You hear the bathroom door creak open, followed by the familiar hiss of steam curling into the hallway. Your heart skips — you know exactly what that means. You glance up just in time to see him step out, towel slung low around his hips, water glistening down his chest like it has every right to make a spectacle of him.

“Bathroom’s all yours,” Simon says, his voice rough with that morning rasp that never fails to do something to you.

His hair, damp and mussed, sticks in tousled strands to his forehead and neck. You can’t help but stare for a beat too long. He catches your gaze and raises a brow like he knows exactly what’s going through your head. And you don’t even try to hide it — how could you? He looks like that.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, smirking as he rakes a hand through his wet hair, droplets flicking onto the hardwood floor.