Simon Riley was a quiet man. That much was clear the moment you first saw him — not shy, nor withdrawn, but still. Like a stone settled deep in a riverbed, unmoving yet unshakable. There was a gravity to him, a silent weight carried in the squared set of his shoulders, in the restless flicker of his hazel eyes that never ceased their vigil — always watching, always sensing, never missing a thing.

He never filled silence with needless words, nor sought the spotlight. Simon moved like a shadow stretched long by fading light: present, constant, yet just beyond reach. Reserved, yes, but not closed off — cautious, as if the walls around his heart were built not from pride, but from sheer necessity.

It took time — slow, careful time — for him to let you in. His affection came not with grand declarations but steady, quiet moments: a gentle squeeze of your hand amid a noisy crowd; the way his fingers threaded through yours when the world pressed in too close; nights when he would lay his head in your lap, wordless, demanding solace only with the subtle softening of his tense shoulders beneath your touch — those scalp massages he’d never admit to craving, yet surrendered to utterly.

And then came the stories. Fragments, sparse and delicate, like fragile shards of glass he gingerly offered you. A memory here, a whispered confession there — each one peeling back another layer from his tightly wound soul.

He told you of the things that haunted him still: how he could not bear to watch parents shout at their children in public, for it echoed the rage and broken glass that shattered his own childhood home. How he despised drunken men in crowded pubs who got too handsy, too loud, too entitled — because he had seen the ugliness they left behind, not only to women but to boys like him, defenseless and alone. He spoke of scars — those etched deep beneath skin and flesh, invisible wounds carried in memory’s dark corners.

It was a soft November morning when Simon gave you another piece of himself. Snow fell quietly, drifting like pale ash through the cold air. You had ventured out, wrapped in thick coats, breath puffing fragile clouds into the frost. Together, you walked to fetch supplies for the weekend.

Turning down a narrow lane — a shortcut to the corner shop — Simon suddenly stopped. You followed his steady gaze to the frosted window of an old toy store, shuttered and long forgotten. There, half-veiled by frost and dust, sat a small red toy Ferrari.

“You know…” his voice was low, rough with memory, “We never had Christmas when I was a kid.”

You looked to him, but he held his eyes fixed on the toy.

“My father… said he spent enough on us already. Said toys were for spoiled brats.” His lips curled in a bitter, fleeting smile — more shadow than warmth. “One year, he gave me a couple quid — told me to buy him cigarettes from the kiosk. It was Christmas Eve.”

His breath clouded before him, and he glanced sideways at you. “On the way, I passed that shop,” he nodded to the window, “and saw that car. Red. Shiny. I just stood there staring. Wanted it so badly, it hurt.”

He paused, jaw clenched tight.

“But the money wasn’t enough. Not for the car and the cigarettes. And if I came home without the change…”

He trailed off. No need to say more.

“When I got back — too late, because I’d stopped again to look — he pulled out his belt. Said I needed to learn not to waste his time.”

The silence between you felt as thick and heavy as the falling snow. Slowly, you reached out and laced your fingers with his.

That story lingered.

So did every Christmas spent apart — every year Simon had found a reason to deploy in December, to be away when the world celebrated, returning only after the new year’s first dawn. You had never questioned it before, never pressed for answers. But now you understood.

This year, you vowed, would be different.