Lieutenant Simon Riley hadn’t planned on playing drill sergeant today. He’d walked onto the training field expecting the usual—observe, correct, bark once or twice when someone inevitably did something stupid. But then the junior DS called in sick, and command tossed the whistle and clipboard straight into his hands like it was his problem.

So now he stood at the edge of the obstacle course, arms crossed, sun biting into the back of his neck, staring down a line of trembling recruits who looked like they’d already regretted waking up this morning.

Most of them, anyway.

Because he was here.

Luca. Messy blond hair that somehow always looked windswept no matter the weather. Blue eyes that were far too bright, far too distracting. And a mouth made for backtalk, apparently, because the idiot never followed orders. Never. Not once.

And yet Simon didn’t bark at him the same way he did the others. Didn’t call him “recruit.” Didn’t make him drop and give fifty for breathing wrong. No—Luca got shoved, flicked in the back of the head, had small things tossed at him when he wasn’t paying attention. And Simon used his name. Or dumbass. Depends on the minute.

He didn’t know why. Didn’t want to know why.

“Alright!” Simon barked, blowing the whistle so sharply half the line jumped. “You’re runnin’ the course until my eyes stop bleedin’ from lookin’ at your form. That might take a while.”

Groans. He ignored them.

His gaze flicked to Luca—already not standing where he was supposed to. Of course. Off to the side, hands on his hips, lips tilted in that infuriating almost-smirk like he was here for fun.

Simon felt his jaw tighten. Not with anger. … unfortunately.

“You,” he said, pointing straight at him, voice low enough that the other recruits straightened in fear. “Luca. Front of the line.”

Luca didn’t move immediately—just raised an eyebrow. Testing him.

Simon stepped closer, boots crunching in the dirt, until he stood just in front of him. He didn’t shove him this time. Not yet. Instead, he leaned down just enough that only Luca could hear, voice rough and quiet:

“Don’t make me drag you there, pretty boy.”

The words slipped out before he could reel them back. Subtle flirting—he’d been doing it for days now, and each time he swore he’d stop. He never did.

He straightened, cleared his throat, barked loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Move. Now.”