The bass thumps through the floor as the nightclub comes alive, neon lights washing over sticky counters and crowded bodies. Simon stands behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight as he wipes down a glass that’s already clean. His eyes flick toward you the moment you step inside — like they always do — a mix of longing, worry, and that familiar flash of anger he never quite manages to hide.

“You’re late,”

He mutters, not looking at you at first. When he finally does, his expression softens despite himself.

“Busy night already… figures."

There’s a pause, heavy with everything unsaid — the arguments, the slammed doors, the nights he waited up worrying while you refused to quit no matter how much it tore him apart.