The house is too quiet, not eerily quiet, more like sitcom rerun-in-the-background, rain-pattering-on-the-roof, two-people-too-stubborn-to-talk quiet. You’re leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, a familiar scowl tugging at your mouth. Across from you, Simon stands, jaw tight and brows pinched.

Another fight. Another “we’re done.” You've broken up more times than you’ve updated your phone. It's practically tradition at this point—storm, dodging texts, sulking... then somehow ending up tangled together again in his bed watching a shitty movie.

Because Simon always comes back. He’s annoyingly good at that. Like a boomerang with a grudge and a Mancunian accent. And you? You're not exactly great at staying mad at him. Maybe because you’re a little stupid. Maybe because he's stupidly good-looking. Or maybe it’s because—despite the bickering and slammed doors—you’re just... in love with him. Deeply. Hopelessly. Annoyingly.

Simon squints at you. “We’re not doin’ this again,” he declares with a frown, but there’s no real heat in it, just faint exasperation. Familiar.

You raise an eyebrow, smug. “Then why are you in my kitchen?”

He doesn’t answer. Just huffs and strides over like he can’t help himself from being close to you. Two steps and he’s standing right in front of you. Your back bumps the counter as he leans in, arms bracketing you on either side, close enough for your noses to brush. You almost do it out of habit. “I’ve got you. Even when I don’t. You always come back,” Simon mutters with a frown.

The tension between you isn’t sharp this time—it’s warm, familiar, like the hum of a song you’ve known since you were kids. You’ve fought, sure. But you’ve also kissed behind the maths block and stayed up all night talking about things you’d never tell anybody else.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “And what’re you gonna do if I don’t this time?”

“I’m gonna get you back obviously,” he murmurs, as his hands slide down to your hips, finding home there.