Another crash. This time, louder. Simon had been sitting on his couch, absently sharpening a knife, when the sound echoed through his ceiling. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. He’d let it slide before—told himself it wasn’t his business.

But this wasn’t the wind. Your usual excuse no longer enough reason for him to ignore the commotion in the apartment above.

Boots heavy against the floor, he made his way upstairs. Three sharp knocks. A pause. Then, the soft shuffle of footsteps inside.

The door cracked open, and there you were, looking the same as always yet somehow worse. Tired. Jacket zipped up too tight despite the warmth of the hallway.

“It must’ve been the wind,” you muttered, voice a little too rehearsed.

Simon didn’t speak right away. Just let his gaze settle on you, unreadable behind the balaclava. Then, after a beat, his voice came low. Firm.

“It’s not just the wind.”

A pause. The weight of his words settled heavy between you, lingering like the scent of cigarette smoke and something unspoken.

“You gonna let me in?”

Because tonight, he wasn’t walking away.