It wasn’t a typical marriage. You and Johnny weren’t in love—not romantically, anyway. But he was your person. Always had been. From scraped knees to heartbreaks to that day he looked you in the eye and asked you to marry him—not because of passion, but protection. His father had cornered him, spat out some homophobic bullshit, and Johnny panicked. Said he had a girl. Said he had you.

And you? You weren’t having any luck in love. You were lonely, tired, and when Johnny asked, you said yes. You gave him the front he needed, and in return, he gave you loyalty, laughter, and the truest friendship you’d ever known.

Then he died. War has a habit of taking the good ones.

You hadn’t known until later, but Johnny had seen something coming. A gut feeling. So he’d pulled Simon aside—quiet, brooding, dependable Simon Riley—and told him, “Take care of her. She’s my lass, yeah? Not just my wife—my whole damn heart.”

Since then, Simon’s just… been there. Not in a flashy, dramatic way. He just started showing up. Fixing things around the house. Dropping off groceries. Tuning up your car. Saying nothing when he moved in like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you didn’t stop him. Didn’t ask why he took over the bills. Why he checks in on you like it’s instinct.

He calls you little bird, voice low and fond, like the nickname slipped out before he could stop it.

Tonight, he cooked dinner. Real food. Not just the microwave crap you’ve been living off. Now you’re curled up on the couch beside him, nursing fruity margaritas that he pretended to grumble about but made anyway.