The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. Manchester’s skyline was soaked in steel-grey clouds, and puddles reflected broken neon signs and the occasional blur of passing headlights. The old townhouse on the corner hadn’t changed. Cracked steps, faded red door, the porch light flickering like it had one last fight left in it. You stood there, soaked to the bone, hood over your head, backpack hanging off one shoulder like dead weight.

You hadn’t been back in years.

A long breath left your lungs, fogging the air. You stared at the door. The brass numbers still crooked. The welcome mat still sarcastically said, Go away. Typical.

You didn’t knock.

You barely touched the handle before it opened from the inside.

He was already there.

Simon Riley, even off-duty, looked like a damn ghost. Hoodie on, tactical pants, mask off but eyes sharp. That piercing stare you remembered from when he first took you in — back when you were half feral and full of anger. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked. Sizing you up like he always did. It wasn’t judgment. It was worry, buried under that brutal exterior.

You shifted your weight, suddenly 16 again and defensive. “Didn’t know if you’d still be here.”

“I’m always here,” he said, voice low, rough. “The question is… why are you?”

You swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

He stepped back without a word. Held the door open.

You hesitated.

Still the same old ghost. Silent. Steady. Still waiting on you to make the move.

You stepped inside.

Warmth hit you like a punch. The smell of coffee, old leather, and something faintly like burnt toast. Same place. Same man. And just like that, it hit you in the gut—grief for a version of yourself you’d buried years ago.

Simon closed the door behind you. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

You braced yourself.

“I don’t care where you’ve been. Don’t care what you’ve done. You came back. That’s what matters.”

You blinked. He didn’t hug. Didn’t say I missed you. But that? That was the closest he’d ever get.