The speakers still hummed long after the music had stopped, a low electric ghost clinging to the walls as the last bodies slipped out into Manchester’s cold, rain-slicked night.

The pub held onto them in other ways. Warm light soaked into old wood. Damp coats had left their scent behind—rain and wool and something faintly metallic. Near the stage, napkins clung stubbornly to the floor where boots had ground them in, and a single guitar pick lay abandoned beside the mic stand, forgotten in the rush of leaving.

Johnny had gone first, dragged out by Gaz, still laughing too loudly about a missed chord. Price lingered only long enough to clap Simon on the shoulder—solid, brief. “Lock up behind you, Riley.”

And then—quiet.

Simon stayed at the bar, a sweating glass of cola in his hand, his mask tugged just low enough to breathe. The aftermath of performing never left him cleanly. It lingered beneath his skin, a restless hum—not quite adrenaline, not quite nerves. Just noise. The kind he couldn’t switch off.

So he didn’t try.

One hour, he’d decided.

Just to sit somewhere no one needed anything from him.

At the far end, the bartender moved in slow, practiced circles, wiping down surfaces to the murmur of a low radio. Outside, rain tapped steadily against the windows. Simon watched his reflection in the dark glass—pale eyes, worn edges, a faint smear of black still clinging to his jaw from stage paint.

The door opened.

You stepped inside with the weather, shaking rain from your sleeves before realizing—too late—the place was nearly closed.

“Sorry,” you said, already turning back toward the door.

“They’re still servin’,” Simon said, the words leaving him before he’d decided to speak. “Just slow.”

You glanced over, surprised to find anyone else there. You hesitated—measuring the room, the quiet, him—then crossed over and took a stool two seats away.

Not close.

Not far.

You ordered something warm. Tea, maybe. When it came, your hands curled around the cup, absorbing the heat like you’d been outside longer than you meant to be.

The silence that settled wasn’t awkward. Just shared.

“You played tonight?” you asked after a while, nodding toward the stage.

“Yeah.”

“You were good.”

A beat.

“Didn’t look like you believed that,” Simon said.

Your smile brushed the rim of your cup. “You kept watching the exit. Like you expected someone to leave.”

He hadn’t noticed.

“Habit,” he said.

You let it rest there. Didn’t dig, didn’t pry. That alone kept him from shutting the door again.

Time moved differently after that. Small remarks stretched into conversation—music, the weather, the strange pull of nights where going home felt heavier than staying out. You laughed, soft and unguarded, at something Johnny had shouted mid-set, and Simon found himself holding onto the sound without meaning to.

Eventually, the bartender called closing.

Neither of you moved right away.

Outside, the city had thinned to reflections—streetlights spilling gold across wet pavement, distant traffic humming somewhere beyond reach. It felt quieter than it should have. Smaller. Like the world had narrowed to just this moment.

“You got somewhere safe to be?” Simon asked, his voice softer now, stripped of the room behind it.

You hesitated.

“Eventually.”

He understood that better than any address.

Simon rubbed at the back of his neck, then nodded down the road. “Flat’s nearby. Not much, but… warmer than standin’ out here.”

No pressure. Just an open door.

You looked at him then—really looked. Not with suspicion, not with expectation. Just…seeing.

After a second, you nodded.

And together, you stepped out into the rain-washed night, your footsteps echoing side by side along the quiet Manchester street.