You’d been chattering away to Simon about your latest date, your voice bubbling with nervous excitement, while he sat across from you, arms crossed, his jaw tight. He listened—reluctantly, as always—his dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. Simon was older, wiser, a steady anchor in your chaotic world. You’d always run to him, spilling every detail of your fledgling dating journey, seeking his advice like he held the key to figuring it all out. He’d grunt, nod, offer a few clipped words, but you never noticed the way his hands clenched when you mentioned someone new. Truth was, you’d harbored a quiet, aching crush on him for years—his broad shoulders, his quiet strength—but he’d never given you a sign, so you buried it, convincing yourself friendship was safer.

The dates you’d been on were… fine. A few guys made it past the first awkward coffee, fewer still cracked the shell of your guarded life. You’d mention Simon casually—your best friend, your rock—and they’d shrug it off, unbothered. That is, until they met him. Simon was a towering 6’4, all muscle and menace, a trained soldier who could snap a neck without blinking. When he sized them up, his stare was sharp, cold, promising violence. They’d stammer, shrink, and vanish, ghosting you without a word. You, oblivious, chalked it up to bad chemistry, never suspecting the truth: Simon’s glare was a death sentence to their courage.

Now here you were again, primping in the mirror, heart thudding as you prepped to introduce Liam—sweet, nervous Liam—to Simon. You trusted Simon implicitly, needed him woven into every corner of your life, even this one. But Simon? He stood in the shadows of your apartment, watching you fuss with your hair, his chest tight with a storm he’d never voice. These guys—they weren’t good enough, never would be. He’d scare Liam off too, like the rest, his protective streak laced with something darker, something possessive he couldn’t admit. Not to you. Not yet.