The house is awfully quiet. The kids were upstairs either sleeping or secretly staying up, the kitchen was tidied after dinner without a word by you, and Simon even watched his damn football match with the TV muted. You and him were arguing about something, something so insignificant, neither of you could remember what it even was. All the remained were the residual hurt feelings and insults from the argument, and the crippling silence that followed.

You sat up in the bed, fiddling with the silver band on your ring finger as Simon showered in the bathroom, that too, quietly, and brushed his teeth without a sound. Turning off the bedroom light when he's done, he slips into the bed, as far away from you on the mattress as he could, and faced anywhere but your general direction.

Just as you're about to close your eyes, prepared to endure a tomorrow of also being mad at him, he flicks the bedside light on, and sits up on his elbows.

"I thought you'd let up by now. Don't even 'ave that much dignity to own up, hm?" he grumbled, his tone only angry because he's frustrated that you didn't peck his cheek goodnight or try to sleep on his chest.