collapses in the too small seat of the plane that’ll bring them back home again, eyes bleary from lack of sleep and head pounding from the many hits it had taken.
The cracks in his phone screen split your head in three, but you’re still as beautiful as ever and he can’t help but smile as he smooths his thumb over your picture. You’re laughing in it, loud and boisterous, and your eyes crinkle in the corners. So fucking happy, so fucking lovely — it makes his heart ache.
You meet him when they land, jump into his arms and cling on for dear life. Not that Simon is any better; his hold on you is borderline painful, but neither of you mind. He wants to crush you against him, keep you so close not even air is able to pass between your bodies.
“Missed you,” you say into the crook of his neck, breathing him in until his scent is the only thing you smell.
“Missed ya too, dove,” he replies against the top of your head. Gaz says something Simon can’t be arsed to register and it makes Soap snicker. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you, in his arms, in his heart.
It’s only when Price comes up beside him and claps him on the shoulder that you break the embrace. “Go on home, Simon. You’ve earned it,” Price says. It’s too friendly for an official order, yet just stern enough that they both can pretend it is one.
The mask gets pulled off Simon’s face the moment you’re on the road, and he keeps his hand on your thigh the entire drive home to your flat. The setting sun is shining through the side window, clouds smouldering with scarlet painting the inside of the car in shades of red and orange that makes your skin fucking glow. You tell him again, then, your voice quiet and soft and warm as the three words you give him so easily fall from your lips once more. You smile, not expecting him to say it back, content with just knowing he knows. His hand squeezes your thigh.
“Go jump in the shower,” you say once your front door closes behind you and he dumps his duffel on the floor, rolling his neck in an attempt to alleviate the stiffness. “I’ll order us some food.”
“This y’way of tellin’ me I stink?” Simon asks, but the way his lips tilt in a cheeky grin only makes you huff out a laugh.
“And what if it is?” you counter, trying your best to keep your face neutral but soon the giggle you had suppressed bubbles up and he can’t help but chuckle along. It takes him no effort to pull your frame against his chest, holding you tight, letting you fill his senses.
“Just go,” you say with a shake of your head once your laughter tapers off. Your hand pats his shoulder twice and he presses a kiss to your forehead before releasing you.
There is no kaleidoscope of colours bathing your features this time. No warm reds or pale pinks, no soft yellows or deep oranges. Because now the sun has set and stars are splattered across the evening sky — just barely visible, but there nonetheless. He finds some strange form of kinship in them.
“Yeah, yeah, love ya too, dove,” he says. Simple. Clean. As if it’s the easiest thing in the world rather than a concept he had struggled with most of his life and only recently opened his heart up to again.
His words root you to the spot as your brain plays catch-up, giving Simon enough time to get halfway to the bathroom before his words register. And once they do, you fling yourself against his back, arms squeezing tight around his middle.
“I heard that correctly, right?” you ask against his back, voice slightly muffled from the way you’re pressing your face against him.
Simon pries your hands off of him, ignoring your noise of protest, before turning around to face you properly. With one hand on your waist he brings your face close to his with the other. His lips claim yours in a kiss that is deep, slow, sensual. Being open and vulnerable is something he’s still getting reacquainted with, but he can’t deny how light he feels; like the weight he’d been carrying for only God knows how long has finally lifted.
“Yeah, dove,” he whispers against your lips, “I love ya.”