Chapter Text
The autumn air in Seattle was crisp, carrying the distinct scent of damp pine needles, petrol, and the faint, sweet aroma of roasting coffee beans from down the block. Inside the cosy, cluttered kitchen of a suburban townhouse, the atmosphere was considerably warmer, bordering on frantic.
Adrian stood by the kitchen island, a glass of crisp white wine balanced precariously close to a chopping board covered in discarded celery tops. He was entirely focused on his phone, his thumb flicking rapidly across the screen as he tracked a tiny digital dot moving through the grid of downtown streets.
"He’s left his flat," Adrian announced, his voice carrying that bright, melodic lilt that usually meant he was about to orchestrate something massive. "Or, at least, his phone says he’s left. Knowing Grace, he’s probably walked halfway down the pavement, realised he’s wearing mismatched socks, and turned back around."
Rocky, standing by the cooker in a pair of faded trackie bottoms and an old university hoodie, let out a booming laugh. He was stirring a pot of chilli that had been simmering for six hours, the rich, spicy steam fogging up his glasses. He pushed them up the bridge of his nose with his forearm and turned around, his broad face lit up by a massive, triumphant grin.
"Nah, he won't be late tonight. I told him if he flaked, I’d personally come over and swap all his specialty coffee beans for decaf instant," Rocky said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, looking immensely pleased with himself. "I'm telling you, Ade, this is it. Masterstroke. The crowning achievement of our social lives."
"Don't count your chickens just yet," Adrian warned, though the massive smile breaking across his own face betrayed his scepticism. He set his phone down and took a sip of his wine. "They haven't even sat down at the restaurant. We are playing with absolute fire here. Simon is... well, you know what Simon is like. He treats social interaction like a software update he keeps hitting 'remind me later' on."
"That’s exactly why it works!" Rocky insisted, gesturing with the wooden spoon for emphasis. "Simon is all logic, blueprints, and brooding in dark corners. Grace is... energy. Bright lights, big ideas, talking at a hundred miles an hour about the reproductive cycle of a tree frog. They’re opposites, yeah, but they’re both fundamentally brilliant blokes. They’re my two best mates in the world. It’s a mathematical certainty that they’ll hit it off."
"I don't think human romance follows the laws of mathematics, Rocky," Adrian chuckled, walking over to lean against his chest. Rocky threw a heavy arm around his shoulders, squeezing him tight.
"It does when it's this perfect," Rocky insisted, his voice softening with genuine affection. "Think about it. Simon’s been stuck in a rut since he moved out here for the engineering firm. He does his shift, he goes to the gym, he goes back to that minimalist flat that looks like a Scandinavian prison cell, and he sleeps. He’s forgotten how to have a laugh. And Grace... Grace gives everyone so much of his time and heart at the school that he forgets to look after himself. They balance the scales, Ade. They just need a push."
"A push?" Adrian raised an eyebrow. "You practically locked Simon in the back of your transit van until he agreed to the date."
"It was a gentle negotiation," Rocky corrected solemnly. "And look at the result! Tonight, at a lovely little bistro downtown, the magic happens. We’ve set the stage. Now we just have to sit back, finish this chilli, and wait for the frantic text messages to start rolling in."
Three miles away, in a vibrant, slightly chaotic flat filled with an alarming number of thriving houseplants, Grace was currently facing a mirror-induced crisis.
The bedroom floor was already a casualty of his indecision. A navy blazer lay discarded on the bed, a dark green knitted jumper was slumped over a chair, and at least three different button-up shirts were hanging out of open wardrobe drawers like colourful tongues.
"No, the blue makes me look like a corporate accountant," Grace muttered to himself, twisting around to inspect his reflection from a three quarters angle. He was currently wearing a crisp, short sleeved cotton shirt adorned with a repeating pattern of tiny, vintage style hot air balloons.
It was bright.
It was a statement.
He leaned closer to the bathroom mirror, grabbing a bottle of curling cream and working a dollop through his unruly, dark curls. They never quite behaved, twisting in whatever direction they pleased, which usually suited his personality perfectly, but tonight required a bit of structural integrity.
"Right," he said, pointing a stern finger at his reflection. "You are charming. You are interesting. You are a secondary school biology teacher who can talk about literally anything from global warming to the cultural impact of The Great British Bake Off. You’ve got this."
Grace took a deep breath, stepping back to view the whole ensemble. He’d paired the balloon shirt with dark tailored trousers and a pair of perfectly polished boots. It was the exact middle ground between ‘I care about this date’ and ‘I just casually threw this together because I am effortlessly fashionable.’
He cleared his throat, adjusting an imaginary microphone. "So, Simon," he practised, his voice dropping an octave into what he hoped was an engaging, confident tone. "Rocky tells me you’re a structural engineer. That must be fascinating. I’ve always thought bridges are just... massive, functional sculptures, really. Do you work mostly with steel or concrete?"
He paused, visualising a handsome, rugged man nodding appreciatively at his keen spatial awareness.
"Too intellectual?" Grace mused, tapping his chin. He shook his head, clearing the slate. "Okay, let's go friendlier. 'Hi, I'm Grace! Sorry if I’m vibrating slightly, I had a double espresso at four o'clock and I haven't quite come down yet. Rocky speaks about you so much I feel like I already know your blood type.'"
Grace winced, clapping a hand over his face. "Incredible. Brilliant. Let's lead with a blood transfusion joke, Grace. That’ll really make him want to see you again."
He dropped his hands, letting out a long, fluttering sigh. The truth was, beneath the theatrical rehearsing and the wardrobe explosion, his stomach was doing little flips. It had been nearly a year since his last proper date—a spectacularly dull evening with a man who had spent two hours explaining his cryptocurrency portfolio—and Grace was genuinely lonely. He loved his life in Seattle, loved his students, and loved his friends, but he missed the quiet thrill of a shared glance across a dinner table. He missed having someone to tell about the weird thing a 7th grade student had said during lunch break.
And Rocky had been so incredibly earnest about this Simon bloke. 'He’s a proper good guy, Grace. Quiet, but deep. You'll like him.'
"Quiet but deep," Grace whispered, giving his curls one final, definitive fluff. He grabbed his wallet, his keys, and his coat from the hallway peg. "I can do quiet and deep. I’ll just have to do enough talking for the both of us."
With a final, optimistic grin at his reflection, he zipped up his coat, stepped out into the chilly evening, and bounded down the stairs, practically radiating nervous, excited energy.
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On the other side of the city, the atmosphere in a sleek, hyper minimalist high rise apartment was entirely different. If Grace’s flat was a greenhouse, Simon’s was a laboratory.
There were no plants. There were no colourful posters. The walls were a uniform, cool grey, and the only artwork was a series of framed, highly detailed black-and-white architectural schematics of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Simon stood in front of his bedroom mirror, his expression completely blank. He was already fully dressed. He had been fully dressed for twenty minutes. He wore a heavy, charcoal grey crewneck jumper—high quality wool, no branding, perfectly fitted to his broad shoulders—and dark denim jeans. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his hair cropped short and precise. He looked less like a man preparing for a romantic evening and more like a security consultant preparing to brief a government official.
He looked down at his watch. 7:02 PM. The reservation was for 7:30 PM. The restaurant was a twelve-minute walk from his building, which meant he needed to leave in exactly sixteen minutes to arrive two minutes early. Efficient.
Simon let out a slow, heavy breath through his nose, his broad chest rising and falling.
He didn't want to go.
In fact, he could think of approximately forty-seven things he would rather be doing right now, including calculating the wind load capacity of a commercial skyscraper by hand or cleaning the grout in his shower with a toothbrush.
The only reason he was currently wearing a nice jumper instead of his grey trackie bottoms was because of the relentless, unyielding campaign waged by his best friend. Rocky had cornered him at a local pub three days ago, refusing to leave Simon's side until a verbal contract had been established.
'Just one night, Si,' Rocky’s voice echoed in his memory, accompanied by that pathetically desperate puppy dog look a grown man should not be able to pull off. 'For me. Adrian and I think he’s perfect for you. If you go and you absolutely hate his guts, I will never mention his name again. I’ll even help you out next weekend. Just give the guy a chance.'
Simon had finally relented, purely as a tactical move to ensure the survival of his own peace and quiet. It was an investment of three hours to buy a lifetime of social immunity from Rocky's matchmaking schemes.
He walked into his kitchen, which featured entirely clear counters, poured himself a glass of water, and sat down at the small dining table. He didn't practise talking points. He didn't check his teeth. He simply stared at the wall, his mind analysing a minor stress crack issue on a municipal dock project he’d been inspecting earlier that morning.
He knew what was going to happen. He was a creature of predictability, and this date had all the structural stability of a sandcastle. From what Rocky had described, this 'Grace' character sounded like a walking hurricane of chaotic energy. A schoolteacher. A man who volunteered at community gardens and probably cried at animal adoption adverts.
Simon closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't hate people; he just found the energy required to navigate their unpredictable emotional landscapes to be utterly exhausting. He liked gravity. He liked thermodynamics. He liked things that followed a strict set of immutable laws.
Human beings, particularly single ones set up by well-meaning friends, rarely followed the laws of physics.
His phone buzzed on the table. A text from Rocky: You’re gonna do great, mate! Don't forget to smile!
Simon stared at the screen. He did not smile. He typed a single, characteristically brief response: Leaving now.
He stood up, placed his empty glass precisely in the sink, grabbed his keys from the designated tray by the door, and slipped into his heavy black coat. He stepped out into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with a solid, definitive thud.
The trap was set, the players were moving, and as the lift descended toward the lobby, Simon resigned himself to his fate. He was going to sit through a dinner, eat some overpriced food, endure a barrage of questions from a stranger, and then promptly come home to his quiet, grey apartment.
It was a perfectly logical plan. He just had no idea that Grace was about to completely rewrite the script.
The restaurant Adrian had selected was a trendy, softly lit bistro nestled in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighbourhood. It was the sort of establishment that prided itself on exposed brickwork, salvaged timber tables, and a menu that used words like emulsion and foraged. Soft jazz filtered through the speaker system, competing with the low, sophisticated hum of evening diners clinking wine glasses and murmuring over candlelit small plates.
Simon arrived at precisely 7:28 PM. He paused just inside the doorway, letting his grey eyes sweep the room with methodical efficiency. He unbuttoned his heavy black coat, draping it over his arm as he approached the host’s podium.
"Reservation for two," Simon said, his deep, northern English baritone cutting clean through the ambient restaurant noise. "The name is Miller."
The hostess checked her tablet, offering a polite, well-rehearsed smile. "Ah, yes. Mr. Miller. Your table is ready. Right this way."
Simon followed her through the maze of tightly packed tables. He was acutely aware of his own physical presence in the room; at over six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse, he often felt like a bull in a china shop in places like this. He preferred spacious construction sites or his own sparse flat. Here, the tables were close enough that he could easily overhear a couple to his left arguing about their mortgage. It was inefficient, claustrophobic, and entirely unnecessary.
The hostess led him to a small, secluded booth against the back wall. It was lit by a single, low-hanging amber bulb that cast long, dramatic shadows over the dark wood.
"Your server will be with you shortly," she said, slipping a pair of leather-bound menus onto the table.
"Thank you," Simon replied evenly.
He sat down, his large frame filling the leather banquette. He immediately checked his watch. 7:31 PM. He adjusted his charcoal jumper, smoothing out the fabric, and then rested his large, calloused hands flat on the table. He didn't pick up the menu. He didn't fiddle with his phone. He simply sat in total, unyielding stillness, observing the restaurant like a sentry on duty.
He looked at the empty seat across from him. This was the space that was about to be occupied by Grace. Simon closed his eyes for a brief three seconds, inhaling through his nose, bracing his internal circuitry for the impending social onslaught. He had promised Rocky he would stay for at least two courses. He intended to honour that contract to the letter, but not a second longer.
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Outside, the pavement was slick with a fresh sheen of Pacific Northwest drizzle. Grace was practically flying down the street, his leather boots clicking sharply against the concrete as he navigated the evening crowds. He was late. Only by four minutes, but to Grace, those four minutes felt like an eternity. His brain was already running a mile a minute, generating a dozen different apologies, each more theatrical than the last.
He spotted the glowing neon sign of the bistro and felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
"Right, come on, Grace," he muttered to himself, smoothing down the front of his hot-air balloon shirt. He took a massive, deep breath of the damp evening air, pushed open the heavy glass door of the restaurant, and stepped inside.
The warmth of the bistro hit him instantly, along with the rich, mouth watering smell of garlic and red wine reduction. Grace didn't pause to analyse the room; he practically exploded into it. He shook out his damp curls, his face instantly breaking into a dazzling, animated smile that caught the attention of at least three different diners near the door.
"Hi there!" Grace said to the hostess, his voice bright, melodic, and carrying a clear, energetic lilt. "I am so, so sorry, I know I'm a few minutes late, but I’m meeting a reservation under Miller? Simon Miller?"
The hostess blinked, taken aback by the sudden whirlwind of energy standing before her. "Oh, yes. He's already seated. Right this way."
"Brilliant, thank you so much," Grace beamed, trailing closely behind her. As he walked through the restaurant, he was a blur of motion—adjusting his coat, checking his collar, and scanning the booths ahead.
And then, he saw him.
Sitting in the dim light of the back booth was a man who looked like he had been sculpted out of granite. Simon was leaning back slightly, his broad shoulders imposing, his expression a mask of absolute, unreadable stoicism. In the amber glow of the lamp, his dark beard and sharp jawline gave him a brooding, almost dangerous appearance. He looked like a character out of a moody Nordic noir film who had accidentally wandered into a high-end American bistro.
Grace’s heart did a strange, nervous little skip. Oh, his brain logged frantically. Rocky wasn't joking. He's proper handsome. But bloody hell, he looks terrifying.
As Grace approached the table, Simon’s eyes snapped up. The grey gaze was piercing, locking onto Grace with the clinical intensity of a laser level.
Grace didn't let the intimidating aura slow him down. He slid around the edge of the table, his movements fluid and expressive, and practically launched himself into the booth. He dumped his coat beside him, leaned across the table, and unleashed his full, mega-watt smile.
"Hi! You must be Simon!" Grace exclaimed, his hands moving in little, excited gestures as he spoke. "I am so incredibly sorry I'm late. The traffic downtown was an absolute nightmare, and then I spent ten minutes trying to parallel park my tiny hatchback into a space that was definitely meant for a motorbike, but I made it! It is so, so wonderful to finally meet you. Rocky hasn't stopped singing your praises for a month!"
The sheer volume of words dropped into the space between them like a handful of firecrackers. Grace paused, breathing a little through his mouth, his bright eyes wide and expectant as he waited for the reciprocation. He waited for the matching smile, the laugh, the polite 'No worries at all.'
Instead, the silence that followed was heavy enough to have its own postcode.
Simon didn't move an inch. He didn't lean forward. He didn't smile. His large hands remained flat on the dark wood of the table. He simply looked at Grace, his grey eyes tracking the movement of Grace's hands before rising back up to his face.
Then, Simon gave a single, brief, entirely silent nod.
"Simon," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that felt like it vibrated right through the wooden table.
And then, without another word, Simon reached down, picked up his leather-bound menu, opened it, and completely obscured his face from view.
Grace sat entirely frozen, his hands still hovering mid-air from his last gesture. His smile, which usually had the power to disarm an entire room of rowdy teenagers, slowly faltered at the edges, turning into a look of profound, bewildered shock.
The contrast between them was instant, stark, and utterly devastating. Grace sat there like a neon sign flickering in the dark—bright, animated, and vibrating with an almost exhausting amount of kinetic energy. Across from him sat an absolute black hole—dark, stoic, completely unyielding, and projecting an aura that very clearly said: I would rather be trapped in a lift with a swarm of wasps than be sitting across from you right now.
Grace slowly lowered his hands, resting them flat on his own knees beneath the table. He swallowed hard, his mind scrambling to process the utter lack of social feedback. He had met all sorts of people in his life (difficult parents, eccentric academics, shy students) but he had never encountered a human being who possessed such a monumental lack of warmth.
He glanced at the menu currently hiding Simon’s face. The text on the front read Bistro Noir in elegant silver script. Grace cleared his throat loudly, trying to inject some life back into the freezing microclimate of their booth.
"Right," Grace said, his voice a little higher than usual as he tried to force a laugh.
"Straight to business, then. Love a man who knows what he wants to eat. Are you... are you always this chatty, Simon, or did I just catch you on a particularly eloquent day?"
From behind the leather barrier, Simon didn't sigh. He didn't chuckle. He simply lowered the menu by exactly three inches, just enough for his intense grey eyes to lock onto Grace over the top of the page.
"I am reading," Simon stated, his delivery completely flat, devoid of any malice but entirely lacking in politeness. "I find it more efficient to select a meal before engaging in superfluous dialogue."
Grace’s jaw practically hit the table. He stared at Simon, completely dumbfounded, as the menu lifted back up, once again completely blocking Simon’s face.
Unbelievable, Grace thought, his inner optimist suddenly feeling a very distinct urge to grab a glass of wine and throw it. ‘Rocky, you absolute lunatic. You’ve set me up with a literal brick wall.’
Grace grabbed his own menu, flipping it open with a bit more force than necessary. If Simon wanted a silent standoff, Grace could play along, but his brain was practically screaming under the pressure of the unvoiced words. He stared at the descriptions of duck breast and artisanal gnocchi, but the words were just blurring together. He couldn't stop looking up at the top of Simon’s dark head, completely baffled by how a human being could be so utterly, inexplicably unmovable.
The first impression had been made, the clash was absolute, and the evening had barely even begun.
The arrival of the waiter was the only thing that prevented Grace from physically vibrating out of the leather booth. A young man with a crisp white apron and a notepad stepped into the freezing microclimate of their table, entirely unaware of the tectonic tension humming between the two men.
"Good evening, gents. Can I get you started with some drinks, or are we ready to order mains?”
Simon lowered his menu with an Aegean-slow, deliberate movement. His large hands folded over the leather cover. "A pint of whatever local ale you have on tap. And the dry-aged ribeye, rare, with the peppercorn sauce on the side."
The waiter nodded, scribbling quickly. "And for you, sir?"
Grace practically gasped, grateful for a human being who would actually make eye contact with him. "Oh, goodness, let's see. I’ll have a glass of the Pinot Noir, please. And for the main... ooh, the wild mushroom risotto sounds lovely, but then so does the pan-seared trout. You know what? Let’s go for the risotto. No, wait, the trout! Let's do the trout. With the lemon caper butter. Life is too short not to have capers."
The waiter offered a polite smile, collected the menus, and vanished back into the warm hum of the bistro, leaving Grace and Simon stranded on their designated island of awkwardness once more.
Grace rested his chin in his hands, leaning across the table. The amber light caught the gold flecks in his eyes, which were currently wide with a mixture of nervous determination and growing defiance. If Simon thought he could freeze him out for the next hour, he had vastly underestimated the sheer, unyielding endurance of a high school teacher.
"Right then," Grace started, his tone deliberately bright, almost theatrical. "Since the administrative tasks are out of the way, I suppose we can attempt human interaction. Rocky told me you’re a structural engineer. He was incredibly vague about it, though. He mostly just said you 'build massive stuff and look grumpy doing it,' which, I have to say, top marks for accuracy on the second half."
Simon didn't blink. He picked up his water glass, took a measured sip, and set it down precisely in the centre of his paper coaster. "I analyse stress loads and structural integrity for municipal infrastructure. It is mostly mathematical modelling."
"Fascinating!" Grace said, entirely ignoring the blunt delivery. "Truly. I love a bit of physics. I teach biology myself so I’m more about the squishy, living side of science, but I can appreciate a good load-bearing beam. In fact, did you know that human bones are technically stronger than concrete? Ounce for ounce, a cubic inch of bone can bear a load of roughly nineteen thousand pounds. Evolution is just the ultimate engineer, isn’t it?"
Simon stared at him. The silence stretched for three seconds, four seconds, five.
"Concrete doesn't suffer from osteoporosis," Simon said flatly.
Grace’s smile twitched. "Right. Well. No, I suppose it doesn't. But it also doesn't self-heal, does it? Unless we’re talking about that bioconcrete they’re developing with bacillus bacteria that activates when water seeps into cracks! Have you worked with that yet? It’s absolutely brilliant."
Simon simply reached for his water glass again. He gave a low, rumbling grunt that could have meant yes, no, or please stop talking to me.
Grace’s internal thermometer was beginning to rise from 'anxious' straight into 'mildly insulted.' He took Simon’s total lack of engagement as pure, unadulterated snobbery. It was a classic trope, wasn't it? The high-flying engineer looking down his nose at a state-school teacher who spent his days wiping glue off desks and explaining the carbon cycle to thirteen-year-olds. Simon clearly thought he was far too intelligent, far too serious, to waste his precious breath on small talk.
BUT what Grace didn't understand—what his hyperactive, highly social brain couldn't possibly compute—was that Simon wasn't feeling snobbish at all. He was feeling utterly, profoundly overwhelmed.
To Simon, Grace wasn't just a dinner date; he was a sensory bombardment. Every time Grace spoke, his hands flew through the air, his curls bounced, and his voice shifted through three different octaves. Simon’s brain, which operated on a linear, highly focused track, was currently trying to process a speech about bone density, evolution, and bacterial concrete all within the span of ninety seconds. It was exhausting. It felt like being trapped in a room with a malfunctioning particle accelerator. Simon didn't know how to respond without encouraging another tidal wave of words, so his defence mechanism kicked in: lock down the system, minimise output, and wait for the storm to pass.
The waiter returned, sliding Simon's glass of ale and Grace's red wine onto the table.
"Cheers," Simon muttered, nodding at the waiter.
Grace grabbed his wine glass, taking a slightly larger gulp than was strictly polite. He set the glass down with a soft clack. "So," he tried again, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Rocky said you two met back in California? Before you both moved out to Seattle?"
"University," Simon said.
"Ah! Caltech, right? Rocky mentioned something about a legendary house party where someone accidentally put a sofa through a first-floor window?"
Simon took a slow pull of his stout, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand, and gave another low grunt. "It was a ground-floor window. And it wasn't an accident."
"Oh. Right. Care to elaborate?"
"No."
Grace let out a sharp, incredulous breath, a bitter laugh bubbling up in his throat.
"Genuinely, Simon, do you charge by the syllable? Is there a tax on your words that I’m unaware of? Because I’m trying very hard here to find a single thread of common ground, and you're giving me absolutely nothing."
Simon’s grey eyes narrowed slightly. He set his pint down, his large frame shifting forward just an inch, casting a shadow across the table. "You aren't looking for common ground, Grace. You're looking for an audience. You haven't paused to breathe since you sat down."
Grace's cheeks flushed a bright, indignant pink. "I am trying to fill the dead air! Silence on a first date is generally considered a bad sign, or did they not cover basic human sociology in your engineering modules?"
"There is nothing wrong with silence," Simon responded, his voice dropping into an even deeper, calmer register that only served to make Grace feel more hysterical. "Silence allows for observation. Constant noise is just inefficient."
"Inefficient?" Grace repeated, his voice cracking slightly with disbelief. "I’m a human being, not a bloody conveyor belt! I’m allowed to express enthusiasm. I'm allowed to talk about things I find interesting."
"And I am allowed to eat my dinner without a lecture on cellular biology," Simon countered smoothly as the waiter conveniently reappeared, carrying their main courses.
The timing was impeccable, if agonising. A massive, sizzling ribeye steak was placed in front of Simon, while a perfectly pan-seared trout with lemon caper butter was set before Grace. The waiter, sensing the nuclear winter that had settled over the booth, dropped the cutlery and backed away without asking if they needed anything else.
For the next ten minutes, the silence was absolute.
Simon ate with mechanical precision. He cut his steak into identical, perfectly measured cubes, chewing slowly, his eyes fixed firmly on his plate. He didn't look up, he didn't fidget, and he certainly didn't speak.
Grace, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with defensive anger. He picked at his trout, his fork scraping against the porcelain with a bit too much force. Every chew felt aggressive. He took sharp, frequent sips of his wine, staring pointedly at the exposed brick wall to his left, trying desperately to count the bricks just to keep his mind off the infuriating man sitting opposite him.
‘What an absolute arrogant, miserable bastard’, Grace thought, his chest heaving with silent indignation. ‘He thinks he’s so above all this. I bet he goes home and stares at a blank wall in the dark just for fun.’
Across the table, Simon was enjoying the first peaceful moment of the evening. The steak was excellent, the rare cook was precise, and the absence of talking was allowing his nervous system to reset. He looked up briefly, watching Grace aggressively stab a piece of asparagus. Simon internally noted the tight, furious set of Grace's jaw and the defensive posture of his shoulders.
Overly emotional, Simon’s internal processor concluded. Fragile. Needs constant validation and cannot handle a lack of immediate attention. A total mismatch.
As the plates were cleared—Simon’s entirely clean, Grace’s barely half-eaten—the heavy silence settled back over them like a wet blanket. Grace couldn't take it anymore. The silence was suffocating him, making his skin itch. He needed to break it, even if it meant starting another argument.
"You know," Grace said, his voice dripping with forced sweetness as he swirled the last remnants of his Pinot Noir. "Rocky really thought we’d bond over space. He told me you love astronomy."
Simon looked up, his expression neutral. "I am interested in astrophysics. The orbital mechanics of celestial bodies."
"Right, of course. The math part. Heaven forbid we appreciate the beauty of it," Grace scoffed gently, leaning forward. "Well, I love space too. I actually run the astronomy club at school on Tuesday afternoons. The kids love it. Last week I was telling them about Sagittarius A*, the supermassive black hole at the centre of our galaxy. It has a mass four million times greater than our sun, you know. It just exerts this immense, inescapable gravitational pull, dragging everything into its dark, freezing void until all light and joy are completely crushed."
Grace paused, tilting his head, a sharp, knowing smile on his lips. "Funnily enough, it reminded me a lot of tonight."
Simon stared at him. For a moment, Grace thought he might have actually broken through the armour…that Simon might get angry, or scoff, or defend himself.
Instead, Simon simply leaned back in the booth, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a sleek, matte-black wallet. He threw a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, the crisp paper landing perfectly between them.
"The black hole also possesses perfect structural stability," Simon said, his voice entirely devoid of anger, flat and steady as a heartbeat. "Unlike this evening."
He slid out of the booth, his towering frame instantly blocking out the amber light of the lamp. He picked up his heavy black coat, slipping it over his broad shoulders with a single, fluid movement.
Because Simon had already thrown down a hundred-dollar bill, the actual mechanics of settling the bill happened in a strange, disjointed sequence. Grace, refusing to be outdone or financially indebted to a man he currently ranked lower than a standard garden slug, quickly fumbled through his satchel. He pulled out his own card, marched straight up to the front podium, and forced the bewildered waiter to split the total exactly down the middle, pocketing Simon's cash to hand back to him outside.
When Grace finally stepped through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant, the Seattle drizzle had upgraded to a persistent, chilly downpour.
Simon was standing under the black canvas awning, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, staring out at the blurred tail lights of traffic moving down Capitol Hill. He looked entirely unaffected by the weather, the argument, or the sheer social disaster that had just unfolded.
Grace marched up to him, his boots splashing aggressively into a shallow puddle. "Here," he said, thrusting the cash toward Simon's chest. "We split it. Exactly fifty-fifty. I don't owe you a single thing."
Simon looked down at the money, then up at Grace’s flushed, furious face. Without a word, he took the bills and slid them back into his pocket.
"Fine," Simon said.
"Great," Grace snapped, tucking his arms tightly across his chest to shield his hot-air balloon shirt from the damp wind. "So, I suppose this is the part where we exchange the mandatory, polite platitudes before never speaking to each other again for the rest of our natural lives."
Simon turned his head slowly, his grey eyes fixed on Grace. In the dim streetlights, his expression was completely unreadable, a wall of pure slate. "There is no requirement for platitudes, Grace. The experiment failed. Additional data is unnecessary."
Grace let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded more like a scoff. "Right. Of course. Heaven forbid we act like civilised human beings for ten seconds. Well, Simon, it has been an absolute... mechanical experience. Have a nice life."
"Goodnight, Grace," Simon replied evenly.
With a stiff, synchronised nod that was so formal it felt almost absurd, they turned on their heels in opposite directions. Grace took off down the pavement, his coat billowing as he walked at a furious, frantic pace toward the tube station. Simon turned toward downtown, his heavy, measured strides completely swallowing the distance as he disappeared into the rainy dark.
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By 9:14 PM, the aftermath of the disaster was officially logged on Rocky’s phone.
Sitting on his sofa with Adrian, a bowl of half-eaten chilli cooling on the coffee table, Rocky felt his phone buzz with a violent, continuous vibration. He picked it up to find an absolute wall of green text illuminating the screen.
Grace: Rocky, I love you, I really do, but you are officially banned from ever suggesting a romantic partner to me again. That man is not a human being. I am convinced he was constructed in a dark, underground laboratory by scientists who wanted to see exactly how much joy they could drain out of a single room. He called me 'inefficient'!!! He didn't smile ONCE, Rocky. Not once! I tried talking about science, I tried talking about space, and he literally compared himself to a black hole and walked out before desserts! A BLACK HOLE. He is an arrogant, miserable, stoic brick wall and if I ever have to see his terrifyingly symmetrical, unblinking face again, I will throw myself into the nearest body of water. Goodnight!!!
Rocky blinked, his mouth dropping open slightly as he scrolled through the massive paragraph. He looked up at Adrian, who was watching him with an amused, knowing smirk.
"Well?" Adrian asked, sipping his wine. "How's the mathematical certainty going?"
Before Rocky could answer, his phone buzzed one final time. It was a separate notification. A single, direct text message from Simon.
Rocky tapped it open.
Simon: No.