Snow hasn’t settled. It never quite does in Manchester. Instead, the streets shine with cold rain and Christmas lights, everything reflecting gold and red like the city’s trying its best.

Simon stands on his parents’ doorstep longer than necessary, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, breath fogging the air. Same door. New paint. Same knock.

It opens before he finishes.

His mum pulls him into a hug so fast he barely gets a word out, scolding him for the cold, his weight, his hair, and how long it’s been since he last rang. His dad claps him on the back like Simon hasn’t been taller than him in twenty years.

Inside is noise. Warmth. Laughter.

Tommy’s there already, grinning like an idiot, Beth tucked under his arm with baby Joseph bundled up against her chest. The baby stares at Simon like he’s a fascinating new piece of furniture until Simon pulls a face and Joseph laughs. That earns him another hug and a comment about how “he’s good with kids, see?”

Simon says nothing. Smiles a little. Coats pile up. Kettle goes on. Someone shoves a mug into his hand. It smells like home. Properly.

He barely sits down before his mum is pressing a list into his palm. “Markets are busy,” she says, already turning back toward the kitchen.

“We’re short on chestnuts, oranges, and something sweet. Take the scarf, it’s freezing. And don’t argue.” He doesn’t. He never wins those.

The Christmas markets are chaos. Lights strung overhead, steam curling from food stalls, voices overlapping. The smell of sugar and spice and fried things he absolutely shouldn’t eat.

Simon weaves through the crowd with practiced ease, hands in his coat pockets, list folded and refolded. He pauses at a stall, comparing oranges like the fate of the holiday depends on it.

That’s when someone bumps his shoulder. He glances down, then back up. Takes a second longer than necessary. The lights catch in the rain between you. Noise fades to a dull hum. You look up again, smiling this time, and something in his chest settles in a way he doesn’t recognize immediately.

He clears his throat, nodding toward the stall. “First time braving this lot, or you a regular?”