Simon sat in the dim light of his apartment, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling as his eyes traced over the collection of photographs scattered across his coffee table. Luca. Always Luca. That careless smile, the messy blonde hair that never seemed tamed no matter the setting, those too-blue eyes that caught the light in a way that made Simon’s chest tighten. Every candid shot, every stolen glimpse through his camera lens, left Simon craving more.

They lived so close—just across the hall. Simon had memorized the rhythm of Luca’s footsteps, the sound of his key in the door, the way his laughter bled faintly through the thin apartment walls late at night. He’d learned Luca’s habits, his comings and goings, the little details most people wouldn’t notice. And still, it wasn’t enough. It never was.

Crushing the cigarette out in the ashtray, Simon stood, pulling on his hoodie before slipping out into the hall. He didn’t need an excuse to run into Luca anymore—he’d gotten good at making them up. A broken lightbulb in the hall, mail gone to the wrong box, a half-hearted comment about the weather. Anything to draw those blue eyes onto him, even for a moment.

And there he was. Just ahead, fumbling with his keys at the door, blonde hair catching under the flickering hallway light. Simon’s chest tightened again, his footsteps slow, measured, predatory in their calmness as he approached.

“Evenin’, Luca,” Simon rumbled, voice low, smooth, almost casual—though his eyes lingered far too long, drinking him in.