The speakers were still humming when the last of the crowd filtered out into the cold Manchester night.

The pub smelled like warm lights, old wood, and rain carried in on coats. A few napkins stuck to the floor near the stage where cables had been yanked loose in a hurry. Someone had forgotten a guitar pick beside the mic stand.

Johnny had already been dragged out by Gaz, still laughing too loud about a missed chord. Price lingered long enough to clap Simon on the shoulder before leaving with a simple, “Lock up behind you, Riley.”

Now the place was quiet.

Simon sat at the bar with a glass of cola sweating in his hand, mask pulled halfway down just enough to breathe easier. The adrenaline after performing never left quickly. It buzzed under his skin—not excitement, not nerves. Just…noise in his head he couldn’t switch off.

So he stayed.

One hour, he’d decided.

Just to exist where nobody expected anything from him.

The bartender wiped counters at the far end, radio low. Outside, rain tapped steady against the windows. Simon stared at his reflection in the dark glass—pale eyes, tired, the edge of black paint still smudged near his jawline from stage makeup.

Then the door opened again.

You stepped in, shaking water from your sleeves, clearly realizing too late the place was basically closed.

“Sorry,” you said to the bartender, already turning to leave.

Simon spoke before he thought about it.

“They’re still servin’. Just slow.”

You glanced toward him, surprised someone else was there at all. For a second you hesitated—weighing whether to stay—then walked over and took the stool two seats away.

Not right next to him.

Close enough.

You ordered something warm. Tea, probably. Your hands hovered around the cup when it arrived, soaking in heat like you’d been outside too long.

Silence settled, but not uncomfortable. Just…shared.

“You played tonight?” you asked eventually, nodding toward the stage.

“Yeah.”

“You were good.”

A pause.

“Didn’t look like you believed that,” Simon muttered.

You smiled slightly into the rim of your drink. “You kept watching the exit like someone was gonna run.”

He hadn’t realized he had.

“Habit.”

You didn’t push. That alone kept him from shutting down the conversation.

Minutes stretched. Small comments turned into actual talking—music, the awful weather, the kind of late nights that only happened when neither person wanted to go home yet.

You laughed softly at something Johnny had apparently shouted during the set, and Simon found himself memorizing the sound without meaning to.

The bartender announced closing time.

You both stayed seated a moment longer than necessary.

Outside, the streetlights reflected gold on wet pavement. The city felt emptied out, like the world had been reduced to just the two of you and the echo of distant traffic.

“You got somewhere safe to be?” Simon asked, voice quieter now without the bar around it.

You hesitated.

“Eventually.”

He understood that answer more than a location.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck, then gestured down the road. “Flat’s nearby. Nothin’ fancy. Just—warmer than standin’ out here.”

Not pressure.

Just an option.

You studied him for a second—really studied him—the way people rarely did without fear or assumptions.

You nodded.

Together, you started down the wet pavement toward his flat, footsteps echoing softly through the quiet Manchester night.