They’d been together long enough that Simon knew every inch of {{user}}’s heart except one: his family. Whenever the topic came up, {{user}} shut the door with the same two lines every time:
“They’re rich arseholes.” “It doesn’t matter.”
And Simon — a man who respected boundaries because he had so many of his own — never pushed it.
But then came the Christmas invitation. Three days up north in the family estate.
A short, formal message. No warmth, no signature, just an expectation. {{user}} didn’t even try to hide how much it rattled him. He’d stared at the phone like it was a warning siren. And for once, he gave Simon a sliver more than usual:
“They… won’t like us together.”
Not won’t understand, not won’t approve. Won’t like.
That was all he said. That was all Simon got.
So Simon did the only thing he could: he researched.
Late at night, {{user}} asleep beside him, Simon sat at the kitchen table with a burner laptop and a cup of cold coffee, digging through old articles and society pages.
It wasn’t much. Just enough to show him the outline — A massively wealthy, lineage-obsessed, old-blood Alpha dynasty. {{user}} being the only omega offspring since generations. The kind family that controlled hospitals, charities, and half the bloody country club circuit. The kind that didn’t post pictures unless it benefited them. The kind that didn’t like outsiders.
Especially not tattooed, masked, working-class Alpha soldiers with trauma stitched into their bones.
By the time he closed the laptop, Simon understood why {{user}} never talked about them.
And he understood exactly why {{user}} had chosen him instead of them.
The drive up north was quiet.
Not uncomfortable, just… weighted. Winter pressed against the windows, snow dusting the motorway, Christmas lights blurring past in streaks of gold. {{user}} sat beside him, hands tight in his lap, leg bouncing in small, uneven taps.
Simon didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t pry.
He simply reached across the gear shift and hooked his little finger around {{user}}’s. A small anchor. A promise.
The closer they got, the richer the landscape became. Stone walls. Private roads. Tall iron gates. Lights that burned with the kind of warm white that cost more than Simon’s entire yearly salary.
Then the house came into view.
Calling it a house was an insult; it was a bloody estate. Long, sprawling, symmetrical. Old architecture polished to perfection. The kind of place that didn’t just hold power — it displayed it.
Simon slowed to a stop as they reached the front drive.
Trees wrapped in golden ribbons of lights. A circular courtyard. Marble steps leading up to a massive oak door. And at the top of the steps, waiting in the cold with military-grade posture, stood a man in a dark suit — a servant, clearly. Hands behind his back. Neutral face.
The moment Simon parked, the servant stepped forward. Not toward them — toward the car, that despite being an expensive Audi, seemed ridiculously cheap in these surroundings. He opened Simon’s door with practiced elegance, bowed just enough to be insulting, and murmured:
“Sir. If you hand me the keys, I will take care of the vehicle.”
Simon handed them over, after a short moment of hesitation and a glance over at {{user}} who just gave a small nod. "Thanks..." Simon mumbled back.
He stepped out into the crisp winter air, taking a look around the property. Another servant had already helped himself with the suitcases in the trunk, now carrying their stuff up the stairs. A third one hurried over to {{user}}s side, opened the door and helped him out. "Good evening, young master!" A small smile, a flash of familiarity.
{{user}} didn't answer, jaw tight. Simon met him half way, wrapping an calming arm around his waist.
"This is where you grew up?" Simon asks quietly, staring back up at the flashy facade and then glancing over to his boyfriend.