Snow clung to the windows, soft and slow, muffling the world outside. Inside the Riley house, it was warm—lights strung clumsily around the mantle, the scent of cinnamon and roast filling the air. Simon had one arm slung lazily around you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, old scars catching the firelight. He wasn’t smiling, not fully—but there was something close in the way he looked at you.

Tommy was on the floor, laughing at something daft on the telly, and their mum—frail but bright-eyed—was humming while stirring tea in the kitchen.

For once, everything felt normal. Safe.

Then came the knock.

Three slow, heavy hits against the front door. Too familiar. Too fucking loud.

Simon’s jaw locked. The air shifted. You felt it before he even stood. His hand slipped from your waist, slow and silent, and his eyes—warm seconds ago—turned cold and hollow.

“No one invited him,” Simon muttered, stepping toward the door like he was heading into a breach. “He’s got no place here.”

Tommy froze. His mum went quiet, spoon clinking against ceramic.

The door creaked open.

And there he was.

Older. Still drunk. Still wearing that same sour smirk. Same dead eyes.

“Merry bloody Christmas,” the man slurred.

Simon didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stood in the doorway, broad and unmoving, voice low and full of frost.

“Turn around, old man. Before this gets ugly.”