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The rush of waves against tanned sand, receding slowly into the vastness of the ocean, creeping onto the land further and further with every passing hour. The breeze carries sea salt into your quaint shop, coaxing a small song from the wind chime by the door. Your eyes are trained on the fragile porcelain before you, fingers pressing into the brush.
It comes to life groggily, as all fine china does. Blinking its bleary eyes at you like a precious baby, resisting the tiny specks you dot onto the smooth whites. You've been at it for hours, detailing teacups by hand and tending to the needs of your occasional customers.
You hear them before you see them. A rowdy man with a distinguishably thick accent and the slur of a familiar voice. The pace of your heart picks up as it gets clearer, accompanied by the brisk, well-paced footsteps that belong solely to a certain masked gentleman.
"-'nd it was a wreck, aye! The lass looked like he'd taken a grand ol' swim in the Thames!" The scot declared, finishing his story the second he'd stepped inside your pottery shop. Simon stood beside him, eyes crinkling just enough to suggest amusement towards the tale. Before you can greet them, Simon's company beats you to it.
"Yer the bird that's been keepin' him up at night?" He grinned, giving Simon a playful shove before extending his hand towards you. "The name's Soap, 'nd yours is — He glances down to the name tag on your shirt — "Ah. Lovely name, suits ya."
You smile and shake his hand, it's calloused but sun-warmed.
"Don't entertain him too much, love. Else he'll get ahead of himself." Simon said, his gaze skimming the shelves. Soap gasps theatrically, clutching at his chest as if he'd been shot.
"How could ya, Ghost?" The scot wipes at his nonexistent tears. "Comrades in arms, but yer trust f'me is-"
"You've always got something new in stock. You do this one yourself?" Simon interrupts Soap mid act, and your attention darts towards him. In his one hand lies a palm-sized, ivory plate rimmed with a streak of gold and patterned with strawberry vines. The ripe, summer reds carried by wrinkled, viridescent leaves periodically broken by the bloom of a pristine flower — you recall that piece clearly.
You'd worked on it during the summer, spurred by the neighboring store's strawberry vines and just enough sunlight to make you exceedingly aspirational. You'd half given up on the set and all of its intricacies before the week mark, only to complete it all in a bout of sleepless nights and late motivation.
Long story short? "Mhm. I was going to keep it for myself, but I think it deserves a nicer home than mine."
You already have too many of those to count at this point, and you'd rather your precious summer project was put to use. It'd only collect dust in your cupboards if you were the one to care for it. Simon constantly digs them out of your bursting cabinets with a small frown of confusion and, though less pronounced, admiration.
"What 'bout this one, bonnie?" Soap whistles, a teacup dangling precariously from the handle, of which is pinched between his pointer and thumb. He makes a show of lifting his pinky as he tilts his head back, sipping from a whole lot of nothing with a loud slurp.
"Oh, please be careful with that-" You hurry over from your small counter, reaching for the glassy object, "-It's very fragile and needs to be handled as such."
The store shakes, ceramic and porcelain clinking, shivering with fear, when Simon stumbles in a far corner of your store. You hold your breath, anticipating the sharp shatter of a vase or bowl. Simon never fails to break something in his visits, and, as much as your love him, it's not exactly ideal. Thankfully, the noise never comes.
"Are you alright?" You poke your head around the corner, Soap trailing close behind. You miss the look of judgement that Soap shoots Simon.
"All good, love. Just tripped is all." Simon straightens before gesturing vaguely to the set you'd been speaking of a few moments earlier. "Think I'll take this."
"Yer buyin' fancy lil' plates? What's gotten into ye, Lt?"
Simon all but ignores Soap, his focus trained on your small smile and pretty hands as you bring the set to your counter. Soap narrowly dodges a vase or two on his way to the front, his shoulders bumping into the shelving. You suppose they don't teach elegance in the military, considering the two's knack for destruction.
"Free of charge." You announce, wrapping each component with practiced grace. Simon had once offhandedly mentioned how methodic it was. How it'd reminded him of the nurses back on base, their movements easy and rehearsed as they stitched men back together, sent them back onto the battlefield with nothing but cautionary tales.
"On who's authority?" Simon huffed, setting a hundred or so dollars on the counter top.
"On the store owner's and the artisan who made the set." You insisted, referring to yourself and sliding the money back to him.
"Wouldn't be fair to your paying customers."
"Simon." You glared at him, then Soap who was poking at your crafts again.
"No special treatment. 'S written on your door." He grunted. Usually, you can find a way to admire how stubborn the man is, but right now? You really wish he was easier to convince. He's an unmovable wall of muscle and pride, especially when it comes to what he believes is right or wrong.
You'd swooned when he insisted on paying for what was supposed to be an 'on the house' meal for veterans, and again when he took your broken sink into his own hands after a week of nothing from your landlord. And again when he brought you your favorite food after a mission, even when he was exhausted and dead on his feet.
"I have never had that on my door." You furrow your brows and hand him the packaged fine china. "It's for your mother, isn't it? Your mother is mine, so it's on the house."
Simon raises his brows in challenge, though his voice takes on a more teasing tone. "Piggybacking off my gift, are you?"
"Why? You don't like that we're giving a gift to her as a couple?" He falls silent at that, almost contemplative, till a loud clatter echoes through your shop. Soap looks up sheepishly.
"Sorry, lass." He smiles apologetically, reaching down to scoop the shards into his arms. Soap is, clearly, much more of a clutz than Simon.
"No, no- Don't touch it!" You scurry over to assess the damage, hands hovering over the mess of shards. Maybe you can fix it, fill the cracks with a shimmery gold, turn it into something entirely new. "Si, the-"
He's already bent beside you, scraping the pieces into your dustpan like it's protocol. Which it kind of is, considering all of the times he's had to do this before for his own wreckage. Your heart skips a beat, much to your chagrin. So much for being frustrated with his stubborn behavior.
Simon, the reliable but emotionally constipated man you can turn to when things get unsteady. Like that time you blew your tire on the highway and he showed up with windswept clothing, smelling like he'd burst through the ozone to get to you.
You swallow, turn away, and find Soap gone.
"Ran off." Simon supplies.
"What?"
"He ran off, left some money and promised drinks." He taps his knuckles to your forehead, doting and gentle. "Got all lost in that pretty head of yours?"
"I-" You begin to object, only to clamp your mouth shut, because you did get a little lost in your thoughts. Bad habit. Or maybe a lovesick induced one. "…Maybe."
He chuckles, low and steady. You narrow your eyes at him, though you take his hand as he pulls you to stand.
"What?" You mumble, meeting his stare. His lashes, an endearing blond, catch the sunlight sinking in through the wide windows. You become all too aware of his cologne, a woodsy scent that reminds you of pine and oak. Then the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, formed by a grin hidden by his all black balaclava. Your breath hitches when his palms spread on your hips, tugging you closer.
"Thinking." He murmurs, voice hushed with intimacy and a hint of dewy, honey-sweet adoration. Your fingers push at the mask, urging the fabric higher on his face, and he lets you.
Because it's you.
"About?" You press, encouraged by the subtle way he leans into your touch. Once the cloth has been folded above his nose. He doesn't speak, as if he were suddenly struck by something. His thumbs trace soothing caresses into your skin. Beneath the layers of sea salt lingering in the air, he catches the welcome scent of you. Your shampoo, your lotion, your perfume.
Home, he clarifies mentally. Everything in here, everything about you — it all screams safe. And he doesn't fight it, doesn't fight the way it swivels around his limbs and tightens around his heart.
The afterglow settles on you like it belongs. It kisses your cheeks, freckles your nose, giggles on your jaw. It dances, free and knowing, as it trickles down the line of your neck and dips into the shadow of your collarbone. Your lips twitch into a smile when your fingertips press into his neck, chasing the thump of his pulse.
His heart is racing as much as yours.
His head dips, breath mingling with yours. Tenderly, Simon pecks the corner of your lips. His forehead leans on yours, and he laughs at your pout.
"I love you." He whispers. An admission that he feels every spark, and that he wants this.
"I love you too." You break into a grin, giddy and a little high off your excitement. He peppers kisses to your face, hesitant but reverent.
"I don't know if I'll ever stop. I don't think I can." He confesses. Because how could anyone stop loving you? You're everything to him, precious and terrifyingly fragile. He's a master of covert operatives, precise interrogations, seamless infiltrations. Yet Simon can't handle glassware like gold, not the way you can; nor tediously brush paint onto ceramic, even if he watches you do so for hours on end.
But when it's you — it comes easy. Loving you is easy, being around you is easy.
Easier than breathing.
"Then don't." You answer.
His lips crash against yours, and you laugh when he ushers you up into your home. He's spellbound, and you're the caster. He has no intention of breaking out of your charm.
No, not when you're everything. Not when life isn't worth living without you. Not when you're the oxygen in his lungs, the sun that warms his skin, the being he worships.
You're stuck with him forever.
He needs you.
And he can only hope that you need him as much as he needs you.