The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the night, moonlight slipping through the open window and spilling silver across the sheets. You’re still catching your breath, the cool air soothing against your heated skin. Everything smells like sweat, skin, and him.

Simon shifts beside you—slowly, like he’s savoring the moment—and pushes himself up with a grunt. The mattress dips, then lifts as he stands, his broad back facing you, framed perfectly in the pale light. You don’t even try to look away.

His skin is slick in places, muscles moving in smooth, practiced motion as he runs a hand through his damp hair. You follow every line with your eyes—the thick cords of his shoulders, the sculpted lines of his spine, the curve of his lower back giving way to the solid shape of his arse. It’s shameful how long you stare. You should look away. You don’t.

You let your gaze travel further, taking in his powerful thighs, calves flexing as he shifts his weight. There’s not a wasted inch on him—every part built like he was carved for war. Or for you.

“Y’re staring,” he says, voice low and a little rough. There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.