The front door clicks shut a little louder than he meant it to. Simon freezes, keys still in his hand, listening. The house stays quiet.

“Right,” he mutters under his breath, voice thick with drink. “Good. Good job, Yates. Real stealthy.”

He toes his shoes off by the door, jacket abandoned on the chair, the smell of beer and cold night air clinging to him as he makes his way upstairs and down the hall. He stops outside Rosie’s room, then Ben’s, and then your room. Making sure all of you were asleep. He hesitates just for a second, thinking he hears his wife up—before pushing the door to your room open slowly.

You’re asleep. His shoulders drop in relief.

“There you are,” he whispers, softer now. “Knew you’d be out like a light.” He smiles to himself. He stands there longer than necessary, swaying slightly, watching your chest rise and fall like he’s counting it. Making sure you were in fact sleeping and not dead or something.

Then, quietly, he sits on the edge of the bed. Careful not to wake you. He brushes a hand through your hair, clumsy but gentle, and exhales a shaky little laugh.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to be. Got caught up with stuff… and dreaded coming back home to this fucking mess of a family.” He adds with a barely audible and humourless chuckle.

He watches you for a moment, feeling his own eyelids grow heavy. He doesn’t want to sleep next to his wife tonight, not after they argued—which was the whole reason he had been out all evening drinking. Escaping like usual.

He carefully lays down beside you, awkwardly at first, then settles behind you. He watches the back of your head, before gently smooths down some hair strands sticking out. He carefully tuck his arm around you, his head resting on the same pillow as you. He smells like the pub, like hops and rain and tired apologies, but his hold is warm and familiar.

Simon drunkenly presses a soft kiss to your hair and closes his eyes.