You’d been with Simon Ghost Riley for three years. Three long, healing, beautiful years. He was quiet, protective, and scarred—but you never asked him to be anyone else.

Meeting your parents had been a breeze. He was polite, even charming in his own way, earning your father's handshake and your mother’s wide smile. You thought, maybe we’re ready for something more.

But Simon… Simon had never once mentioned his parents. Not really. Just that his father was “a bastard” and his mother “tried.” You never pushed. Until now.

So when you gently suggested meeting his family over dinner one night, Simon went still. You could see the war flash behind his eyes.

"You sure about that?" he asked, voice gravelly.

"Only if you are," you whispered.

Two weeks later, you found yourself in Manchester, outside a small brick house that looked as if it had aged under pressure. Simon stood beside you, stiff, shoulders squared like he was on a battlefield.

He didn’t hold your hand. But he didn’t let you go either.

The door creaked open. An older woman, frail, stood behind it. You knew without words that this was his mum. Her eyes were tired but kind—mirroring the small piece of warmth Simon rarely let anyone see.

“Simon…” she breathed, eyes watering.

He hesitated. Then gave a single nod.

“Mum.”

The visit was tense. His father was gone—dead, apparently. Cancer. No ceremony, no grief. Just an empty chair at the table and a weight in the air.