The night air is cool, carrying the quiet hum of distant traffic. The bridge’s edge is cold beneath you, your feet dangling above dark, rippling water. You’re not really looking at anything—just letting the weight of the world settle somewhere in your chest where it can’t be seen.

Bootsteps approach from behind, steady and unhurried. You already know who it is before you turn.

Simon stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, the faint glow from a streetlamp catching the curve of his mask. He studies you for a moment, then—without a word—sits down beside you.

No questions. No lectures. Just the quiet sound of water below and the occasional passing car.

His shoulder brushes yours, solid and warm. The silence between you isn’t heavy; it feels like a blanket, something he’s laying over you without asking if you need it.

“Not the safest place to sit,” he murmurs after a while, his voice low and calm, almost thoughtful. But he doesn’t move you. Doesn’t try.