the knock shattered the quiet like a thrown stone on glass. you paused, the stillness of the house suddenly louder in its absence. your parents had been gone for two days now, three to go, halfway across the world in greece, leaving you with the order and calm they trusted you to maintain. but the knock came again—harder, sharper—and you felt it in your chest.

when you opened the door, simon riley was there, framed by the dim porch light and the rain that clung to him like a second skin. his blonde hair, darkened by the downpour, stuck to his forehead, and his jacket hung heavy with water, dripping onto the wooden step. his brown eyes met yours briefly before sliding past, glancing into the warmth of the house, at the neatness, the calm. the wealth

so different from his own house just by yours. mocking.

his knuckles were bloody, his lip split, a faint smear of red darkening the corner of his mouth. there was a bruise blooming high on his cheek, fresh and angry against his pale skin. he shifted his weight, one boot scuffing against the porch, and dragged a hand through his wet hair, scattering droplets.

he didn’t explain himself. he didn’t have to. the storm outside seemed to follow him, clinging to his frame as he exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold.

“let me in, yeah?” he muttered finally, his manchester accent thick, the words more bite than question.