The cottage is small but cozy, warmed by the early sunlight pouring in through the large windows. The smell of coffee drifts through the air as you pull out bread for toast, slicing through a jar of fresh jam from the local farmer’s market. You hear Simon behind you — the quiet creak of the floorboards under his feet.

A warm hand slides around your waist, his chest pressing to your back as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Faded soft pyjamas hang low on his hips, bare chested because his tshirt is on your frame, warm and comfortable.

“Smells good,” Simon murmurs, voice low and lazy. His hand spreads over your hip.

You smile, nudging his arm playfully. “Go sit down. I’ll bring it over.”

Simon chuckles under his breath but lets you go, padding barefoot to the worn wooden table by the window. He picks up the paper left there from yesterday, flipping through it with ease as you carry over two plates.

You sit down across from him, legs brushing beneath the table. The soft rustle of paper fills the room as Simon glances over the headlines, the sharp angle of his brow furrowing faintly. You slide your plate toward him, the last bite of your toast.

“You want it?” you offer, holding it out toward him.

Simon’s eyes flick up over the paper, stormy grey meeting yours beneath the fall of his messy blond hair. His lips curl faintly at the corners. The quietness of the country was something he thought he’d never get used to — he’d been skeptical about retiring to a small town in the middle of nowhere but you’d just smiled and told him he deserved peace and he’d packed everything up without a glance backwards.

“You sure?”

You huff a laugh. “Just take it.”

Simon leans forward, taking the bite straight from your fingers. His hand catches your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Sweet,” Simon murmurs.

You roll your eyes and sip on your coffee as he settles back, paper crinkling in his hands. His bare forearms rest against the table, all corded muscle and faded scars.