The late afternoon sun slants through the battered blinds of Simon’s room, painting long strips of amber across the mess—old trainers kicked beneath the desk, a hoodie draped over his desk chair, half a mug of tea gone cold on the windowsill. The house is dead quiet. His dad’s out, Tommy too, and like always t’s just the two of you.

You’re both sprawled across his bed like always—him on his back one arm folded behind his head. The laptop wheezes through a low-budget thriller at the end of the bed, tinny dialogue and crap sound mixing with the distant hum of traffic outside. You’re lying close but Simon doesn’t say anything about it. He never does.

Your fingers twitch. Your throat’s dry. You’ve been chewing on this question for weeks, turning it over and over. Simon turns his head slightly, glancing at you, his eyes catching the sunlight—steel-grey and sharp beneath his long lashes.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low and rough. “You’ve gone all twitchy like a bloody rabbit.”

You shrug, mouth dry. He's your best friend since you could walk, the one who's wiped your tears from your cheeks and let you crash in his cramped bed when you don't wanna go home. You can ask him about this. It's SImon. “Can I ask you something kinda stupid?”

His brow ticks up. “You’ve been askin’ me stupid shit since year six. Don’t stop now.”

You let out a breathy laugh and sit up a little, shoulder brushing his. “Okay, so… prom’s coming up.”

Simon lets out an exaggerated groan. “Christ. Here we go.”

“Shut up,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. You can’t quite meet his eyes. “I wanna go. With someone. But I suck at flirting.” You pause. Swallow. “And you don’t.”

That gets his attention. Slowly, Simon turns to look at you properly. The joke fades from his face, replaced by something unreadable, almost thoughtful. His gaze flickers across your face like he’s trying to find the catch.

“You want me to what, teach you?” Simon asks, blinking at you, a small sardonic smile curling at the corner of his lips, brow arched.