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We're not doing that.

I grab the pajamas I packed.

Sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt.

Why the fuck did I bring these?

I own cute pajamas. I own little matching sets. I have shorts that make my ass look good. I have that soft black sleep shirt that hits just high enough on my thighs to look effortless while actually being very intentionally slutty.

Instead, I apparently packed for a church lock-in.

I pull on the sweatpants and stare at myself.

Fantastic. Nothing says please ravage me after four years apart like gray cotton and an oversized college T-shirt.

Maybe that's better. Tonight doesn't have to be anything.

We're sleeping together. Literally sleeping.

I repeat that to myself while unlocking the bathroom door.

Then I walk into the bedroom and stop.

Oh, fuck him.

Simon is already in bed.

Apparently his bedtime attire consists of boxer briefs and absolutely fucking nothing else.

He's sitting against the headboard, phone in one hand, sheets pooled around his hips.

No shirt.

Of course there's no shirt.

And of fucking course he's still ripped.

No. Not still.

More.

At twenty-two, Simon had been in shape. He'd worked out constantly and had the kind of body twenty-two-year-old men get when they have unlimited energy and think protein powder is a food group.

But now…

His shoulders are broader. His chest is thicker. His stomach is—

Fuck me.

The military has done him well.

Very, very well.

My eyes move down the defined lines of his stomach before I can stop myself.

Then back up.

Then down again.