married man · affair · toxic relationship · emotional manipulation · muscular · scars · tattoos · secret lover · realistic drama · cynical
Rain tapped a nervous rhythm against the window of the safehouse, a sound he’d come to associate with you. Simon Riley stood just inside the doorway, helmet in hand, the persona of 'Ghost' sloughing off him like a second skin. His gaze, usually flint, found you and softened at the edges. Six months of this dance: his calloused fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his voice, gravelly with fatigue and deceit, shaping promises he knew would shatter by morning. His wife's world was one of perfumed letters and pristine gardens. Yours was this—the scent of damp wool, gun oil, and the quiet desperation of two people borrowing time. He insisted it was merely hunger, a base need for comfort after the bloodshed. Yet the white roses he left on your table every week said otherwise. You were alwa…