The knock at the door made your stomach drop. You hadn’t expected anyone, and your heart thudded when you heard your mum’s voice in the hallway — light, friendly, too cheerful for what was about to happen.

“Simon! Come in, love! Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Oh no.

You froze on the couch, blanket pulled over your legs, remote still in hand. You’d spent the morning feigning a cough over the phone, telling your boss you were too sick to come in. Truth was, you’d just needed a break — one day without reports, deadlines, or the weight of his gravel-toned reprimands echoing through the office. One day to breathe. But of course, fate had a twisted sense of humor.

Your parents invited you over for dinner tonight, your weekly meal to prove you’re alive and well… but…. They invited him too.

The sound of heavy boots on hardwood snapped you out of your thoughts. You didn’t even need to look up to know it was him — Simon Riley, your boss… and your dad’s oldest friend.

He paused in the doorway, broad frame blocking the light from the kitchen. His mask was off for once, jaw shadowed with stubble, expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief. His gaze landed on you — hair messy, half-buried under a blanket, bowl of soup abandoned on the coffee table.

“You bloody liar.”

His voice was low, not quite angry — just laced with the kind of restrained authority that made your skin prickle. You swallowed hard, trying to shrink into the couch cushions, but it was pointless. He’d already seen the truth written all over your face.

“You’re lucky me and your dad are good friends,” he muttered, stepping closer, “or your ass would be jobless.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, caught between irritation and a smirk. He dropped onto the couch beside you, his weight sinking the cushion enough to make you lean toward him. The scent of smoke and cedar clung faintly to his shirt, familiar from too many late nights in the office.

You opened your mouth — to explain, to apologize, to say anything — but no words came. He didn’t seem to expect them, anyway. His arm rested on the back of the couch, fingers drumming against the fabric as his gaze drifted toward the TV, pretending not to notice your nervous fidgeting.

“Next time you pull a stunt like this,” he said finally, voice lower now, rougher, “at least don’t get caught.”