You watch him from across the small kitchen table, elbows planted, shoulders relaxed, the late-day light catching on his cheekbones. Simon’s got a thick wedge of watermelon in his hands—big enough that he has to angle it just to fit his mouth around it. He doesn’t bother being neat. He never does.

He bites in, teeth sinking into the pink flesh with a wet crunch, and the juice instantly spills down his chin. A bright, glistening trail slips along the stubble of his jaw, hanging for a moment before dropping onto his collarbone. He doesn’t even pause to wipe it away; he just slurps at the fruit, loud and unbothered, like the only thing that matters is getting to the sweetest part.

You feel the heat start low in your stomach.

He takes another bite—messier this time—and juice gathers at the corner of his lips. He drags his tongue across it, slow, instinctive, unaware of what that does to you. Your breath catches. The sound he makes when he hits a particularly juicy pocket—half growl, half satisfied hum—goes straight through you.

You shouldn’t stare. You absolutely stare.

His eyes flick up at you mid-bite, catching you watching him. He pauses only long enough to smirk around the rind, a silent, smug little acknowledgment that he sees exactly what’s happening to you. Then he leans forward and takes another loud, indecent slurp, letting the juice run freely down his chin like he’s doing it on purpose now.

When he pulls back to breathe, he glances at you. “What?” he asks, voice rough, mouth glistening.