The morning sun poured through the thin curtains, painting the bedroom in a soft glow as you stood in front of the full-length mirror. You held up the small bikini you’d picked out for the beach trip—bright, fun, and admittedly a little daring.

Behind you, Simon leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest, the shadows of his tattoos peeking out from under his short sleeves. His eyes flicked from the bikini to your reflection, and he let out a low sound—half a scoff, half a growl.

“Nah,” he muttered, his voice carrying that sharp edge of finality. He jabbed a finger toward the bikini. “Put that away. You’re not wearing that.”

You turned slightly, arching a brow at him. “It’s a beach day, Simon. People wear bikinis at the beach.”

“Not my wife in that,” he shot back, his eyes narrowing. The protective tone in his voice was unmistakable, but beneath it, there was something else—something that almost made you smirk.