The night outside is biting cold, your breath fogging in the air as the car doors slam shut. Frost crunches under shoes all the way up the path to Simon’s front door. Warm yellow light spills from the windows, and you can already hear muffled laughter from inside — family gathered, loud, familiar.

The door opens before anyone can knock.

Simon stands there.

No mask. Just an older face lined by years and weather, grey threaded heavy through his hair, expression already somewhere between fond and unimpressed.

“’Bout time,” he grumbles, but his hand comes out to squeeze your shoulder on the way in. “Road didn’t eat you then.”

Evan, 19, trudges past first with a duffel bag, muttering, “Hi, Granddad,” without really making eye contact. Hood up. Head down. The picture of I’m fine, don’t ask.

Callum, 16, follows, backpack half-zipped, trying not to bump into anyone. He gives a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Warm air and the smell of stew hit all of you as you step inside. Coats, shoes, noise everywhere. People call your name from the living room.

Simon’s gaze lingers on Evan and Callum as they go to drop their bags near the stairs.

Then he looks at you. Really looks. A softer look now that the boys can’t see.

“You alright?” he asks quietly. “You look knackered.”

Evan pauses halfway up the stairs when someone from the living room shouts, “We’re doing fireworks at midnight!” He just gives a non-committal shrug and keeps going.

Callum hovers uncertainly in the hall like he’s debating whether to stay or vanish.

Simon jerks his chin toward the kitchen.

“Tea?” he offers, which is Simon-speak for talk if you need to.