You’re standing in the kitchen, halfway through your bowl of cereal, when Simon walks in.

Scratch that—he struts in, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. But mostly it’s the way his eyes land on you, and don’t budge, that makes you pause mid-bite.

He doesn’t say a word right away. Just leans against the counter, arms crossed, staring like you’re some kind of art in a museum he paid way too much to see.

“…What?” you say, eyebrows raised.

He just smirks. Real slow. Dangerous.

“You know I like ‘em big,” he finally says, voice a low rumble like he’s still half asleep—but very much awake for you.

Your spoon hovers in the air. “Simon—”

He pushes off the counter and walks over like he’s stalking prey, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes you flush instantly. His hands find your waist, fingers squeezing like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Big,” he repeats, nuzzling against your neck, “and soft. Mmm. God, I love you like this.”

You try to keep a straight face. You fail. “Like what?”

He pulls back just far enough to look at you—eyes twinkling, lips curved. “Like a dream. But with thighs that could knock me out.”

“Babe,” he says seriously, “if my death certificate says ‘crushed by magnificent arse,’ I’ll die a happy man.”