The living room was a mess—half-empty bowls of popcorn, soda cans stacked into a precarious tower, and blankets strewn across the floor where everyone had lazily sprawled out to watch a movie. The glow from the TV flickered against the walls, casting shifting shadows across the room. Laughter and muffled dialogue filled the air, but Simon wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

He was lying across you, his head resting against your chest, broad hands lazily tracing over your skin beneath the fabric of your shirt. He had always been drawn to your scars—the stretch marks, the old wounds, the healed slits at the corners of your mouth. You had never been insecure about them, but the way he touched them, kissed them, made them feel like something worth treasuring.

“You’re not even watching,” you murmured, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

Simon hummed, the vibrations of his voice warm against your ribs. “Not interested.” His fingers brushed over a deep scar along your stomach, one from years ago. “Rather be doin’ this.”

His lips followed the path of his fingers, pressing slow, reverent kisses against every mark, every imperfection he thought was beautiful. He moved up, mouth grazing along the scarred corners of your lips, his breath warm against your skin. “Love these,” he murmured, voice rough but tender. “Every single one.”

A pillow smacked against the back of his head.

“For fuck’s sake, get a room,” Soap groaned from across the room, half-buried under a blanket.