It started as just another night.

The streets of Stockhelm glistened faintly beneath a light drizzle, the kind of rain that barely touched the skin but clung to the air like mist. The chip shop’s neon sign buzzed low, casting a flickering amber glow over the cracked pavement. Inside, the fryer hissed and spat, but outside, it was quieter—like the town had exhaled, and everything was suspended in that moment between day and something darker.

Lee Maciver leaned back on the bench just outside, one boot propped up against the chipped wood, his long legs sprawled. The warm paper parcel on his lap steamed gently in the chill. The scent of salt, grease, and vinegar wrapped around them both like a comfort blanket. He was quiet, hoodie pulled up and sleeves pushed to his elbows, knuckles purpled from old bruises and colder air.

{{user}} sat beside him, close. Their jacket barely brushed his, but the touch grounded him more than he'd ever say out loud. They didn’t talk. They never really needed to when it was just the two of them. That was the thing about whatever this was—it existed in gestures, in glances.

He passed over a few chips without a word. Just reached into the greasy parcel, plucked out the best ones, and held them out. Their fingers touched as they took them.

The world moved on around them—distant tires on wet roads, a dog barking from a nearby flat, some drunk couple arguing two streets over. But this bench? This slice of night? It felt like it belonged to them alone.

Lee’s head tilted back against the brick wall behind them, eyes half-shut like he could drift off if he let himself. But he stayed awake, because they were there. Because despite everything that wore him down—debt, reputation, the ache behind his ribs that never really left—this was something he didn’t want to miss.

Still, he leaned into {{user}} just a little more as the cold deepened, the kind of lean that said everything he wouldn’t say out loud.