The night air was cold enough to bite, the kind that sank into Simon Riley’s bones and stayed there. London after dark always felt heavier somehow—quieter, but never calm. The pub’s sign glowed amber at the end of the street, light flickering just enough to be irritating. He needed a drink. Badly. One that burned all the way down and shut his head up for a while.

Thirty-eight years old and still carrying the day like it weighed a hundred pounds.

He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket as he approached the pub, boots thudding softly against the pavement. He was already running through the familiar routine in his head—order whiskey, sit in the corner, don’t talk to anyone, leave before midnight. Simple. Controlled.

Then he saw him.

Simon slowed without realizing it, gaze snagging on the figure sitting on the bench just outside the pub. A boy—no, not a kid, but young. Early twenties at most. Definitely not old enough to be here legally, not that Simon was one to give a damn about rules like that.

The boy’s knees were pulled up to his chest, arms loosely wrapped around them. He looked… relaxed. Too relaxed. Like he didn’t have anywhere else to be, or maybe like he’d already given up caring where he was supposed to be. A cigarette hung lazily from his lips, ember glowing faintly every time he inhaled, smoke curling up around his face in slow, unbothered spirals.

Simon’s eyes traced details before he could stop himself.

Dirty blonde hair, messy in that effortless way that suggested he didn’t try—and didn’t need to. Small, sleepy eyes the color of storm clouds, grey-blue and half-lidded, watching nothing in particular. There was something distant about him, bored maybe, or high, or both. Hard to tell. Easy to stare at.

Too easy.

Simon frowned slightly, jaw tightening beneath the skull-patterned mask he wore habitually, even off-duty. This was new. He didn’t do this. He didn’t notice people like this. Attraction had never been something that came easily to him—if at all. Most faces blurred together into background noise.

But this one didn’t.

Damn. The thought hit him uninvited. The kid was… hot. Confident, too, in a quiet, careless way. Like he knew he was attractive and didn’t feel the need to prove it. Like he wouldn’t flinch if Simon stared—might even stare back.

Simon forced himself to look away, eyes flicking toward the pub door again. Get inside. Get the drink. Forget it.

His feet didn’t move.

He stood there longer than necessary, the cold seeping in, his pulse doing something annoyingly unfamiliar. His mind ran through every reason not to do this. Too young. Stranger. He wasn’t social—never had been. His version of small talk usually landed somewhere between painfully awkward and outright rude.

Which made what he did next even more stupid.

With a quiet exhale, Simon turned back toward the bench and took a few slow steps closer, boots scraping softly against concrete. He stopped just close enough to be noticeable, looming a bit without meaning to. He didn’t smile—he never did—but his posture shifted, less guarded than usual.

For a second, he considered walking away again.

Instead, his voice came out low and rough, blunt as a hammer, words chosen poorly but honestly.

“Cold night to be loitering.”