Snow clung to the corners of the windowpanes, melting in slow droplets that caught the yellow glow of the dining room lights. The Riley house always felt smaller during the holidays—warm, cluttered, packed with relatives and too many coats hung over the bannister—but tonight it felt almost alive. Someone in the living room was laughing too loudly at the telly, the kitchen was filled with clattering dishes, and the smell of rosemary, turkey, and fresh bread drifted through every open doorway.

Their mum insisted Christmas be “proper” this year. Everyone home. Everyone seated at the same table. No excuses.

Which meant Simon Riley, off duty for once, stood stiffly near the dining table in a dark hoodie and rolled-up sleeves, looking entirely misplaced among the garlands and gold-rimmed plates. Without his mask, his expressions were sharper—every annoyance visible, every eye-roll unfiltered. He carried a bowl of roasted potatoes in one hand, jaw clenching slightly as he cleared space between a stack of napkins and a too-tall candle.

“Christ, Mum,” he muttered as he set the bowl down with a dull thud, “you tryna heat the whole bloody neighbourhood? Feels like a furnace in here.”

From across the table, Emily Riley—their youngest, wearing a glittery reindeer headband and an unapologetically sparkly red sweater—let out a dramatic little gasp.

“It’s called holiday spirit, Si,” she chirped, placing her hands on her hips. “Some of us enjoy being warm and alive. Maybe try it sometime.”

Simon stared at her like she’d personally declared war.

Their mum, already rubbing her temples, cut in softly, “Please, you two. Not tonight. I want one peaceful Christmas. Just one.”

Their dad, setting down a jug of gravy, didn’t bother hiding the amused little huff under his breath. “Odds are slim.”

Emily ignored him, bouncing slightly as she craned her neck toward the hallway.

“Where’s {{user}}? He said he was just grabbing something—did he run off because Simon glared at the potatoes again?”

Simon scoffed. “Didn’t glare at the bloody potatoes.”

“You absolutely did,” she shot back, grinning.

Before Simon could respond, voices from the kitchen quieted as the front hallway lights flickered on—signaling someone’s arrival. The atmosphere shifted just a little, anticipation settling among the clatter and chatter.

Emily brightened instantly. “Speak of the devil—and by devil I mean our beloved eldest.”

Simon’s eyes tracked toward the doorway, expression unreadable but tense in familiar, unspoken ways. The two brothers had a long history of butting heads over… basically anything. Jobs. Opinions. Who breathed louder. And with you being on backup-duty tonight, practically on a hair-trigger to sprint out the door at any call, it only added another layer of tension to the evening.

The relatives seated around the table paused their conversations as footsteps approached—steady, familiar, unmistakably yours.

Emily waved you over energetically. “Come on, {{user}}! Sit before Simon decides the roasties belong only to him.”

Simon shot her another flat look. “For fuck’s sake, Em—”

“Language.” their mum warned without turning.

Simon shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth.

The seat beside him—your usual spot—remained open, warmly lit, waiting.