You Don't Remember When Your Neighbour Mr Riley Became Simon, But It Was Probably Somewhere Between The

you don't remember when your neighbour mr riley became simon, but it was probably somewhere between the doors he held open for you when you first moved into the building and the hushed kisses in the elevator.

you were so shy at first, simon knew he tended to have that effect on people, intimidate them with just a glare of his cold, stone set eyes, but when you finally found the buried kindness in them, he became less scary. his tattoos weren't threatening anymore, and you could make out soft shapes in the blurred ink. some birthdates, dog tags with the names of his fallen friends, a cherub and lilies started standing out from the bellic flames, skulls, guns and helmets, giving you an insight of his softer side.

the way he was scared to touch you at first, worried the years of war had made his hands too rough to handle you without breaking you. you'd always reassure him he was doing good, he could touch you if he wanted to, but he asked for permission every time he was about to lift you up in his arms, without fail.

the first time you'd seen him—dressed up in his uniform, tired and jet lagged, some eyeblack smeared down his cheek—you’d sprinted to your door on the other side of the hallway, too scared to look back, and double checked your locked door before settling into a restless sleep.

simon knew he wasn’t the usual great-looking, charming, easygoing man but to let you in, to reassure you he was approachable for you? he would’ve done anything.

he became simon the first night you’d officially invited him over too your flat, without the excuse of a (perfectly functioning) leaky sink, a doorknob that needed some oiling or a hole in the wall that needed covering. it took you time, you ignored all the previous times he’d reassured you that you could call him by his name—he wasn't that much older than you anyway—you still felt compelled to call him mr riley, yes sir, thank you sir, would you like some water mr riley?

the first time he sat down on your couch to watch a movie he felt as if the room started spinning, his eyes glued to the tv screen as your perfume hung heavy in the air.

“what’s the name again?” he spoke to break the unbearable silence, fingers twitching on his thigh.

“blue velvet- you’ve really never seen it?”

he had. “never even heard of it.”

he cursed himself as the night ended and he got up, walking to the door, already having said his goodnights.

you followed him to the door, hesitant.

“night simon.” you chirped up as he walked out of your apartment.

he stood there for a second, looking down at your expectant expression, lips parted as if you were about to speak again.

before he could gather up the courage to part with a kiss on the cheek or a hug, you’d stretched up to your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

“night love-” he finally said, breathless.

“you free tomorrow for brunch?” you asked as you leaned against the doorframe, still close to him. “i’m making cinnamon rolls and frittata. do you like frittata?”

“i- uhm,” simon almost had to shake his head to regain his focus. stay frosty soldier, for fucks sake. “can’t say i’ve ever tried it.”

“what- never had frittata?” your eyes widened like cherry pies. “oh, you have to try mine-!”

“eleven?” he suddenly interrupted you. “if… that’s alright with you.”

you nodded. “eleven sounds nice.”

he grabbed the back of your neck and brought you close, kissing the top of your head. “goodnight.”

you watched as he immediately left, cheeks, ears and neck a livid shade of embarrassment. he quickly unlocked his door and shut it a tad too harshly, but his heart was beating like a schoooboy’s and he couldn’t help but replay in his head the way you softly said his name all night.

you knew too that simon was about to become so much more.