You don’t even notice him at first.

The city feels too loud, too busy — car horns blaring, people brushing past you with quick apologies, and the buzz of your own nerves rattling in your chest. You’d just moved here, and every corner still feels like a maze, every street sign a test you’re sure you’re failing. So when you bump into someone, you’re already mumbling an apology before you even look up.

And then you do.

And then everything stops.

He’s taller than you remember. Broader, too — like someone carved sharp edges where there used to be soft ones. He’s in a dark jacket, boots scuffed from travel, and a duffel slung over one shoulder. It takes a second for your brain to connect the dots, because the Simon you remember is stuck at age thirteen in your head — the kid who ate too many sour candies, the one who swore he’d never wear a tie even if his mum made him.

But then he smiles, just barely, and your chest does this weird flip.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say, because what else is there to say?

Simon blinks, then his grin widens a fraction. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.” His voice is lower than it used to be, rough around the edges, but still his.

You’re aware of your own reflection in a nearby shop window — the surprise on your face, the way your hair’s a mess from the wind — but he’s looking at you like it’s been years. Which it has.

“You— you moved away,” you blurt, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

He nods. “Yeah. Dad got stationed somewhere else. Then I… well, joined up myself.” He gestures at himself vaguely — the jacket, the boots, the tired look in his eyes. “Just got back.”

There’s a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. You should probably say something clever or cool, but your brain is stuck somewhere between holy crap, Simon grew up and when did you get this hot?

“You wanna—” he starts, then hesitates. “You wanna catch up? Grab coffee or something?”