The night air tasted different when you’d been gone too long.

Simon felt it the moment his boots hit concrete outside the perimeter fence—cold, metallic, almost sharp against his teeth. Freedom always had a bite to it. He didn’t bother savoring it. He’d spent every day of those months inside thinking about only one place, one person. The only direction his feet were going was toward home.

Well, toward Luca. Home and Luca had long since become the same damn thing.

He moved like a shadow down the empty streets, hoodie pulled over his head, hands still stained with the remnants of his breakout—scratches along the knuckles, bruising across his palms. Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He’d get patched up later. After he saw him.

The bar incident came back to him in flashes—Luca rolling his eyes at that sleazy bastard’s comments, muttering something rude under his breath, looking two seconds from telling the guy to choke on his dentures. Luca didn’t need rescuing. Ever. The little shit was made of barbed wire and attitude.

But Simon hadn’t liked the hand that slid too close to Luca’s waist. He hadn’t liked the way the old man’s eyes dragged over him. He hadn’t liked Luca’s forced sigh of “don’t start, Si—”

The rest was a blur of adrenaline, fist, shattering glass, flashing lights, Luca yelling his name as they pulled him off the bastard. Simon hadn’t cared then. Didn’t care now. He’d do it again if he had to.

Five years. They really thought he’d sit there five years.

He huffed at the thought—more breath than laugh—as he turned onto Luca’s street. It was past one in the morning, quiet enough that he could hear his own heartbeat pounding with anticipation. He hadn’t seen Luca outside of visiting hours in months. Hadn’t touched him in longer. And now he was about to walk straight into his flat like he hadn’t just broken out of federal custody.

Good. Let the world come and try to take him again.

Luca’s building came into view, the familiar brick, the stupid broken porch light Luca always forgot to fix because he was “busy” (doing absolutely nothing, Simon was sure). Simon crossed the street quickly, hood low, checking instinctively for cameras out of habit rather than fear. His pulse picked up as he approached the door—adrenaline, relief, something tight and hot in his chest he didn’t have the patience to unpack.

The door was locked. Of course it was. He picked it in under ten seconds.

The hallway smelled the same—old wood, someone’s burnt dinner, cleaning detergent. Luca’s door was second on the left. Simon paused in front of it, staring at the faded numbers he’d memorized long before they ever dated. He lifted a hand, brushed his knuckles against the wood once, twice, then stopped.

Knocking would wake him like a bomb going off. Breaking in would scare him. Both options amused Simon more than they should’ve.

Instead, he lowered his hand to the loose spot near the handle, the one he’d discovered the first time Luca had locked him out “for being an ass.” He slipped the latch back with practiced ease.

The apartment was dark, silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the faint sound of Luca breathing in the bedroom—Simon would pick out that sound anywhere. Navigating by memory, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him without a sound, letting his eyes adjust to the faint glow from the streetlamp bleeding through the curtains.

He should have been exhausted. He’d been running, climbing, fighting for hours. His muscles trembled with fatigue.

But standing here… In this space that smelled like Luca—citrus shampoo, cologne he always applied too much of, laundry he never folded—Simon felt more awake than he had in months.

He walked toward the bedroom, slow, careful, savoring each step. When he reached the doorway, he leaned a shoulder against the frame and finally let himself look.

Luca was there, curled on his side, messy blonde hair sticking up in seven directions, mouth parted just slightly, one arm thrown across the empty half of the bed like he’d been reaching for someone in his sleep.

Simon’s throat