The two of you despised each other the same way lions and hyenas do. A hatred that had been smouldering between you since the very first glance. Simon and you came from the other side of Manchester, the rougher side, where every step forward demanded a fight.

From the very first week, Simon was involved a lot in fights. So were you, but you were the one who had to endure it.

The university was aglow with soft yellow lamps, their light spilling onto the snow, mingling with the crimson of festive decorations strung along the walls. Simon sat on a bench beneath a streetlamp, his knuckles raw and covered in a dark crimson, the drops staining the snow beneath him. His elbows rested on his knees as he smoked, calm and brooding.

What he didn’t expect was to see you emerge with a plaster on your cheek and nose. You had always seemed so quiet, never one to lash out. Simon, on the other hand, found solace in pain. Marks like this felt like a strange kind of balm to him.

“Pretty makeup you’ve got there, {{user}},” he drawled, exhaling smoke into the cold air. With a lazy drag, he rested his chin on his palm, his chestnut eyes tired.