The wind did not merely blow; it prosecuted. It was a litigious, aggressive force that swept down from the steel-gray underbelly of the sky, seeking out the gaps in Joey’s collar, the thin fabric of his discount polyester trousers, and the very marrow of his bones. It was a cold that felt personal, a direct cosmic punishment for the crimes he had committed against the sanctity of office supplies. Joey sat on the iron bench, his knees drawn up to his chest in a posture that was entirely undignified for a Junior Associate Intern at Halloway & Prynne, and shivered with a violence that rattled his teeth. The park was a desolate expanse of muted grays and aggressive whites, the trees standing like skeletal fingers pointing accusatorially at the heavens. The pond in front of him was frozen solid, a scarred monocle of ice reflecting the towering glass structures of the financial district that loomed above the treeline like disinterested gods.
He should have been back on the forty-second floor. He should have been collating the quarterly projections or staring blankly at a spreadsheet until the numbers began to dance the macabre waltz of capitalism. Instead, he was here, freezing his extremities off, contemplating the logistics of faking his own death and moving to a climate where suits were illegal and laminators did not exist. The laminator. The thought of the machine sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his stomach, hotter than the shame that burned his cheeks. It wasn't just that he had broken it. Machines broke. Entropy was a fundamental law of the universe. It was that he had broken it by attempting to laminate a ham sandwich.
"It was an experiment," he whispered to the unresponsive ducks huddled on the ice. "I just wanted to see if it would preserve the freshness."
The ducks did not validate him. The wind gusted harder, smelling of wet asphalt, old snow, and the distinct, metallic tang of upcoming snow. Joey buried his face in his hands, his fingers numb and stiff. He was seventeen years old, and his career was over before he had even learned how to properly tie a Windsor knot. The silence of the park was heavy, a suffocating blanket that amplified the frantic beating of his own heart. He was alone, utterly and completely, a solitary figure of tragedy in a landscape of frozen indifference.
And then, the gravel crunched.
It was a precise, deliberate sound. Not the scuff of a jogger or the shuffle of a tourist, but the measured, rhythmic impact of expensive leather soles on frozen stone. Joey didn't look up. He couldn't bear to be perceived, not when he was radiating such potent waves of failure. He curled tighter into himself, hoping to mimic a pile of discarded coats.
The footsteps stopped. The silence stretched, tense and electric, like a rubber band pulled to its snapping point. Joey could feel a presence, a gravity that warped the air around the bench. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"You are occupying the only bench that isn't currently covered in bird excrement."
The voice was low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm. It was the voice of someone who understood spreadsheets on a spiritual level. Joey cracked one eye open. Standing before him, looking like he had just stepped out of a high-end catalogue for winter funerals, was Simon. Simon, the Golden Boy. Simon, who was technically the same age as Joey but possessed the aura of a forty-year-old tax attorney. He wore a charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than Joey’s entire internal organ system, a scarf of pristine cashmere draped with mathematical precision around his neck, and an expression of mild, clinical curiosity.
Joey scrambled to sit up, his limbs clumsy and frozen. "I… I was just leaving. I mean, I wasn't leaving, I was sitting. But I can leave. If you need the bench. For… bench activities."
Simon didn't move. He stared at Joey with eyes the color of cold coffee, unreadable and intense. "Relax, Joey. I am not here to evict you. merely to observe the wreckage."
Joey blinked. "The wreckage?"
"You," Simon clarified, finally moving. He swept the back of his coat and sat down on the far end of the bench, leaving a polite, devastating two feet of space between them. "You look like you have been engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a feral cat. And lost."
"It was a laminator," Joey muttered, staring at his shoes. The leather was scuffed at the toe. Another failure. "And for the record, it was a tactical retreat."
Simon turned his head, his profile sharp against the white sky. He didn't laugh. Simon never laughed. He just… processed. "The incident on the forty-second floor? The ham sandwich protocol?"
Joey groaned, sliding down the bench until his spine was a curved question mark. "Everyone knows. Of course everyone knows. I’m going to be fired. I’m going to be blacklisted. I’ll have to work in… I don’t know, retail. Or data entry."
"Data entry is what we do now, Joey," Simon pointed out, his voice devoid of mockery but rich with a strange, dry amusement. "And the rumor mill suggests it was turkey, not ham. The specifics matter in legal."
"It was ham," Joey snapped, a sudden flash of defensive heat cutting through the cold. "Honey ham. On rye. It was supposed to be my lunch, but then Mr. Henderson started shouting about the integrity of the document, and I panic-laminated. It’s a valid psychological response!"
"Panic-laminating," Simon repeated, testing the phrase on his tongue like a sommelier sampling a particularly vinegary wine. "Unique. I suppose it displays a certain… commitment to preservation."
Joey risked a glance at him. Simon was looking at the frozen pond, his gloved hands resting perfectly still on his lap. He looked like a statue, beautiful and untouchable. It was infuriating. How did he do it? How did he exist in the same chaotic, high-pressure hellscape of an internship and remain so impeccably unbothered? He was the Grounded one, the anchor, while Joey was the ship flapping uselessly in the storm.
"Why are you here, Simon?" Joey asked, his voice cracking slightly. " shouldn't you be networking? Or alphabetizing the partners by blood type?"
Simon sighed, a small puff of white vapor escaping his lips. It was the first sign of human frailty Joey had ever seen from him. "The office is… stifling today. The air conditioning is set to 'morgue', and Henderson is vibrating with stress. It is unpleasant."
"He's vibrating because I broke his laminator," Joey whispered miserably.
"He is vibrating," Simon corrected, turning his gaze fully onto Joey, "because he is incompetent and relies on seventeen-year-old unpaid interns to manage his entire existence. You provided him with a focal point for his generalized anxiety. In a way, you performed a public service."
Joey stared. The wind whipped a lock of hair across his eyes, and he brushed it away impatiently. His heart did a strange, traitorous little flip. Was Simon… comforting him? In his own robotic, terrifying way?
"I don't feel like a public servant," Joey muttered. "I feel like an idiot."
Simon shifted. For a moment, the distance between them on the bench felt charged, the cold air thickening with something that wasn't just winter. Simon removed one of his leather gloves, slowly, finger by finger. The movement was mesmerizing. His hand, pale and elegant, rested on the iron slats of the bench.
"Intelligence is not defined by one's ability to operate office machinery," Simon said, his voice dropping an octave. "I, for instance, cannot ride a bicycle. I find the physics of it… improbable."
Joey’s jaw dropped. "You can't ride a bike? You? Simon the Perfect?"
"Do not call me that," Simon said sharply, though there was no real bite in it. He looked down at his bare hand, watching the red creep into his knuckles from the cold. "And yes. I fall. Every time. It is a humiliation I keep private. Unlike you, who broadcasts your disasters with theatrical flair."
"I don't try to!" Joey protested, feeling the blood rush to his face again. He was suddenly hyper-aware of Simon's proximity. He could smell him—not the generic office smell of toner and stale coffee, but something crisp and expensive, like cedar and cold rain. "Things just… happen to me."
"They certainly do," Simon murmured. He looked up, locking eyes with Joey. The intensity of the gaze was like a physical impact, a punch to the solar plexus. Joey stopped breathing. The cold vanished, replaced by a sudden, consuming heat that started in his chest and radiated outward.
Simon leaned in, just an inch. It was a microscopic movement, but in the stillness of the park, it felt like a landslide. "You are shivering, Joey."
"I—I'm fine. It's winter. People shiver."
"You are vibrating," Simon countered, echoing his earlier description of their boss. "It is inefficient. You are burning calories simply trying to remain solid."
"What do you want me to do about it?" Joey’s voice was high, breathless. He felt pinned by Simon's attention, like a butterfly on a board.
Simon reached out. The movement was slow, deliberate, giving Joey a thousand years to pull away. He didn't. Simon’s bare hand brushed against Joey’s cheek. The skin was shockingly cold, but the touch seared. Joey gasped, a sharp intake of air that tasted of snow. Simon’s thumb grazed Joey’s jawline, a feather-light pressure that made Joey’s entire nervous system light up like a switchboard.
"Your skin is ice," Simon observed, his eyes dark and dilated. "You really are a disaster."
"Takes one to know one," Joey stammered, his brain short-circuiting. The banter felt weak, a paper shield against a nuclear blast.
Simon’s lips twitched. It was a micro-expression, a glitch in the matrix of his composure. "Perhaps. But I am a disaster who brought coffee."
With his other hand—the gloved one—Simon reached into the deep pocket of his wool coat and produced a thermos. It was sleek, black, and looked like it could survive a tactical airstrike. He unscrewed the cap, steam billowing out into the frigid air, smelling of dark roast and something sweet, like vanilla.
"Drink," Simon commanded, holding the cup out. "Before you hypothermia yourself into a lawsuit I have to draft."
Joey took the cup. His hands were shaking so badly that the liquid sloshed dangerously near the rim. He took a sip. It was scalding, bitter, and the best thing he had ever tasted. The heat bloomed in his stomach, spreading to his frozen limbs. He looked at Simon over the rim of the cup. Simon was watching him drink with an expression that was almost… soft. Possessive, but soft.
"Thanks," Joey mumbled, lowering the cup. "I… I thought you hated me. You never talk to me at the office."
"I do not hate you," Simon said, reclaiming his hand but leaving the ghost of his touch burning on Joey’s face. "I am… distracted by you. There is a difference."
"Distracted?" Joey squeaked. "By me? I'm the guy who laminated a sandwich."
"Precisely," Simon said, and this time, the corner of his mouth definitely lifted. It was a smirk, sharp and dangerous and devastatingly handsome. "You are chaos, Joey. In a building of gray suits and gray minds, you are a splash of neon paint. It is… difficult to look away."
Joey stared at him, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn't know what to do with this information. It didn't fit into his worldview. Simon, the stoic, the untouchable, was watching *him*? Finding *him* interesting?
"I think," Joey said, his voice trembling with a mix of cold and adrenaline, "that might be the weirdest compliment I've ever received."
"It wasn't a compliment," Simon said smoothly, standing up and brushing invisible dust from his coat. "It was a performance review."
He looked down at Joey, and the intensity was back, the mask of the professional sliding back into place, but the eyes—the eyes were still warm. "Finish the coffee. Then come back inside. Henderson has forgotten about the sandwich. He is currently yelling about a missing stapler. I believe we can frame the mailroom guy."
Joey laughed. It was a startled, rusty sound that scraped his throat, but it was real. The crushing weight of the day, of the failure, of the loneliness, suddenly felt lighter. Manageable. He wasn't just a cog in the machine. He was chaos. And apparently, chaos was interesting.
"You'd frame innocent mailroom Kevin?" Joey asked, grinning up at him.
Simon extended a hand to help him up. "Kevin steals my yogurts. It is justice, Joey. purely justice."
Joey took the hand. Simon’s grip was firm, grounding, pulling him up from the frozen bench and back into the world of the living. As they stood there, hands lingering together for a second too long, the wind howled around them, but Joey didn't feel the cold anymore. He felt seen.
"Let's go," Joey said, stepping closer to Simon than was strictly necessary. "I think I left the laminator plugged in."
Simon groaned, a human, exasperated sound. "God help us all."
They walked back towards the glass tower together, two dark shapes against the blinding white of the winter park, the distance between them closing with every step.