As we approached the store, I stared at the elegant facade. Large, spotless windows displayed mannequins wearing outfits that probably cost more than I made in a month. The door was heavy glass with a polished brass handle, which Simon grasped confidently.
He held the door open for me, gesturing for me to enter first. I hesitated for a brief moment before I stepped in, immediately feeling like I'd entered another world. The air was thick with the scent of leather and some expensive perfume I couldn't name. Everything gleamed - the polished floors, the chrome racks, even the customers browsing the clothing looked perfectly polished and put-together.
My borrowed clothes suddenly felt even more ill-fitting, and I fought the urge to hunch my shoulders, to make myself smaller. Simon, on the other hand, looked completely at home. He strode in confidently, his presence seeming to fill the space.
Simon's hand landed on my shoulder, the weight of it somehow unsettling, as he began to lead us further into the store. The prices I glimpsed on some of the items made my stomach churn. This was so far beyond what I could afford, it was almost laughable.
I rifled through the racks halfheartedly, trying not to look at the price tags.
Simon held up a navy blazer, his eyes narrowed as he studied it against me. "Mm," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "No."
After a few more attempts, Simon came to my side. "I'm going to look on the other side, Norman. I'll come find you in a bit."
I nodded, and as he walked away, a wild thought flashed through my mind. I could leave. Just walk out right now.
But I shook my head, trying to dispel the notion.
Don't be ridiculous. He's just buying you clothes. Nothing sinister about that.
The guy hasn't actually done anything to you yet, right?
He's been perfectly fine all day.
I was so lost in my internal debate that I didn't notice the woman approach until she spoke.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice polite but expectant. "Could you help me find this in a size 6?"
I blinked, confused for a moment before realizing she thought I worked here. "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't-"
"I've been looking for this blouse in my size for ages," she said, thrusting a hanger towards me. "Could you check the back?"
When I made no move to leave, she frowned, her tone sharpening. "Come on! I don't have time for you to be spacing out, kid- I'm busy."
I felt my face flush hot with indignation.
Kid? I'm 34.
"Norman," Simon's smooth voice cut through the air, making me jump. He was suddenly beside me again, a stack of clothes draped over one arm. "Is everything alright?"
The woman blinked, taken aback by his sudden appearance. Then, with a coy look at me, addressed Simon. "Oh good, a manager. I was just asking this young man for help, but he's being very unhelpful."
Simon's eyebrow arched slightly but he quickly schooled his features into one of polite indifference. "In a way, I certainly am his manager, ma'am. But definitely not at this establishment."
The woman's eyes widened as the implications of his words slowly dawned on her. The woman's face flushed crimson. "Oh, I... I'm so sorry. I just assumed..."
"An understandable mistake," Simon said smoothly, though his eyes remained cold. Norman has excellent taste. However, he's not here to serve, but to be served today."
He placed a hand on my back, gently but firmly guiding me away from the flustered woman. As we walked towards the fitting rooms, I could feel the heat of embarrassment still burning in my cheeks.
"Thank you," I mumbled, not meeting Simon's eyes.
"Think nothing of it, Norman," he replied, his voice low. "I told you, today you're with me."
His words, though ostensibly reassuring, made my hair stand on end. Simon's possessive tone when he'd said I was here to 'be served' echoed in my mind, leaving me more unsettled than ever.
I stepped into the dressing room, eyeing the outfit Simon had selected with trepidation. The clothes looked expensive and far more fashionable than anything I'd normally wear.
Sighing, I removed my shirt and reached for the new one. It was sleek and form-fitting, with an unusual button at the back of the collar. I struggled to get it on, twisting awkwardly as I tried to fasten the back.
In my efforts, I stumbled, bumping into the wall with a thud.
"Norman?" Simon's voice came from just outside. "Are you alright in there?"
"I'm fine," I called back, my voice strained as I contorted myself, trying to reach the button.
I grunted in frustration, attempting to pull the shirt off instead. But the tight fabric clung to me, and I found myself stuck, arms half-raised and tangled in the expensive material.
Shit.
If I move I'll rip it.
"Everything okay?" Simon asked again, his tone laced with concern.
I hesitated, embarrassment flooding through me. The last thing I wanted was to admit I couldn't even manage to put on a shirt properly.
"I'm... I'm just having a bit of trouble with this shirt," I finally admitted, my voice muffled by the fabric.
There was a pause, and then Simon's voice came again, closer this time. "Do you need help?"
I froze, caught between my desire to get out of this predicament and my discomfort at the idea of Simon seeing me in such a vulnerable state.
I hesitated, unsure of how to respond. But despite my reservations, I knew I didn't have much of a choice in this situation. It would be worse if he was forced to buy it due to my clumsiness.
"Um, yes, please," I responded reluctantly, swallowing my pride as I admitted defeat.
From the other side of the door, I heard him chuckle lightly.
I fumbled with the door latch, my arms still tangled in the shirt.
As Simon stepped inside, I suddenly became acutely aware of my vulnerable position. My heart raced as I realized the precarious situation I'd put myself in with a man who's motives remain unknown to me.
Simon's footsteps approached me slowly, his shadow falling over my trapped form. Simon's presence felt overwhelming in the small dressing room, his cologne mixing with the scent of the expensive fabric. But Simon simply paused near the door. I could hear the sound of him breathing, could see a faint outline of him through the fabric, but he made no move to help me. Instead, he seemed to be observing me struggling, his gaze unwavering. I could feel the heat of his stare burning through the fabric of the shirt, making my skin prickle with discomfort.
What is he doing?
I can't see him, what is he doing!?
"S-Simon?" I called out tentatively, my face still obscured by the fabric. "Is everything okay?"
At my plea, Simon seemed to snap out of whatever trance he was in. There was a short pause before Simon responded, his voice sounding slightly strained.
"Here, let me." he finally said, "These designer shirts can be a bit tricky."
But as he moved closer, I felt my body tense, suddenly feeling cornered. The sound of his movements was loud in the small space, the rustle of fabric as he reached towards me. I found myself backing up, pressing myself against the wall. My mind raced with conflicting thoughts - fear of what Simon might do, shame at my helplessness, and a small voice insisting that I was overreacting.
To my surprise and relief, I felt Simon gently tug the shirt down, freeing my arms and head. As the fabric cleared my eyes, I saw him step back, giving me space.
"There you go," he said, his tone neutral. "All sorted."
"Thank you," I muttered, pulling away as soon as I was released.
I couldn't bring myself to meet Simon's eyes, unsure of what I might find in them but I could sense Simon's eyes on me, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Simon simply nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Not a problem, Norman."
I took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave my body.
I feel bad now.
Thinking he was going to do something.
"Here, let me get that button for you," Simon offered, gesturing to the back of the shirt.
I stood still, unsure whether to accept,
But after a beat, I nodded silently, allowing Simon to step closer.
I felt his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me to face the mirror. I focused on his reflection in the mirror, watching as his deft fingers worked on fastening the button at the back of the collar. The image of us standing so closely together unnerved me.
Once the shirt was properly secured, I hesitated before meeting Simon's gaze. His eyes held a certain intensity that made me shift uncomfortably. But before I could say anything, he spoke.
"There," he said, stepping back slightly. "What do you think?"
I studied my reflection, unsure how to respond. The shirt was certainly stylish, but it felt foreign on me. "I'm not sure. What do you think?"
Simon tilted his head, considering for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "Hm. You know, I had a feeling this wouldn't actually suit you."
Wait
What?
I blinked, his words taking a moment to register. "Wait, what?" I turned to face him, confusion clear on my face.
For once, my inner voice and outer voice lined up.
I stared at him, a mix of frustration and bewilderment washing over me. All that struggle, all that awkwardness, for a shirt he didn't even think would look good on me.
"If you thought it wouldn't suit me, why did you have me try it on?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the dressing room.
Simon's eyes gleamed with something I couldn't quite identify, but his smile didn't waver. "The process is often as important as the result, don't you think?"
After that, Simon had me try on several more outfits.
As I changed into the new clothes, Simon lingered outside the fitting room. After a while, we finally found a combination that seemed to work. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of a charcoal grey button-down paired with dark slacks.
When I stepped out of the fitting room, Simon's eyes lit up with approval. "Now this suits you much better," he remarked, looking genuinely pleased.
I had to admit, the clothes did look good. The fit was impeccable, and the style was sophisticated without being overstated. It was like looking at a more polished version of myself.
"Yeah, it's... nice," I agreed, still a bit overwhelmed by the whole experience.
Simon's reflection beamed behind me in the mirror. "I'd say so." He agreed, his tone holding a hint of pride. "You clean up nicely, Norman."
As I turned to face him, I was struck by the look of genuine pleasure on Simon's face. His eyes were bright, his smile wide and unguarded. It was the most animated I'd seen him all day.
"You- seem really happy about this," I observed cautiously.
Simon's smile softened as he met my gaze. "I am," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "It's not often that I get to see someone come into their own like this. You've got a great sense of style, Norman, you just needed a little nudge in the right direction. Seeing you in clothes that truly suit you, that bring out your best qualities - it's gratifying."
There was something in his tone, a hint of possessive pride perhaps, that made me slightly uneasy. It was as if he was more invested in my appearance than I was.
"Thank you, Mr. Heath." I finally managed, offering a small, hesitant smile in return. "I appreciate your help."
"Simon." he insisted, taking a step closer to me. "Now, shall we see about getting you a full wardrobe?"
We spent the next few hours picking out various pieces that Simon assured me would complement my style and elevate my wardrobe. With each outfit, Simon's enthusiasm seemed to grow, his eyes lighting up as he watched me try on different clothes.
At the end of our shopping spree, my arms were laden with bags filled with new clothes. Simon insisted on carrying most of them, claiming it was all part of his gift to me.
And while part of me was grateful for the help and the new clothes, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Simon's eagerness than just helping me find the right clothes. His attention felt almost suffocating, his compliments a bit too intense. It was almost as if he was crafting something, molding me into a vision he had in his head.
As we loaded the numerous shopping bags into the car, I felt a wave of guilt wash over me. The total cost of the clothes still echoed in my mind, making me feel queasy.
"Simon," I began hesitantly, "about the furniture... I really don't need anything expensive. I'm quite comfortable with whatever, honestly."
I braced myself for Simon's insistence, expecting him to brush off my concerns as he had earlier. To my surprise, Simon nodded.
"Actually, Norman," he said, closing the trunk, "I think we'll hold off on the furniture for today. It's getting rather late."
I blinked, caught off guard by his easy acquiescence. "Oh. Okay. That's... that's fine."
As we got into the car, I couldn't help but feel confused. Simon had been so adamant earlier about buying me new furniture. Why the sudden change of heart?
The driver pulled away from the curb, and I glanced at Simon, trying to read his expression. He seemed lost in thought, his eyes focused on the passing scenery.
As we drove in silence, Simon suddenly spoke, his voice casual but with an undercurrent I couldn't quite place.
"I've always believed that the right clothes can change a man's entire outlook. His place in the world, even."
He paused, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before continuing, "Furniture, on the other hand, is just... temporary. It doesn't travel with you, doesn't become a part of you in the same way."
I nodded slowly, not quite sure how to respond. There was something in his tone, a subtle emphasis on 'temporary' that made me uneasy.
"I suppose that's true," I managed to say.
Simon's smile widened slightly. "Right. Why invest too much in things that are bound to be left behind?" His eyes held mine for a moment too long before he turned back to the window.
The car ride continued in silence, the weight of Simon's words lingering in the air. I found myself stealing glances at Simon when he wasn't looking, trying to decipher the enigma that seemed to be ever so slightly unraveling in front of me.
As we arrived back at the apartment, Simon insisted on accompanying me to the guest room to help with the bags. I hesitated, not wanting to prolong the evening further, but his insistence left me with little choice.
Once inside, Simon meticulously arranged the new clothes in my wardrobe, his movements almost reverent. I watched him work quietly, unsure of what to say as he meticulously organized each item.
"Simon," I began, breaking the silence that had stretched taut between us. "I really appreciate all this, but you've already done so much for me today. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
Simon turned to face me, his expression as warm and open as it ever was. "It's no trouble at all, Norman," he replied smoothly. "I want to make sure you feel at home here."
Finally, as he placed the last piece in the wardrobe, Simon took a step back and surveyed his handiwork with a satisfied smile. "There," he said, his gaze flicking to me. "Now you have a wardrobe befitting your potential."
I mustered a weak smile, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily on my shoulders.
Potential? What potential?
I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, unsure of how to respond to such a statement. "Thank you, Simon," I finally managed, "I... I appreciate your faith in me."
Simon's smile widened, a mix of pride and satisfaction playing on his features. "It's not just faith, Norman. It's a certainty." His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.
The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them, born of societal expectation.
"I don't really have a way to pay you back-"
As soon as the words left my lips, I instantly regretted them.
Simon's smile faltered for a split second, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes before he masked it with a patronizing chuckle.
"You don't need to pay me back, Norman," he replied, his voice low and calm. "Consider this a gift from me."
He stepped closer to me, and I couldn't help but take a step back.
"But if you must," he continued, taking another step forward until our chests were almost touching. His breath was warm on my face as he leaned in. "You can repay me in other ways."
His words sent a shiver of disgust down my neck, and I instinctively took another step back, putting some physical distance between us.
A tense beat, then Simon let out a laugh I hadn't heard before. It was louder, more pronounced. "Relax, Norman,"
he said, his voice suddenly light and airy as if nothing had happened. "I was only joking. If you really want to do something for me…."
He paused for a moment, his finger curled on his chin in thought. "I haven't had a home cooked meal in a long time. Been surviving mostly on takeout. You know how it is."
I hesitated, unsure of how to respond to Simon's sudden shift in demeanor. His attempt at humor felt forced, almost as if he were trying to cover up his previous insinuation.
"Sure, I- I could cook tonight," I offered tentatively, hoping to diffuse the awkward tension that had settled between us.
Simon's expression brightened, a genuine smile replacing the unsettling one from before. "That would be wonderful, Norman. I look forward to it." He patted my shoulder in a friendly gesture before heading towards the door.
As the front door clicked shut behind him, I released a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. His unpredictable shifts in behavior, from intense and threatening to playful and amiable and back again, left me feeling like I never knew which version of him would show up.
I glanced at the closed door.
Simon wants me to cook for him. I had agreed so readily.
My nerves got the best of me, and I was so caught off guard that I forgot to mention:
I'm a shit cook.
I spent the next couple of hours anxiously scouring the kitchen for ingredients, trying to come up with a recipe that wouldn't end in disaster. I stared blankly at the array of pots and pans, unsure of where to even begin.
The more I tried to concoct a meal that might impress Simon, the more I realized my futile attempts. My hands trembled as I chopped vegetables, my mind racing with what seemed like a million different recipes jumbled into one chaotic mess.
As the aroma of burnt garlic filled the air, my heart sank. This was an unmitigated disaster. I cursed myself for agreeing to something so far beyond my culinary capabilities.
Just as I was about to panic, Simon's voice rang out from the living room. "Something smells good in here, Norman."
I froze, the knife in my hand suspended midway through cutting a bell pepper. There was no way Simon could mistake the pungent scent of burnt garlic for anything remotely appetizing.
He entered the room with an expectant smile, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene before him. I tried to force a smile on my face, but the beads of sweat forming on my forehead betrayed my anxiety.
Simon's gaze landed on the sizzling pan of burnt garlic.
I swallowed hard, mentally preparing myself for the inevitable disaster that was about to unfold. I felt his eyes scan me appraisingly, a beat of silence passing between us before, to my surprise, a smile played at the corners of his lips.
"It's odd, seeing someone in my kitchen cooking for me." his tone was filled with a warm, almost wistful sentiment. "The last time that happened, I was a kid."
I blinked, caught off guard by his reaction. I had been expecting criticism, maybe even anger at my obvious lack of culinary skills. But instead, Simon seemed almost... nostalgic?
"Your mom used to cook for you?" I ventured, trying to keep my voice steady despite my nerves.
Simon's smile faltered for a moment but he quickly schooled his features back into his usual, unreadable expression.
"No no. The nanny used to do that." He corrected.
Before I could react, he stepped closer, peering into the pan of burnt garlic. I braced myself for his judgment, but again, he surprised me.
"You know, I've always found the smell of garlic comforting," he mused, almost to himself. "Even when it's a little... overcooked."
I let out a nervous laugh, not quite sure how to respond. Was he making fun of me? Or was this his way of trying to put me at ease?
"I'm sorry, sir," I said, deciding to err on the side of apology. "I'm not much of a cook. I should have said something earlier."
Simon waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense, Norman. It's the effort that counts. And besides, I'm sure it will taste just fine."
I doubted that very much, but I wasn't about to argue. If Simon wanted to pretend my culinary disaster was edible, I wasn't going to stop him.
"Why don't you let me help?" he offered, already rolling up his sleeves. "I'm no chef, but I can probably salvage this."
Before I could protest, he was beside me at the stove, gently taking the spatula from my hand.
I watched as Simon expertly scraped the burnt garlic into the trash, then began rummaging through the fridge for fresh ingredients. He moved with a grace and confidence that seemed at odds with his earlier claim of not being a chef.
"You... you cook?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
Simon glanced at me over his shoulder, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Just a few recipes," he said.
We worked in silence for a while, the only sound the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the sizzle of the pan. It was strangely domestic, almost comfortable.
Simon ladled a spoonful of the savory smelling dish, blowing on it gently before holding it out to me. "Here, try this."
I stared at the spoon, then at Simon, my brain struggling to process the oddly intimate gesture. There was something about the way he was offering it to me, his hand steady and his eyes locked on mine, that made me recoil slightly.
Hey, Sir- isn't this a bit too domestic?
Hesitantly, I leaned forward, letting him guide the spoon to my mouth. The flavors exploded on my tongue - rich, complex, perfectly balanced.
"Wow," I said, unable to hide my surprise. "That's... that's really good."
Simon smiled, a rare, genuine smile that lit up his handsome features. "I'm glad you like it."