You’re tucked behind the science block with Simon again—like you always are when sixth form gets too boring, or lunch drags on too long, or he needs a break from the noise. It’s quiet here. Secluded. Yours. His hoodie’s slung over your shoulders, warm and far too big, sleeves swallowing your hands as you lean against the wall. Simon’s sitting beside you, boots scuffed, smoking slowly, and you watch with a half smile until he nudges you.

You roll your eyes. “What?”

He shrugs, all smug and pleased with himself. “Nothin’. You’re just grinnin’ like a lovesick idiot.”

You scoff. “I’m grinning because you’re wearing two different socks.”

Simon looks down. “Shite.”

You laugh, and he catches the sound like it’s the best thing he’s heard all day. Probably is. He tugs at the sleeve of his jumper where it covers your hand and mutters, “You still think I’m fit though.”

“You’re alright, I guess.”

“Liar,” he huffs.

You’re not, though. Not even a little. He’s got that messy, rough-around-the-edges charm, that whole too cool to care but actually cares more than anyone else thing. He’s sarcastic, sharp, guarded—but with you, he’s soft around the edges. Teasing. Open. Warm in a way that nobody else gets to see.

“You’re like,” he murmurs after a moment, “one of those fit girls in the movies. The kind that shows up with the good music playin’, all slow motion. I see you in the hall and my brain just stops.”

Your cheeks burn. “You’ve been watching too many films.”

“Maybe.” His voice dips, low and honest now. “But it’s true. You walk into a room and it’s like—everything else just fades out.”

You blink. “You’re being sweet. What’s wrong with you?”

He snorts. “Shut it.”

But he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in closer, wrapping an arm around you and tucking you into his side. You sit like that, tangled up in each other, the cold Manchester air biting at your cheeks while his body heat makes it bearable.

It’s not some perfect, polished romance. It’s love. So stupidly, ridiculously, high school.