Simon steps out of the private elevator straight into the apartment — no hallway, no shared space. Just your home. The air is cool and scented with something expensive — sandalwood and orange blossom — from the diffuser nestled discreetly in the corner. Polished marble, thick carpets, gold-rimmed glass. The city skyline glows below, your penthouse twenty-seven floors above the rest of the world.

He drops his keys into the brass tray by the door, pulls off his boots, and loosens the top buttons of his shirt as he walks. Somewhere in the distance, a jazz piano plays — maybe from your vinyl system, maybe from a nearby rooftop bar. Either way, it fits.

You’re in the bedroom, back to him, standing in front of the bed. Soft linen, king-sized, freshly made. You’re folding laundry, but slowly, almost absentmindedly. The overhead lights are off, just the amber wall sconces glowing warm across your skin. You're wearing nothing but one of his button-ups, too big, barely closed.

Simon’s eyes linger. Then he moves.

He crosses the room in quiet steps, no boots to echo now, and closes the distance between you before you turn. His hand comes down on your ass — sharp, familiar — and the surprised sound you make is met with a quiet laugh against your shoulder as he pulls you into him.

"You're home early." You murmur.

"Mm." He hums against your neck. His arms close around your waist. One hand slides up your front, fingers resting lightly at your throat, tilting your head just slightly. The other moves lower — unhurried, casual — to his belt buckle.

He unfastens it, metal clicking softly.

“Say the word… and I’ll have you bent over these sheets in two seconds.”