It’s nearly midnight when you find Simon. The streets of Manchester are cold and fog curls in low ribbons around the curb, wrapping the city in something cold and quiet and alive. You see him before he sees you—leaning against the rusted streetlamp at the end of the road, hood pulled low.

His boot scuffs against the pavement in restless rhythm, like if he doesn’t keep moving, he might combust. A cigarette burns between his fingers, smoke curling up into the night like a whisper of something unsaid.

You shouldn't be here. Your dad had slammed the door so hard the house had rattled. Had stood in the kitchen, fists clenched at his sides, veins in his neck popping while he shouted words you can't forget even if you try.

And you’d screamed back. Said Simon’s name like a lifeline, like a match lit in defiance. Said you'd rather be with someone real, someone who sees you, than smile at some nice boy you don’t even like to play it safe. Your dad had grounded you, of course. Called you reckless. Said he was dangerous.

But Simon’s not dangerous. Not in the way your dad thinks. He’s just hurting.

You cross the road anyway, breath catching against the chill. Simon turns his head when he hears your steps, slow and deliberate. His blue-grey eyes catch the light just enough to glint.

"You’re fuckin’ insane," he mutters, his brows furrowing and that divot you like to kiss appearing between his brows. “Why’re you out?”

"I had to see you, Si,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek, still buzzing from your fight with your dad.

Simon scoffs, glancing away like it’ll make it easier. “Thought your old man made it clear he’d kill me if I so much as looked at you again,” he mutters bitterly.

He had — he had said a lot worse when he’d seen the texts Simon had sent you, far too intimate for you to try play it off like you’re just friends from school. Your dad had been livid, had told you that under no circumstances were you to date that Riley boy. Here you are anyways.