Chapter 3: The Next Morning
The vibration was insistent, a dull buzz that dragged Simon up from the depths of a sleep so profound it felt alien. Warmth and softness surrounded him. Yaa was curled into his side, her head on his chest, one leg thrown over his thighs. The morning light was pale, filtering through the blinds to stripe her braids spread across his skin. He blinked, his mind sluggishly registering the phone skittering on the nightstand. The caller ID lit up the dim room: SOAP.
He snatched it up before the next ring could fully wake her, sliding out from under her with practised stealth. She murmured, her hand searching the empty space he left, but didn’t open her eyes. He padded naked into the living room, the wood floor cool under his feet. He hit answer.
“What?”
“Where the fuck are you, ya bampot?” Johnny’s voice was tinny, brimming with theatrical concern. “Twenty-four bloody hours. No check-in. Price is doing his nut. You get hit by a bus after you left with that pool shark?”
Simon glanced back towards the bedroom door. A quiet, unfamiliar sense of possession settled in his ribs. “I’m fine.”
“Well, obviously you’re no’ deid. But you’re no’ here. So where?”
“I’m with her.” The words came out flat, simple. A statement of fact.
A beat of stunned silence crackled down the line. “With… the lassie from the pub? The one who whipped your arse at eight-ball?”
“Yes.”
“You… spent the whole day? The whole night?” Johnny’s voice dipped, the joking tone evaporating into genuine disbelief. “Ghost. You don’t do that. You don’t just… vanish into a bird’s flat. Who is she? MI6? Did she drug you?”
Simon leaned against the doorframe, watching the slow rise and fall of Yaa’s form under the duvet. The curve of her shoulder. The way her mouth was slightly parted. A profound calm, laced with a sharp, terrifying rightness, anchored him. He was in too deep. He knew it. The realization didn’t bring panic, only a weary, accepting certainty. He didn’t mind.
“She’s just a woman,” Simon said, and it felt like the most revealing thing he’d ever admitted.
From the bed, Yaa stirred, her voice thick and sleep-raveled. “Tell him about the jollof.” She was half-asleep, smiling into the pillow, teasing.
Simon didn’t hesitate. “She makes exceptional jollof rice.” He paused, his eyes on her. “And she has an amazing pussy.”
The shriek of laughter that erupted from the phone was so loud Simon had to hold it away from his ear. It was full-bodied, wheezing, utterly delighted. “HAH! Oh, Jesus Christ! You absolute fucking animal! I can’t believe you just— wait, can she hear you? Is she there?”
Yaa was now fully, abruptly awake, propped up on her elbows, her eyes wide with horrified amusement. “Simon! Oh my God! Too much information, you psychotic man!” She threw a pillow at him. It fell short, landing on the floor.
Simon caught her eye, a faint, unrepentant smirk on his scarred face. Into the phone, he said, “She’s complaining.”
“I bet she is! Put her on, I need to congratulate her on taming the beast!”
“No.”
“Spoilsport. Right. Well, since you’re evidently still in possession of your faculties and your cock, you’re due at debrief in two hours. Don’t be late. And bring some of that rice.” Johnny hung up, his laughter still echoing in the silent room.
Simon tossed the phone onto the sofa. The quiet rushed back in, filled now with Yaa’s incredulous stare. He walked back to the bed and slid in beside her. The warmth she’d created was gone; he drew her back against him, her spine to his chest, and she let him, her body slowly relaxing.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered, but she laced her fingers through his where they rested on her stomach.
He nuzzled the crown of her braids, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and sleep. They lay there as the room grew brighter. The normalcy of it was a drug. The domestic storm of yesterday—the cooking, the shopping, the sex on every available surface—had created a pocket of reality that felt more solid than any mission briefing.
“That whole thing,” Yaa said quietly, her voice small. “Yesterday. Waking up with you. The supermarket. Making food. Even the… kitchen counter.” She swallowed. “It was so normal. And I’m falling for you so hard it’s stupid. It’s been, what, seventy-two hours? It’s mad.”
He held her tighter. The admission should have sent him running. Instead, it settled the chaos in him. “It’s not mad.” His voice was rough. “In my line of work… you learn to assess threats, opportunities, people, in seconds. You have to. Your instincts are the only thing between a bad day and a body bag. Sometimes… the right thing just is. Fast. Because the risk of waiting is greater.”
He turned her in his arms so she faced him. Her brown eyes were searching, vulnerable. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “This feels like the right thing. A calculated risk. Maybe we just… give it a chance. See what happens.”
A slow smile bloomed on her face, erasing the worry. “A calculated risk,” she repeated, testing the words. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s risk it.”
She leaned in and kissed him. It was slow, deep, and tasting of morning. A seal on the promise. His hands slid down to the hem of her slept-in t-shirt, rucking it up over her hips. She broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “I have to get ready for work,” she murmured against his lips.
“Later,” he growled, and rolled on top of her.
He kissed her again, swallowing her weak protest. He stripped her t-shirt and underwear off in a few efficient moves, his own nakedness already pressing insistently against her thigh. He was hard, the length of him hot and heavy. She arched into him, her resolve crumbling.
“Simon… I’ll be late…”
“Call in sick.”
“I can’t, it’s—”
He silenced her by shifting down the bed. He pushed her thighs apart, his breath warm on her inner skin. He didn’t tease. He licked a broad, flat stripe up her centre, his tongue finding her clit immediately. She gasped, her hands flying to his hair. He ate her with a single-minded intensity, his stubble rough against her tender flesh. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, fucking her with his hand in time with the ruthless circles of his tongue. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on her.
“Fuck… fuck, Simon…”
She came quickly, violently, her hips bucking off the mattress as he sucked her clit between his lips. He didn’t let up, drawing the convulsions out until she was shoving weakly at his head, overstimulated. Only then did he crawl back up her body, his mouth gleaming. He positioned himself at her entrance, his blue eyes locked on hers.
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it. I want you.”
He drove into her in one fierce, deep thrust. She cried out, the fullness a sweet, familiar shock. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm from the start, each snap of his hips jolting her up the bed. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing them back towards her shoulders, opening her up completely, changing the angle. He hit a spot that made her see white.
“Right there, oh god, right there!”
“This cunt,” he grunted, pistoning into her, sweat already beading on his temples. “This perfect, tight cunt. Mine.”
His words, filthy and possessive, tipped her into another climax. This one was sharper, a rippling seizure that clenched around him. He fucked her through it, his own control fraying. His strokes became ragged, desperate. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and came, pulsing deep inside her, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed on her, his weight crushing and perfect. They lay like that for long minutes, gasping, glued together by sweat and spend.
Eventually, he rolled off. The clock on the nightstand was a ruthless arbitrator. Yaa groaned, forcing her limp body out of bed. She showered quickly, the water reviving her. When she emerged wrapped in a towel, Simon was still in bed, propped against the headboard, watching her. He’d pulled on his boxers but nothing else.
She dressed for her admin job—black trousers, a simple blouse, fussing with her braids into a neat bun. He observed every move as if it were a matter of tactical interest.
“You should do it,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through her mental checklist.
“Do what?”
“The restaurant. You should try to start it.”
She paused, a hairpin between her lips. She took it out. “It’s a pipe dream. The money, the location, the risk…”
“The jollof was amazing,” he said, as if that single point invalidated all logistical arguments. “It’s not a pipe dream. It’s a objective. You plan. You execute.” He said it with the same gravity he’d use for planning an infiltration.
Her heart swelled. She finished pinning her hair, walked over, and kissed him. It was soft, lingering. “I have to go.”
He nodded. “I’ll be gone when you get back. Debrief. Then likely wheels up.”
The reality of his other life inserted itself like a blade of cold steel into the warm room. She just nodded, not trusting her voice.
“I’ll call,” he said. It was a promise.
She left him there, in her rumpled bed, in the sunlight that now illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air. The flat felt different as she walked out. It felt occupied. It felt like his, too. The risk was taken. The chance was given. Now, they had to live in the world they’d chosen.