The town hadn’t changed much.

Same cracked sidewalks. Same corner shops with faded signs hanging crooked over the windows. Same drizzle-heavy Manchester sky that always looked like it was stuck between rain and clearing up. Even the air smelled the same—cold pavement, cigarette smoke drifting from alleyways, and fresh bread from the bakery down the street.

You used to think you’d leave someday.

The little convenience store’s plastic bag rustled softly against your wrist as you walked down the street, your headphones resting around your neck instead of over your ears. The evening crowd was beginning to settle in; people heading home from work, teenagers crowding outside the takeaway shop, buses hissing as they stopped every few blocks.

Normal. Quiet. Familiar.

You tugged absentmindedly at the sleeves hanging past your hands.

The hoodie was old now.

Dark gray, worn thin at the cuffs, too faded to pass as new anymore. The stitching near the pocket had started coming loose years ago, and one sleeve still had a tiny burn mark from some stupid bonfire night back when you were teenagers.

Simon’s hoodie.

You honestly didn’t know why you still wore it so often.

Maybe because it was comfortable. Maybe because it smelled faintly like the detergent you used now instead of him. Maybe because after all these years, it had become more yours than his.

Or maybe because some part of you never really believed he was gone for good.

Back then, Simon Riley had been all sharp grins and rough hands shoved into hoodie pockets, walking you home through quiet streets while talking about leaving the town one day. The military had always been his goal. Everyone knew it.

And you had known too.

You remembered the night before he left better than you remembered most things these days.

The streetlights flickering overhead. The cold air turning his breath visible. His duffel bag sitting by his feet while your chest felt so tight you could barely breathe around it.

“Promise I’ll come back,” he’d told you quietly.

You remembered laughing weakly and calling him dramatic.

You remembered how he hugged you so tightly it hurt.

And you remembered watching him walk away the next morning without looking back.

After that?

Nothing.

No calls.

No messages.

At first you waited.

Then months passed. Then years. Life kept moving whether you wanted it to or not.

People stopped bringing him up eventually. The town forgot him in the way small towns forgot anyone who left.

But you never quite did.

Your footsteps slowed as you approached the crosswalk near the center of town, adjusting the grocery bag higher on your arm while trying to avoid a cyclist cutting too close to the pavement.

Someone turned the corner at the same time you did.

Solid.

Broad.

The impact made you stumble backward instantly, a startled breath leaving you as the bag nearly slipped from your hand.

“Shit—sorry,” you started automatically.

But the apology died in your throat.

The man standing in front of you barely moved from the collision.

Tall. Massive, really. Built like solid concrete beneath a dark jacket stretched over broad shoulders. There was an exhaustion to him that looked permanent, etched deep into posture and expression alike.

A hood shadowed part of his face, but not enough.

Because you knew those eyes.

Your breath caught hard enough to hurt.

No.

No way.

Simon stared down at you like he’d seen a ghost.

Older now. Sharper around the edges. His face carried scars you didn’t remember, his build heavier than before, hardened in a way that made him seem almost unreal compared to the boy you once knew.

But it was him.

It was absolutely him.

And then his gaze dropped.

Straight to the hoodie you were wearing.

You watched the second recognition hit him.

His expression changed—small, almost invisible, but there.

The street noise around you suddenly felt distant.

Cars passed.

People walked around the two of you.

But neither of you moved.

You could only stare at him.

And Simon Riley could only stare at the hoodie he left behind all those years ago.