The rooftop’s cold under you — slate tiles biting through the fabric of your jeans, Manchester sky stretched grey and heavy above. A streetlight flickers below, buzzing like it’s thinking too hard. The wind carries smoke and comforting silence in equal measure.

Simon sits beside you, hoodie up, legs kicked out like he’s got nowhere else to be. Cigarette in his fingers, half-burned. He hasn’t said much—not yet. He rarely does, and when he does, they feel like they burn through your soul with each vowel. Words are worth more to him when they feel like that.

He exhales slow, smoke trailing from his scarred lips like he’s bleeding out a thought.

“Don’t start,” he says flatly. Voice low. Unbothered, like he’s rehearsed it a hundred times. There's a familiar beat. “It’s not worth the chat.”

Another drag. Then he leans back on his palms, jaw clenched like he’s chewing on something he’ll never say aloud.

His brows pull together, deep and tense, like his mind’s chewing on something violent. “Don't always act so fuckin' surprised,” He grunts, flicking ash off the roof. “You look at me like you don't know what you signed up for.” He avoids your eyes.