You’re sitting on the counter in your ensuite bathroom, knees parted just enough for Simon to stand comfortably between them. He’s shirtless, hair damp from a shower, a white towel slung lazily over his shoulder. The light overhead is soft and golden, catching the sharp lines of his face and the ever-so-faint crinkle in the corners of his eyes as he watches you with a raised brow.

“You’re serious about this, then?” he mutters, glancing down at the small tub of clay mask in your hands.

“Deadly,” you say, dipping your fingers into the cool, smooth mixture. “You’re overdue for a little skincare TLC.”

“TLC,” he repeats dryly. “Didn’t realize that included being smeared with mud.”

You grin and lean in, fingers brushing his cheekbones as you start applying the mask. He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes narrow slightly as the clay spreads across his skin.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

“I am still,” he says, voice low, half amused. “You’re the one manhandling me like I’m a Ken doll.”

“You’d be the grumpy limited-edition one,” you reply, smoothing the mask down the bridge of his nose. “With tactical gear and PTSD.”

“Charming,” he mutters, though there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips now.

He rests his hands on your thighs, thumbs rubbing absentminded circles just above your knees. There’s something grounding in the way he touches you—gentle, familiar, always deliberate. His eyes meet yours, half-lidded now, softer than usual.

“You enjoy this,” he says quietly, eyes searching yours. “Don’t you?”