You pad softly across the room, toes sinking into the carpet, the oversized T-shirt brushing the tops of your thighs. The cotton is worn and soft from countless washes, smelling faintly of laundry powder and him. Riley is printed in block letters across the back, dark against the faded fabric, and you catch your reflection in the mirror — the shirt hangs loose, swallowing your frame, but you like the way it feels.

The sound of his footsteps is quiet but unmistakable. Before you can turn, Simon is behind you, warm and solid, his arms sliding around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. You feel the scratch of his stubble when he leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of your neck.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs against your skin, voice low enough to make your stomach flutter.

You rest your hands over his, holding him there, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you say softly. “This is mine now.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Yeah?” His arms tighten just a fraction, not enough to hold you still — just enough to remind you he’s there. His breath warms the curve of your neck before he speaks again.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He nuzzles closer, pressing another kiss just below your jaw. “Fits you better, too. Not that it really fits you —” he shifts just enough to glance down at you, the corner of his mouth curving — “but I like it that way. Makes it clear who you belong to.”

His words are quiet, but there’s a weight to them, a softness that makes your chest ache. He lingers there, kissing a slow path along your neck, his thumbs brushing lazy circles against your hips. “Yeah,” he murmurs again, almost to himself. “Definitely better on you.”