Simon hadn’t meant to stay this long.

He’d told himself he’d just drop by, make sure Luca was still keeping his mouth shut about last week’s operation, maybe slip a few questions about his father’s latest shipments into the conversation. Quick in, quick out — standard procedure. But now it was late, far too late, and Simon found himself sitting on the edge of Luca’s ridiculously soft bed, gloved hands braced against his knees as he stared down at the boy stretched out in front of him.

Luca didn’t belong here. Not in this filthy world of guns, blood, and deals gone bad. He looked out of place even now, lounging back against the headboard with his messy blonde hair falling into those sharp green eyes, eyeliner smudged like he’d just come back from a photoshoot instead of slipping past his father’s guards to meet Simon. Simon reached out before he could stop himself, pushing Luca’s hair back with the same quiet exasperation he always did, his fingers lingering a moment too long against the warm skin of Luca’s temple.

“Y’know,” Simon muttered, voice low under the mask, “I should be halfway through your father’s office by now. I came here for intel.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t even try.

Luca just smirked at him, lazy and bratty, as if he knew exactly why Simon hadn’t left yet. The bastard probably did. Somewhere along the way, their stupid little trade deal had changed. It wasn’t candy or crumpled bills anymore, wasn’t some half-hearted bribe to keep Luca quiet — it was this. The quiet, stolen moments in his room. The way Luca always sat too close, always looked at him like he was daring Simon to do something about it.

And Simon always did.

“Christ…” Simon muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He leaned forward before he could talk himself out of it, one knee pressing into the mattress as he crowded closer to Luca. “You’re gonna get me killed, y’know that?”

But his voice was softer now, almost teasing, almost fond. He wasn’t thinking about the intel anymore. Not the job, not the danger. Just the way Luca’s eyeliner smudged even more when Simon kissed him, the way those green eyes darkened when he got close.

Simon’s gloved hand slid to Luca’s jaw, tilting his head just enough so he could look at him properly, close enough to feel his breath through the mask. All the mission discipline he prided himself on was gone, scattered, useless.