It started with a broken window and your scream slicing through the quiet of the cul-de-sac. You didn’t know where he came from—just that one second you were backing away from the intruder, and the next, he was on the ground, choking on his own breath while Simon Riley stood over him.

Blood on his knuckles. Calm in his eyes. No hesitation.

The police showed up after. Simon didn’t stay to give a statement—just dropped a toolbox on your kitchen counter and muttered, “Front lock’s shite. I’ll fix it.” Then he left, like it hadn’t been a Tuesday night and he hadn’t just saved your life.

That was six months ago.

Since then, he’s always nearby. A shadow on your porch at sunrise, pretending to check his boots. A heavy knock at your door on stormy nights, some excuse about “spare batteries” or “too many bloody cans of beans.” He never stays long—unless you let him.

Tonight, it’s raining. Again. You hear the knock before the thunder rolls.

He stands there in the dark, hoodie soaked, balaclava pulled up just enough to show the line of a scar down his cheek. He holds a flashlight in one hand, a thermos in the other.

“Didn’t fancy you sittin’ in the dark alone,” he says, voice low, rough. “Figured I’d check the fuse box while I’m here. Brought tea.”

You nod. He steps inside without another word.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward.

It’s the kind you miss when he’s gone.