Morning light spills through the sheer curtains, golden and soft, wrapping the hotel room in a dreamy kind of glow. It drapes across the hardwood floor, warm where it pools at the foot of the bed—where Simon sits shirtless, legs spread, shoulders hunched forward as he runs a hand through his messy hair and speaks, “You’re starin’, I can feel your eyes on me.”

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow to hide your smile. His voice is too smooth, too smug for this hour.

Simon stretches his arms overhead, dog tags clinking. You watch the way the muscles ripple under his skin, bronzed a little darker from just a few days under the sun. He catches you looking.

“Pervert,” he says cheerfully.

“Says the man who insists on walking around with no shirt,” you mutter, voice muffled.

He leans back on his hands with a dramatic sigh, his biceps and forearms flexing. “I’m just givin’ you something nice to wake up to, sweetheart. Consider it a gift.”

You grab the nearest pillow and launch it at his back. It hits with a soft whump, and he freezes dramatically, letting it slide off his shoulder like you’ve mortally wounded him.

“Jesus,” he groans, flopping backward onto the bed in exaggerated defeat. “She’s violent. Bloody feral, this one. I marry her and she tries to take me out before breakfast.”