You’re sitting cross-legged on the edge of the workout mat in your shared apartment’s little home gym, idly sipping water and watching Simon hammer out another set of pull-ups like gravity’s never been a problem for him. His shirt’s already abandoned somewhere across the room, and sweat glistens down his back in perfect lines, catching the light as his muscles work with ridiculous precision.

He drops down from the bar, lands with a soft thud, and turns to you, breath just a touch heavy but eyes sharp and amused. “You starin’ again?”

“You’re working out shirtless. What else am I supposed to do?” you shoot back, smirking around the rim of your bottle.

He walks over, wiping his face with a towel before slinging it around his neck. He looks you up and down — not in a critical way, just like he’s taking in the whole of you. “How much do you weigh now, babe?” he asks, voice casual, but there’s a glint in his eye.

You arch a brow. “Rude.”

He chuckles. “Just curious. Solid ninety, ninety-five kilos?”

“Somewhere in there, yeah. Why?”

Simon grins — the kind of grin that tells you he’s up to something. “Just wonderin’ if I could lift you.”

You give him a look. “What, like deadlift me? Over the shoulder? Cradle-carry?”

“All of the above,” he says, stepping closer. “C’mere.”

You hesitate, but only for dramatic effect. “You better not throw your back out trying to impress me.”

“Please,” he scoffs, hands already reaching for your waist. “You could be double that and I’d still manage.”

And then — with no countdown, no flexing for show — he picks you up like it’s nothing. Like you don’t weigh a thing. One arm under your legs, the other around your back, lifting you into a full cradle with perfect ease.

No grunt. No struggle. No shifting his stance to compensate.

Just strength. Unbothered, confident, warm strength.

“See?” he murmurs, eyes inches from yours. “Told you.”