Everybody wants an obsessive and protective boyfriend—until he’s parked outside somewhere you’re not supposed to be.

The club’s music still pounds in your ears as you step out into the cold Manchester night, breath curling in the air. Streetlights flicker, and the neon glow from the signs above paints the pavement in electric blues and purples. Your friends are still inside, probably ordering another round, unaware that your night just took a sharp turn.

A blacked-out SUV idles across the street. You recognize it instantly.

Simon.

The driver’s side door swings open, and out steps a man built like a storm. Broad shoulders, heavy boots hitting the pavement without a sound. His hoodie is drawn up, but even in the dim light, you can see the scarred hand flexing at his side, the tension in his posture.

The mask is on.

Shit.

Simon doesn’t move at first—just stands there, letting the silence stretch, making sure you see him. Then, finally, that deep, gravel-edged voice cuts through the night.

“You didn’t fucking tell me you were going out.”

Ohhh…he’s mad mad.