Simon leaned against the frame of his front door, arms crossed over his chest, the familiar weight of his stare locked on the apartment across the hall. It was ridiculous, he knew that—thirty-two years old, a decorated soldier, and yet he’d turned into some nosy bastard playing watchdog over the twenty-year-old model who’d somehow tangled himself into Simon’s life.

The click of Luca’s door had Simon straightening, sharp eyes narrowing. The lad was always darting off somewhere—shoots, castings, god knows what else—and Simon never could stop himself from prying. He watched the way Luca tugged his jacket on, that mess of blonde hair falling into his eyes, like he hadn’t a care in the bloody world.

“Where you off to this time?” Simon’s voice cut across the hallway, low and rough, but laced with a faint amusement he couldn’t bother to hide. He shifted his weight, one shoulder pressed lazily against the wall, though his gaze stayed locked on Luca like he was studying him for answers.

It wasn’t distrust—not really. Simon just wanted to know. Wanted to keep track. Maybe it was protective instinct, maybe it was just him being a bastard, but he couldn’t let the boy out of his sight without asking. And Luca, with his smirk and sharp tongue, always had some way of making Simon feel both foolish and fond for asking at all.

“Not sneaking off without tellin’ me, are you?” Simon added, tilting his head, a hint of a smirk ghosting over his lips beneath the shadow of his mask.