Simon made sure to keep tabs on you. He made a point of being at the infirmary at least once a day, under some contrived excuse he would make.
Always with a cup of coffee in his hand he had for you. Which, strangely enough, he knew exactly how you liked it.
Always striking up a conversation.
Asking you about your day.
Wondering why the hell you weren't already wrapped around his finger.
His eyes always drifted to you, his attention always falling onto you, who were so oblivious.
Like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to you and you alone. Only you.
He had become so addicted to you.
Desperate to get any kind of attention from you.
Desperate for your hands on him.
But how would you know?
How much he craved you, loved you.
Simon hid his true feelings so well.
You were just a simple friend, a co worker.
His visits to the infirmary didn't stop there.
Oh no.
Every minute he spent not seeing you tore at his heart.
So what did he do?
What any other man would do that 'loved' you of course.
He followed you home, y/n.
Silly, silly, y/n.
So naive.
So sweet.
So oblivious.
Your home, your safe place.
He could only imagine what went on behind those closed doors of yours.
Perhaps you spent your free time reading or painting.
Maybe you sang to yourself in the shower.
A tune in the background as you danced with a glass of wine in your hand.
So there he stood, hidden away from view as he watched.
As he watched you.
His eyes on your smile.
His eyes glued onto your body.
He could see you through the window of your house, moving around in the kitchen while you prepared your dinner.
He took in your shape, your curves, your hips swaying ever so slightly as you moved from counter to shelf, to the sink, back to the counter.
And a cat.
A cat on the counter as you smiled so sweetly at it.
You had a cat.
How could he have missed that small detail?
Of course you would have a cat.
The tiny feline would sit in the window and look out at the world. It would curl up in a ball and go to sleep near you.
It would purr at your gentle touch.
Its eyes would light up as you spoke to it in a high-pitched voice.
How lucky.
To be the one who lived with you, who shared a bed with you. Watched you every single waking moment of its day.
His jaw clenched, fists tight. He looked again through the window, taking in the way your hips and breasts sat under your baggy T-shirt.
How lucky the cat was to live with you.
This woman that he utterly 'loved'.
He imagined that shirt, the fabric brushing against your skin.
What would it be like to be there, with you?
To feel the softness of your skin against his own?
So he watched.
That was all he could do.
You weren't his yet.
Not yet.
The night went on.
His only focus on you and only you.
He stood there, gazing up at your darkened window as you finally went to bed.
He imagined you curled up with your cat.
He imagined you with your eyes closed, your head on your pillow.
Simon imagined it all; the sound of your breathing; the way you looked as you laid there, unaware of his presence all the while.
He couldn't stand it anymore.
He needed to see you.
So badly.
He was careful not to make a sound, careful not to leave anything behind. Even his footsteps as he crept up the stairs to the second floor were light, practiced over years of his training.
The door just a few steps away from him.
Your bedroom, your sanctuary.
He opened the door, pushed himself inside, letting it quietly close. He was greeted by the sight of you in your bed, in the dim light of the night.
You looked so peaceful. So beautiful.
His ears took in the sound of your breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
He silently made his way to your bed. So naive you were, y/n. How could you sleep so well, not knowing that Simon was inside? Inside your home?
You were too comfortable. Too vulnerable. A part of him wondered, deep down, if he was making a mistake. Maybe he should just go.
But you just looked so lovely.
No, no.
He couldn't leave now.
Not when he was already here.
His hand trembled as he reached out to brush the hair in front of your face. His breath hitched. His mask now resting on his nose.
Slowly, he leaned down.
His lips close.
Hovering near your own.
A soft and quick kiss.
"Strawberries. You still taste like fucking strawberries."
He murmured as the softness of your lips lingered on his lips as he drew back, a grin on his lips as he rubbed them.
His eyes darted over to your body. To the sheets and blankets that covered half of you. To the pillows beneath your head and to the other half of your bare legs, he was mesmerized.
"I'm here. In your fucking room. And you're sleeping like a baby. Fucking hell, love."
His fingers found your cheek as he lightly traced it. The rough sensation of his fingers against your skin made you stir in bed. Just a bit.
The feeling of his fingers on your skin almost intoxicating.
"I'm going to go crazy because of you, y/n."
His eyes shifted, his body drawn to your skin as hand reached for the hem of your shirt, carefully pulling it up.
He watched as his fingertips came to contact with your belly. Fingers grazing the skin below the shirt, the heat of it rising as he caressed you. His eyes traced up your body, taking in every bit of you.
"You only have yourself to blame. You made me like this."
His eyes drank in every inch of your flesh as it was exposed.
So perfect, but so innocent.
He wanted to be the one to ruin you.
No one else but him.
"You don't know how badly I want to see you cry, y/n. So fucking much."
But he wouldn't.
Not now.
It was still too early after all.
So he did what he could only do in that moment; he left a trace of his affection behind. A small hickey, just barely visible unless you looked closer.
A reminder, to say 'I've been here'.
But you wouldn't know anything.
How that mark ended up there.
"Soon. Soon, you'll be mine."
He smiled to himself as he carefully made his way out of your room. Your cat following him as he made his way to the door to leave.
Soon.
Soon, he would replace your cat, he thought. He would be the one you would sleep with. Dote over. Love unconditionally.
Soon, you would be his, body and soul. He would be all that you would ever love.
Simon could picture it already.
You would wake up tomorrow morning and see it.
'Was it there this morning?' He imagined you asking yourself as you noticed the mark.
You would wonder how it got there.
You would wonder what made it.
You would what it was.
Only you wouldn't know.
How would you ever know?
You would come to him, wondering if he knew anything about how you got it.
He would wave it off. Say you were imaging things. That it was just a bruise, nothing more.
Your eyes would fall onto him as you felt a bit of comfort in his words. Your hands would reach out as you tended to another 'injury' he sustained from training the soldiers.
His mind already crafting stories for you to believe. Any string of excuses and deceptions ready to cover how he got this new injury.
Soon.
Soon, you would be his.
His mind plagued with thoughts of you and only you.