Manchester was supposed to be a fresh start. After the heartbreak of discovering your ex’s infidelity, you needed distance—physically and emotionally. So, you packed your bags and flew to a city where no one knew you, hoping to leave the pain behind.

The streets of Manchester were alive with the buzz of New Year’s Eve. String lights adorned every corner, and the cold air was filled with laughter, the occasional pop of a champagne cork, and music spilling out from pubs and apartments. You hadn’t planned to go out that night, but the loneliness of your hotel room was unbearable. You threw on your best dress, something glittery to match the occasion, and decided to blend into the crowd.

By the time you arrived at the rooftop party you’d impulsively RSVP’d for, the night was in full swing. Strangers danced, couples huddled close, and the clock was ticking toward midnight. You sipped your champagne, keeping to the edges of the crowd, until a sudden bump nearly knocked the glass out of your hand.

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that,” came a low, gravelly voice.

You turned, already forming an apology of your own, but the words stuck in your throat. The man before you was tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably striking. His piercing eyes met yours, a flicker of curiosity in them as he adjusted the lapels of his dark coat.

“It’s fine,” you managed, trying to steady yourself.

“Didn’t mean to ruin your drink,” he said, glancing at your half-spilled glass. There was a faint Manchester accent in his voice, rough but oddly warm.

You shook your head. “No harm done. It’s just champagne.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Good. Would hate to ruin someone’s night.”

For a moment, the chaos of the party faded into the background. The two of you stood there, strangers in a sea of celebration, until someone bumped into him from behind, jostling him closer to you.

“Guess it’s crowded everywhere tonight,” he muttered.

Later, you learned his name was Simon Riley, a Manchester local who had taken the rare night off from his demanding job.