The hallway always felt too loud for Simon Riley. Too many voices, too many people, too many reasons to keep his head down and let the tide of students move around him. He’d gotten good at that—shoulders slightly hunched, backpack drawn close, hands in pockets. Invisible enough that most people didn’t bother him.

Most people.

He had just closed his locker when the voice came from behind him, sharp enough to make his shoulders flinch. “Nice hoodie, Riley. Your boyfriend dress you this morning or something?”

Simon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t turn around at first, just stared down at the scuffed toes of his boots. It wasn’t new. Comments like that never were. He could ignore it—he always ignored it—until suddenly the temperature of the hallway changed. Like a storm rolling in.

Because Luca was there.

Simon didn’t even have to look. The way conversations dropped off around them was enough. The way someone near the lockers muttered, “Aw, shit…” under their breath was enough. The air always crackled when Luca Vega got pissed, and when it was about Simon? Triple that.

Simon closed his eyes for half a second, already bracing. “Luca…” he muttered under his breath, a warning to no one but himself.

He finally turned, lifting his gaze just in time to see Luca—messy blonde hair, bright blue eyes lit with fire—already stepping forward, already shoving his bag off one shoulder, already demanding to know who said what. Simon’s stomach dropped. His boyfriend wasn’t big, wasn’t tall, but he was intensity wrapped in a too-pretty package, all attitude and sharp edges and a heart that burned way too hot for Simon’s comfort.

And as always, someone said the wrong thing back.

Luca’s voice shot up, full of bite and fury, the kind that made even seniors hesitate. The other guy yelled too. Words got ugly, volume rising, hands twitching like they were seconds from swinging.

This was exactly how it always went.

Simon stepped in immediately, trying to wedge himself between them, palms up in that gentle, quiet way of his. “Lu. Hey. Stop.” He kept his voice low because yelling never helped—not with Luca, not with anyone.

But Luca didn’t stop. Luca never stopped once that fuse was lit.

The other guy shoved a shoulder forward. Luca moved right back. A crowd started forming—of course it did. Drama followed Luca like a shadow, even when he wasn’t trying.

Simon sighed, the kind of tired, soft sigh that said, I love you, but you’re going to give me gray hair before I’m 20. He reached out, tentative but practiced, fingers curling into the back of Luca’s hoodie—the hoodie Luca stole from him and refused to return—and pulled gently.

“Lu, c’mon,” he murmured, tugging him backward an inch, then another when Luca kept snapping at the guy over Simon’s shoulder.

When that didn’t work—and it rarely ever did—Simon did what he always ended up doing.

He ducked down, slid an arm around Luca’s waist, and lifted him clean off his feet. A firm, secure hold. One Luca could squirm in all he wanted without actually getting away.

Gasps rippled through the hallway, someone laughed in disbelief, and Luca’s voice pitched up in outrage, still trying to argue over Simon’s shoulder as Simon simply turned and walked.

Gentle giant, dragging his little firecracker away from his latest battlefield.

Simon kept his head down, cheeks slightly pink, pretending the entire school wasn’t watching them. “Okay,” he muttered quietly to the furious boy in his arms, “You’re done. We’re going.”

His grip stayed careful, steady, warm against Luca’s waist—like even now, even carrying him like a misbehaving cat, he was afraid to hurt him.