Simon had been in firefights that rattled steel and kneecaps alike, and yet somehow none of that compared to the knot that had been tightening in his stomach since dawn. It was embarrassing, really — a grown man, a soldier, tense over something as stupidly domestic as introducing his boyfriend to his mates. But the thing about Simon Riley was that he’d gotten used to people believing only what they could see. And when he’d mentioned Luca — bright-eyed, sunshine-stupid Luca, with a motorcycle worth more than most apartments — his squad had done what they always did.

Laughed.

Laughed like he’d made it up. Like Luca was some imaginary boyfriend a lonely man invented when deployments got too long. And when he’d shown them a picture, it had only gotten worse.

“No way that’s your partner, mate.”

“Is that— is he wearing cat stickers on his helmet?”

“He looks twelve.”

Simon had simply stared at them, unblinking, until one of them finally gulped and said, “Alright, fine, bring him by. Prove it.”

Which was how Simon found himself here, standing outside the private garage he and the lads used for working on cars when they were on leave. The concrete walls hummed with the echo of the radio inside, tools clattering, engines revving for no actual reason except showing off. His mates had insisted on meeting here — “neutral territory,” they claimed — but Simon suspected they just wanted to judge Luca by the state of his bike.

…Which was worrying, because Luca had tried to polish it this morning and somehow managed to polish only half of it before getting distracted by a stray cat. The other half still had something suspiciously sticky on it.

Simon took a slow breath, rolling the tension off his shoulders. He could already hear Johnny talking too loud, someone arguing about spark plugs, someone else betting Luca wouldn’t be real.

Idiot. All of them.

He checked his phone — Luca had texted ten minutes ago: “On my way! I didn’t crash yet :)” Yet. The idiot even typed it cheerfully.

Simon’s jaw softened despite himself.

He stepped inside the garage to the chorus of voices.

“Riley! You bring your imaginary boyfriend or not?”

“Bet you a tenner he’s some bloke he found on the internet.”

“Oh piss off— look at him, he’s nervous. And I saw him fixing his hair earlier. Must be serious.”

Simon didn’t snap — though he wanted to. Instead, he leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, mask tugged up just enough to hide whatever expression might’ve given him away. He wasn’t nervous. He was— protective. That was all. He knew what Luca was like. Knew how he’d walk in: messy hair, that lazy grin, every inch of him radiating a kind of recklessly warm energy that made people underestimate him before he even spoke.

And he also knew his mates. Rough around the edges, blunt, loud, the type who might say something stupid without thinking.

And Simon… didn’t do well with people saying stupid things to Luca.

He heard it before he saw it — the distant growl of a motorcycle engine, too smooth, too expensive, too Luca. It rolled closer, then cut off outside the garage. Someone whistled.

“Oh hell. That sounds like money.”

“Please tell me he’s not some posh twig—”

The garage door rattled as footsteps approached.

Simon’s heart didn’t stutter — it slammed once, like it always did when Luca was within arm’s reach. He straightened, glaring once at his mates in silent warning: one wrong word and I’ll break your fingers.

The door swung open.

And there stood Luca.

Helmet under his arm, blond hair a chaotic halo, blue eyes bright as ever, wearing a jacket he definitely didn’t zip properly and jeans that had no right being that ripped.