You wake up to rain tapping at the window. Not a storm, just that soft kind of drizzle that feels like it’s been falling forever — the kind that makes everything a little blurry around the edges. Simon’s already up, standing by the window with a cup of tea, bare feet planted solidly on the creaky floorboards of your flat. He doesn’t turn around right away.

“Y’know what today is?” he asks, voice low and rough from sleep.

You roll over, tucking yourself deeper into the duvet. “Tuesday?”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “St. Swithin’s Day.”

You blink, the name like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. “What’s that? Some old saint with a thing for weather?”

Simon turns now, leaning his shoulder against the frame, the mug held in both hands like he’s anchoring himself. “Sort of. There’s this saying — if it rains today, it’ll rain for the next forty days. Some old English superstition.” He pauses, eyes flicking to the grey sky. “Reckon we’re in for it.”