Chapter Text
the pub was warm and amber-lit, buzzing with the kind of idle noise you only get when people are pretending their lives are normal. you leaned into the edge of the booth, fingers curled around a pint glass gone warm an hour ago. across from you, simon sat slouched with one arm thrown over the backrest, nursing something dark and sharp that burned on the way down. he wasn’t drunk—not really—but he’d had enough to let his shoulders drop, to let the ache in his bones settle into something looser.
“bit domestic, this,” simon muttered. his voice was a low rumble, almost drowned out by the crackle of a jukebox playing something slow and full of longing.
you raised a brow. “you hate domestic.”
“i tolerate it. when it shuts up long enough to enjoy the quiet.”
you smirked, slow. “i didn’t know silence was your love language.”
simon didn’t answer. just took another sip and looked at them the way he did when he didn’t feel like lying.
you and him left the pub just past midnight, both of you walking close enough that your shoulders brushed every other step. the night was thick with city breath—oil on pavement, someone’s too-loud laugh echoing down the street, a dog barking into nothing. you stuffed your hands into the pockets of simon's coat—still wearing it, oversized and lived-in, smelling faintly of the pub and something warm beneath it.
simon pulled out a cigarette with slow fingers. lit it. exhaled. the ember cast a dim orange glow over his face for a breath-long moment.
you glanced at him sidelong, a little grin on your lips. “so,” you said, casually, “you ever thought about kissing me?”
he stopped walking.
and you did too. the silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft fizz of the cigarette burning down.
“you're not serious,” simon said.
“i'm always serious. especially when i'm not.”
he stared at you. tired eyes, a touch glassy from the drinks, but sharp all the same. “that a real question or are you fishing?”
you stepped closer, toeing the edge of whatever it was you've built between you two these past few weeks. “maybe both.”
you reached for the cigarette, fingers brushing his as you tried to steal it. simon didn’t let go. he brought it back to his lips, slow and deliberate, and took a long drag.
then—without a word—he leaned in.
not a kiss. not exactly. but he exhaled into your mouth, warm smoke curling in between, slipping past their your. you held still, breath caught, lips parted just slightly. the kind of stillness that was deliberate—provocative.
the air felt hotter than it should’ve, electric and bitter from the nicotine. you didn’t move away. and your voice came low, soft:
“you always this romantic, riley?”
simon gave a rough little laugh, husky from the smoke. “you think that was romantic?”
“no. i think it was a warning.”
simon flicked ash to the curb, not looking at you. “would've kissed you. months ago.”
“then why didn’t you?”
he met your gaze again—tired, frustrated, coiled like a spring too long compressed.
“because you’re dangerous,” he said. “and i'm already full of ghosts.”
you tilted your head, expression unreadable even to yourself, because you knew what he meant, but not what he was scared of. “you're not the only one haunted.”
you stood there for another long minute. the night moved around you—cars passing, wind brushing the edge of conversation—but neither of you seemed to notice.
simon took one last drag from the cigarette and handed it over. “here,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “knock yourself out.”
you accepted it without comment. your fingers brushed again, slower this time. intentional.
you smoked the rest in silence, walking side by side. you didn’t talk about the kiss-that-wasn’t. didn't need to.
some things don’t need to be said. some things live in the space between—warm smoke, the brush of shoulders, the way a name lingers in your mouth even if you never speak it.