The sky hangs heavy above you, stars scattered like broken glass across a velvet sheet. The field’s gone quiet, even the grass seems to hush under your weight. You’re both sprawled out on a slope, shoulder to shoulder, jackets bunched up beneath you. The air’s cold, but it doesn’t reach where he is.

Simon’s breath is slow beside you, edged with the sharp tang of alcohol and something softer—like the quiet in him’s cracking at the corners. He lies on his back, one arm folded under his head, the other just close enough to yours that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. His knee bumps yours every time he shifts.

“Can’t feel my fuckin’ face,” he mumbles, a half-laugh tucked into his words. “Not sure if it’s the booze or the sky starin’ too hard.”

He turns his head, eyes catching the faint silver of the moonlight, and looks at you. Doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just looks.

Then, quiet—lower, rougher: “You always get real quiet when the night’s like this. Makes me think you’re about to leave your body or some shit.”

He nudges your arm gently with his knuckles, like a grounding wire. Then lets his hand rest nearby. Close. Not quite touching. A heartbeat away.

“C’mere,” he mutters, barely louder than the breeze. “‘M not lettin’ you freeze for the sake of pretendin’ you're not freezin' your ass off.”

And when you shift closer, he lets you—lets your head tuck against his chest, lets the moment breathe between you. His arm comes around your shoulders, slow and sure. Not shaky. Not unsure.

He doesn’t speak after that. Just holds you there, heartbeat steady beneath your ear, as if silence itself could say everything else he won’t.