"Absolutely Not."

Chapter 16: Fear

Fear.

What a finicky feeling.

It encapsulated every other emotion someone could experience. Love, envy, happiness, boredom, and even courage. Every direction an emotion could go, fear always lingered in the background.

Waiting for its turn to take control.

For its reign.

When someone loved another with such fervor, fear resided just within the crevices as the question raised: Am I ever going to lose them?

Eventually, yes. Through death or loss of reciprocated feelings, that person will eventually become lost in some capacity.

No matter how much courage puffed up one's chest, there will always be that voice in the back of their head: Will I fail?

Maybe. Maybe not.

If they let fear win, the chances of failing would increase.

But even the most courageous who incapacitated fear by knocking it on its ass and locking it with a million and one impenetrable padlocks, even they have failed.

Countless kings have perished in battles, and too many women with too much love to give, have given their lives so their offspring could have a taste of life. Selfless acts, courageous acts, that swirled with fear.

Swaying and dipping together in a waltz of dominance, fear usually lasted longer, hardly breaking a sweat as it had been saving its energy while it waited for the ample opportunity to strike. To offer the other emotion a dance or a duel, whichever it may be in the mood for.

For me, it was a damn boxing round.

Throwing punches left and right, beating my hope to one day look at the man before me without having the urge to run, into a bloody pulp. But there he was, sliding a thumb over each damp cheek to wipe away the evidence of me crying, and here I was accepting it but slightly still contemplating the decision to push his hands away from me.

Two little wet spots soaked his shirt where my face had pressed into it, and I raised a hand to gingerly brush against the tear-stained fabric. "Sorry," I muttered, my voice wavering with grief that just wouldn't scram.

"It's just a shirt." He seemed to have found amusement with his reply as his lips curled up ever so slightly.

His hands stayed cupping my cheeks, and hesitantly, I looked up at him.

Fuck.

Those. Eyes.

Even in this shitty lighting that the gym provided, the fluorescence probably doing me no justice with my flushed cheeks and puffy under-eye bags, those espresso irises had no trouble in grinding me up and melting me into steam.

With him looking down at me with such intense fondness, I almost forgot about my fear and my anger. Almost slipping into the steam that I'd become, all I felt for that brief moment was so eerily familiar to...

Manchester.

A shaky breath shuddered out of my lungs, and I wanted so desperately to correlate him to this. I knew it wouldn't last long, and I savored it. For the first time in a while, I didn't think of the grievous past or the perturbing future.

"That's not-" sigh "That's not what I meant." A tone that was different from before my embarrassing lamentation, it also sounded like me from before all the messy heartache.

It would take much more than just a crying session in his arm for me to heal, but it seemed like we were headed on the right track toward improvement. I didn't want to direct my anger at him, and the fear prickled at the nape of my neck – it was bound to happen again.

Subtle but I noticed – how could I not – how he adjusted his footing but it only brought him closer, my arm bending a bit more as he did as it continued to rest on his chest.

"Do you at least feel better?" He asked, his voice dropping to a low, husky utterance.

Fear accelerated a heart just as excitement would, and some people confused the two. Some even mixed them up with anxiety, pushing themselves into heart palpitations and windless lungs for the wrong reasons.

"A bit," I muttered back, eyes still locked onto his.

This wasn't fear.

I couldn't help the hitch of my chest as his calloused fingers disappeared into my hair, his thumbs now resting at the hinge of my jaw. "Is this too much?" He breathed, the volume dropping with each syllable.

Not shaking my head no, afraid that if I moved he would, too, I trusted only my voice to make him stay, "No."

My acceptance of the madness happening between us only pulled him closer, and he boldly reduced the distance to nonexistence, his torso pressing against mine.

A warmth I'd not felt in so long rustled at the bottom of my stomach, and my fingers gripped the sides of his shirt, wrinkles undoubtedly ruining the crisp ironing. Knuckles brushed against defined muscles, and that ache grew and expanded further down.

Jesus Christ, this man was going to ruin any hope I had of keeping a sane mind.

His gravelly whisper spun my head. "What about this?"

He didn't wait for my answer as he gently tilted my head back. With his chin and neck even closer to my overly observant nostrils, I could deduce that he used the same aftershave.

His forehead resting on mine, his breath warming up my lips – an appetizer – my curled fingers tightened in anticipation.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What am I doing?

Am I not supposed to be angry with him?

I want this, don't I? I missed this, didn't I?

"And this?" His own sharp inhale told me he was nervous, too. "Too much?"

He paused then, giving me a chance to change my mind.

Even with my confusion making my mind whirl around in circles, I didn't pull back nor did I forbid it. Instead... when I whispered back, "Keep going," I pulled him closer to me by the strong clutch I had on his shirt.

Nothing could have prepared how good it felt to kiss him again.

A rush of air rushed through my nostrils, breathing him in, as I immersed myself in this moment that I had only the pleasure of dreaming. My eyes closed, and my back arched slightly as he pressed further, not hesitating in deepening our kiss.

His fingertips dug into my scalp as he kissed with such intensity that I knew when he pulled away, it would leave me breathless.

I feared the moment it would end, but for now, I forced myself to stay in the present. Kiss him and worry later.

All five senses were now met to solidify Simon's survival, and there was one thought that popped up in my head when our longing lips connected:

He didn't taste like cigarettes.