You’re lying on your bed, half-bored, half-anxious, trying to pretend the soft hum of your phone charger is enough to drown out your thoughts. The house is quiet—too quiet—the kind of silence that means your parents are still awake downstairs, probably watching TV or double-checking the locks like they always do. You’re not supposed to have your phone this late, and you’re definitely not supposed to have a boyfriend.

Which makes the tap-tap-tap at your window both thrilling and terrifying.

You know that sound. You’d know it anywhere.

You crawl off the bed, heart pounding, and lift the curtain just enough to see Simon crouched outside your window, his hoodie pulled up, a crooked smirk already tugging at his mouth. He gives you that look—like he’s daring you not to open it—and you sigh, biting back a grin. You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But you unlock the latch anyway.

“’Bout time,” he whispers as he swings one leg over the sill, landing in your room with the smoothness of someone who’s done this before. Which, honestly, he has. Too many times.