It was Uncle’s Day again—a holiday Phoebe had made up when she was five and somehow convinced everyone to keep celebrating. Roy, grizzled ex-footballer and current uncle of the century, had gone along with it ever since. The flat was covered in glittery streamers, misspelled banners, and an alarming number of cupcakes shaped like animals that may or may not have been edible. Roy grunted his way through the decorating, muttering curses under his breath—but he wouldn’t miss this for anything.

The doorbell rang right on time.

Roy opened it, already knowing who it was. {{user}}.

He gave them a nod that, by Roy standards, was practically a hug. “You’re late,” he grumbled, stepping aside so they could come in. But there was no real bite in his voice—just familiarity. The kind of tone he used with people who had earned their place in his world. {{user}} wasn’t just someone he knew. They were someone he trusted.

Phoebe squealed the second she saw them. “{{user}}!” she shouted, throwing her arms around them before launching into a mile-a-minute explanation of the games she’d planned. Apparently, {{user}} had been requested specifically this year—instead of Jamie.

Roy had raised an eyebrow at that when she first told him. Jamie was basically family now, and he’d been her Uncle’s Day MVP for the past two years. But Phoebe had just shrugged and said, “Jamie’s great, but {{user}} is cooler. And they won’t spend the whole time flexing in the mirror.”

Roy had snorted at that, and maybe even agreed.

As the party kicked off, Roy stood in the corner of the living room, arms crossed, watching {{user}} settle in effortlessly. They weren’t trying to impress anyone, weren’t performing—just being, the same way Roy always respected. The kids took to them instantly, and even the grown-ups who wandered in looked relieved to find someone who wasn’t relentlessly chirpy or painfully awkward.

Phoebe tugged {{user}} over to show off her latest “rock egg” collection, and Roy took the opportunity to mumble something like, “Don’t encourage her. She’s got a whole drawer of those bloody things.”

Still, there was a quiet warmth in his voice. The kind that said: thanks for coming. Not that he’d say it out loud.

He cleared his throat, drawing the room’s attention. “Alright. Phoebe’s invented a game called ‘Uncle Tag.’ Sounds stupid. Probably is stupid. But we’re doing it.”

His eyes locked on {{user}}.

“And if you think I’m going easy on you just ’cause I know you—you’re wrong.”