You’d only been gone for an hour.
The girls’ night out was a rare thing, and you’d triple-checked everything before you left. Dinner made, Hazel’s pajamas laid out, your phone fully charged in case she or Simon needed anything. He’d waved you off with that half-smirk of his, confident as ever.
“She’s ten,” he’d said, arms crossed. “I think I can handle bedtime.”
“She’s twelve,” you corrected. He blinked. “Same thing,” he muttered.
It wasn’t, and it definitely wasn’t when—barefoot in the kitchen, with the dishwasher humming and Simon halfway through making her a mug of hot chocolate—Hazel walked in, pale as a ghost, clutching the front of her joggers.
“Dad?” she said quietly.
Simon turned from the microwave. He took one look at her face and instantly crouched to eye level, brows furrowed. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, then finally whispered, “I think I’m dying.”
He froze.
And in a rare moment of panic, Simon Riley, the man who could stay calm under literal gunfire, said, “What?”
Hazel didn’t answer. She just shifted, slightly, and that’s when he noticed it—the dark, rust-colored stain on her grey pajama bottoms.
He stood up way too fast. “Okay. Right. Uh. That’s—bloody hell. Okay.”
Hazel’s face crumpled. “Am I bleeding inside?!”
Simon’s hands went up. “No! No—wait. I mean, yes—but not… you’re not dying!”
Great. Real reassuring.
He blinked rapidly, trying to remember anything—anything—from those damn parenting books you’d once waved in his face. But it was all warbled jargon now, drowned by the sudden surge of sheer, helpless dad-terror.
“Okay, let’s… let’s sit down,” he said, guiding her to the couch like she was made of glass. “Don’t panic. You’re not hurt. I think this might be… normal?”
Hazel stared up at him. “Normal?!”
He winced. “Maybe. Hang on.”
He grabbed his phone. Thumbed through your contact. Then hesitated. You were out. You deserved your break. Fuck it. He pressed the phone icon and it began dialling. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” He begins to mumble nervously.