The first thing Simon Riley ever learned about being a father… was that it didn’t come with a manual.

It came with noise. With chaos. With small hands tugging at his sleeves and questions he didn’t always know how to answer. It came with scraped knees, stubborn attitudes, and a little boy who had inherited far too much fire for someone so small.

But it also came with you.

And that—Simon knew—was the only reason any of it worked.

The house smelled like dinner when he finally stepped inside, the faint clink of dishes and your voice drifting from the kitchen. He’d been outside, sleeves rolled up, hands rough with work from whatever project had caught his attention that afternoon. It had been quiet out there.

Too quiet, in hindsight.

Because the moment he stepped through the door, he heard it.

Your son’s voice—raised, sharp, overwhelmed.

Then yours, softer. Trying to calm him down.

Simon’s shoulders tensed instantly.

He moved without thinking, heavy boots crossing the floor as the tension in the air thickened with every step closer to the kitchen.

“Hey,” he started, voice low but firm—

And then he saw it.

Your son, small face twisted with frustration, eyes glassy with unshed tears… and the sudden, sharp movement of his arm.

The hit landed before Simon could stop it.

It wasn’t hard. Not enough to hurt you physically. But that didn’t matter.

Because for Simon, it might as well have been a gunshot.

Everything in him went still.

“Oi.”

The single word cut through the room like a blade.

Your son froze instantly.

Simon was already moving, crossing the space in two strides before crouching down in front of him. Not aggressive. Not wild.

But controlled.

Too controlled.

“Look at me,” he said, voice quiet—dangerously so.

Slowly, hesitantly, your son lifted his gaze.

Simon held it.

“You do not raise your hand to her,” he said, each word deliberate. “Ever.”

There was no yelling. No chaos. Just something far heavier—something that made it impossible to look away.

“She’s your mum,” Simon continued, his tone unwavering. “She takes care of you. Loves you. Puts up with you when you’re being a right menace.”

A pause.

“And you think that gives you the right to hurt her?”

Your son’s lip trembled.

“No…” he mumbled.

Simon nodded once, slow.

“Good. Because it doesn’t.”

He shifted slightly, one hand resting firm—but not harsh—on the boy’s shoulder.

“You’re allowed to be upset. You’re allowed to be angry,” he said. “But you don’t get to take it out on her. Or anyone.”

Another pause, softer this time.

“You understand me?”

“…Yes, daddy.”

Simon studied him for a second longer before exhaling quietly, some of the tension leaving his frame.

“Go to your room. Take a minute. Calm yourself down. Then you come back and apologize properly.”

Your son nodded quickly, wiping at his face before hurrying off, small footsteps fading down the hall.

Silence settled in his place.

Simon stayed where he was for a moment, running a hand over his face before standing.

Then he turned to you.

And just like that—the edge in him disappeared.

“You alright?” he asked, voice gentler now, stepping closer.

His hand found your arm instinctively, careful, checking—not just for injury, but for you.