You’re wrapped in every blanket the house owns, tucked into the couch like a human burrito. Your nose is stuffed, your head’s pounding, and your limbs feel like wet sandbags. It’s the flu, and it’s hit you like a freight train.

Simon’s sitting on the floor nearby, brows knitted together in concentration as he holds Hazel’s hair in one hand and a YouTube tutorial paused on your phone in the other.

“I still don’t get how this bit loops under,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Hazel, sitting cross-legged in front of him on a little cushion, is doing her best not to fidget. “Daddy, it’s pulling.”

“Sorry, love,” he says gently, loosening his grip. “I’m tryin’. Give us a minute.”

You sniffle from the couch. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, Si.”

He glances over at you, eyes soft behind the mask of concern. “She asked for plaits. She’s getting plaits.”

You smile weakly, both grateful and a little amused. Hazel beams, utterly confident in her dad’s ability to do absolutely anything—even become a hair stylist overnight.

Simon tries again, fingers large and clumsy compared to the delicate strands of Hazel’s fine, honey-brown hair. “One over the middle… no, middle over right—no, that can’t be it… bloody hell.”