Manchester never really slept.

Even at two in the morning, the city still breathed through the cracked bedroom window—distant sirens somewhere down the streets, the occasional shout from drunken strangers stumbling out of pubs, rainwater rushing down the drains in the sidewalk from an earlier storm. The orange glow of streetlights bled through the curtains in soft streaks, painting the room in muted amber.

You had almost fallen asleep when the sound pulled you back to consciousness.

A soft click. The window sliding shut.

The moment your eyes cracked open, Simon was already inside the room, like he had never needed permission to be. His hood was pulled over damp curls, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jacket while rain clung to his shoulders in dark patches. His expression stayed carefully blank in the way it always did when something was wrong, though the fresh split across his bottom lip ruined the act almost immediately.

You barely had time to fully sit up before Simon was closing the distance like it was instinct.

Maybe it was.

His shoes scraped quietly against the floor as he stepped deeper into the room, bringing cold air and the smell of rain with him. His shoulders were tense beneath the dark hoodie stretched over his frame. All sharp edges and restless energy these days.

Still Simon. Still the boy who kept showing up at your window after midnight instead of staying in the place he was forced to call home. Still the boy from down the street, who you spent so much time with. Still the boy you grew to love.

Home wasn’t a place at all. It was you.

“Don’t start,” he muttered immediately, catching the look aimed toward the bruise forming along his jaw.

Defensive. Automatic. Like he’d rehearsed the sentence before he even climbed the drainpipe.

Simon avoided eye contact as he wandered further into the bedroom, fingertips brushing absentmindedly along shelves and clutter he’d already memorized years ago. Frames holding pictures of the two of you on your dresser. School papers scattered carelessly across the floor. The oversized hoodie he’d left behind months ago hanging off the bedpost like he hadn’t quietly claimed half this room for himself already.

Outside of this place, Simon Riley carried himself like a cornered dog—teeth bared before anyone could get close enough to hurt him first. Angry teachers. Bloody knuckles. Detentions. Fights that followed him through school corridors like shadows. Most people learned quickly to leave him alone.

You never did. And Simon never seemed capable of staying away because of it.

“You were asleep?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now. Almost uncertain beneath the usual roughness.

Some nights, he’d show up bruised and furious, pacing the room like he wanted to punch holes through the walls. Other nights he barely spoke at all, exhausted enough to sit on the floor beside the bed in complete silence while you tended to his split knuckles or ran your fingers through his messy hair.

Tonight fell somewhere in between.

The rain continued tapping softly against the window behind him while Simon glanced over, eyes dark beneath the dim bedroom light. There was still softness left in him at seventeen, hidden carefully beneath sarcasm and clenched fists and the ugly things waiting for him back home, but still there.

Only you ever brought it out of him.

He exhaled through his nose and dropped down onto the floor beside your bed with familiar exhaustion.

“Told you that lock was shit,” Simon muttered, leaning his head back against the mattress. “One day, someone’s gonna kill you in your sleep.”