The sun’s already got teeth by the time you step out onto the tiles, sandals tapping softly, a towel slung over one shoulder and sunglasses perched lazily on your nose. The pool glitters ahead, all turquoise and temptation, and everything smells like sunscreen, lime cocktails, and warm chlorine. A soft breeze lifts the hem of your cover-up as you walk, teasing your thighs, and somewhere in the distance, someone’s playing a lazy remix of a summer hit from five years ago. It’s perfect. Almost sickeningly so.

Simon walks behind you, a quiet shadow in dark swim trunks and a black T-shirt he still refuses to take off. “Too many eyes,” he muttered earlier, though now he’s wearing shades that hide the fact he’s scanning the perimeter like you’re still on mission. Typical.

You stop by a pair of sun loungers—corner spot, some shade, good view of the water. Your fingers curl into the hem of your cover-up, and you start to slide it up and over your hips, slow and thoughtless. Or maybe not so thoughtless. You know he’s looking. You feel it—eyes like heat along your back, like the sun’s gone and turned to steel-gray.

A flick of fabric, and the dress hits the chair in a crumple. Bikini on. Shoulders bare. That little flutter in your chest is drowned out by the thrill that he’s watching, silent as ever. You glance back over your shoulder.

“Told you I packed the good one,” you say, adjusting one strap, all mock-innocence.

He’s not smirking, not really—but there’s a shift in his jaw, the barest tilt to his mouth that says everything. “Aye,” he mutters. “Noticed.”

You pick up your drink from the little table beside the lounger, umbrella bobbing in the slush, and sip slow—just enough to wet your lips. Then you grin over the straw. “Think anyone else noticed?”

That gets him. He steps closer, slow and predatory, sliding his sunglasses down just enough for you to see the glint of his eyes beneath. “Let ‘em look,” he says, low and casual. “They won’t touch.”

You raise your brows, mock-scandalized, then flop onto the lounger with a laugh, legs stretched, head tilted toward the sun. “God, you’re such a possessive bastard on holiday.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just sits beside you, arms resting on his thighs, scanning the pool with that same calm menace—like he’s relaxing around the tension, not without it.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you mutter, mostly for yourself.

He leans in just enough to murmur, “You’ve got no idea how lucky you are.”

And then he steals your drink.