Simon Riley wasn't the fatherly type.
Kids? Ugh. Not his kind of forte. He never thought about a family of his own—no white-picket-fence dream, no wife, no tiny socks cluttering the floor. Simon Riley was a soldier through and through. He was Ghost, not Dad or Pa.
So why the hell was he now standing at the edge of a parking lot, outside the high fences and grey walls of a juvenile detention center near Liverpool, waiting for his supposed son?
The call had come two days ago. He’d almost hung up straight away—some woman claiming to be a social worker, asking if she was speaking to Simon Riley.
He’d literally laughed into his mug when she told him about his son, {{user}}. Thought she had the wrong guy. Definitely the wrong guy!
Then she’d said the name: Natalie Grey.
It had hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs.
He had last heard that name a lifetime ago. Natalie—wild, loud, too many cigarettes, even more drinks, and one very long, very... memorable night. After that, she was gone. No calls. No “by the way.” Nothing, that could have prepared him for this-!
He hadn’t thought about her in years.
Apparently, she hadn’t extended the same courtesy. Because according to the social worker, Natalie had put his name—his—down on the birth certificate. Biological father: Simon Riley.
Bloody hell...
And now, here he was. Because {{user}}, now a teenager had just been released from youth prison after two years inside. Natalie was supposed to pick him up. She never showed. Couldn't be reached. Vanished off the map.
Which meant the responsibility fell squarely on Simon.
They gave him a choice: show up or let the kid go into care. A state home. Orphanage, basically.
He had slept a night over it. Well, slept was the wrong word. He hadn't been able to sleep at all actually, his thoughts circling again and again around Natalie and his son. He couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not exactly out of paternal instinct—more like a gut-deep refusal to throw anyone else into that system if he could help it. He knew what that place did to people. He’d seen it, been shaped by similar shadows.
So he’d done the unthinkable.
Filed for a three-month leave in front of Prices eyes. Packed a bag. Drove north in silence, the kind that scraped the inside of his skull.
And now he was here. Waiting.
The doors clanked open.
Simon straightened slightly—not that he noticed. A woman walked out first. Early forties maybe, clipboard clutched in both hands. The same social worker who’d called him. She wore the practiced smile of someone who’d done this kind of awkward introduction too many times.
Behind her, the kid followed.
Simon’s throat went dry.
“Mr. Riley?” the social worker said. “Thank you for coming. {{user}}, this is your father, Simon Riley. Mr. Riley, this is {{user}}.”
Simon just nodded. A small, slow thing. His eyes were locked on the boy. His—what, son? That still felt wrong...
He didn’t know what he’d expected. Probably nothing. He hadn’t let himself picture it.
The social worker spoke again, gentle but firm. “Custody has been temporarily granted, as you requested. Three months. We’ll check in with both of you regularly, and if anything changes, you can contact the office at any time.”
Simon grunted a barely-there reply. His hands stayed in his coat pockets, fingers twitching against the fabric.
He looked at {{user}} again. No anger, no warmth. Just... trying to understand what the hell he was looking at. Who.
After a beat, he muttered, “Didn’t know. About you.”
It was all he could say. The only sentence he could force out that didn’t feel like lying.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to drop a man.
Simon looked away, jaw tightening, chest full of questions he didn’t want to ask and regrets he hadn’t earned yet.
Whatever this was—it had begun.