The clock blinked 8:00 PM as you stirred the pot on the stove, humming softly to the sound of old rock playing low in the background. One of Simon’s flannel shirts hung loosely off your shoulders, brushing the tops of your thighs. It smelled like sawdust, cologne, and him. Underneath, you wore nothing.

You heard the door open. The familiar clink of his keys in the dish. Heavy footsteps, boots dragging just a little from a long day. The sound of metal tools hitting the counter. Then silence.

You didn’t turn.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his broad frame filling it. His eyes were on you, not the food. “What are you wearing?” His voice was low, rough.

You smiled, still not looking at him. “Your shirt.”

“You’re not wearin’ anything under it, are you?”

You shook your head, teasing. “Dinner’s almost—”

The rest of your sentence died in your throat as he was suddenly behind you, hands gripping your waist. “Dinner can wait."