Captain Riley

• I've been thinking about Simon in his forties as a Captain for days now, so I finally started writing something. Here's the first six hundred words of 'I don't know what this is yet'

"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your belly, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile.

"Hi sweetheart."

"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm.

"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with the girl at the bakery, the nervous little fawn who he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses.

Time heals more than he ever thought possible.

"Black?"

"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. He hates those fucking leggings. Hates that you wear them here where anyone can ogle you, with your apron tied tight around your waist, flattering your already perfect figure.

"Do you um, do you want room for cream?" You ask every time and the answer is always the same, but he doesn't mind.

"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry cinnamon rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him brightly, gesturing to the giant buns.

"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval.

"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers.

"The wh-whole pan? Really?"

"Is that okay?"

"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes.

The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, s-so sorry,” you’re frantic, trying to hand him paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and horrified. You’ve come around the counter to stand directly in front of him, hands shaking so badly he has no choice but to hold them in his own.

“It’s okay, it was an accident.”

“Your uniform,” you cry, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air, and he squeezes your wrists.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your panic. “Hey, look at me,” he coos, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.”

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward.

“It was an accident.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside. He guides you up and holds you steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.”