Simon doesn’t text when he’s on his way. He just shows up.

You’re on the couch, legs tucked up, wine in hand, pretending not to notice the way he fills the room when he walks in. Loose jeans, plain shirt, scent of something warm and male and familiar. His eyes meet yours, and already, it’s all tension.

“Hey,” he says like he hasn’t been gone a week. “You miss me?”

You arch a brow over your glass. “You miss me?”

He laughs under his breath and walks slow toward you. That walk—confident, heavy-footed, like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you.

“Two months out there, surrounded by grit and gunmetal, and all I could think about was you—your mouth, your skin, the way you say my name when you’re-“

You cut him off with a kiss, wine-glossed lips on his, tongue sliding slick between his teeth. His hands are already on your thighs, warm and wide, pushing the blanket aside like it offended him by being between you.

“You talk too much.” you whisper.

Simon pulls away slightly, his breath hot and heavy against your lips as he murmurs, “You love it when I talk.”