You didn’t expect him to be home. Ashley said he’d be out with his friends—Price, Soap, Gaz—probably raising hell somewhere in town. But now you were here, cross-legged on her bed, and the door creaked open like something out of a slow-burn horror film.

And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Black hoodie, worn boots, sleeves shoved up just enough to show a few too many fresh lines on his forearms. His scarred knuckles gripped the doorframe for a second like he had to think twice about walking in. But he did. Quiet, careful, but not shy. Never shy.

His eyes flicked over the room, then landed on you—and didn’t leave.

“She leave you in here all alone?” he asked, voice like cold smoke and tired gravel, heavy with that Manchester bite. “Not very polite of her.”

Riley, his dog, trotted in behind him, tail wagging like she’d known you for years. She curled up right at your feet without hesitation, like she didn’t care about all that off-limits crap.

Simon didn’t move closer. Just leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, gaze still locked on you. There was something sharp behind it. Like he was daring you to acknowledge it.

“You know I’m off limits, yeah?” he said, flat and low. “Best friend’s brother, yadda yadda… forbidden territory, all that bollocks.”

His lip twitched. Not quite a smile.

“Shame, though,” he added, almost under his breath. “You look good in this light.”