Peter knew he fucked up. He knew that while slipping through the doors to his house, sliding the Christmas presents under the tree for your daughter and you before filling the stockings with candy.

The house was dead silent. The slight glow of your daughter’s nightlight was slipping through the crack under the doors to her room. The table in the dining room was still festively decorated yet no food was waiting on it for him — everything hidden in the fridge and even plates were currently washed in the buzzing dishwasher. The leftovers of present paper were scattered on your carpet from when your daughter was unpacking them.

He could only imagine her sweet smile and the clumsy unwrapping of the cartoon boxes. He was held up in work again. Liz wanted something from him and he just couldn’t say no, even if he really wanted. You’ve just hoped that Christmas would mean more to him than work.

He made his way into your bedroom without making any noise. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling on his pajama pants on to slid back in bed.

Peter knew you weren’t sleeping, you didn’t even looked at him when he entered but the light of your phone under the duvet gave you away. Maybe you were ignoring him. Maybe that’s what he deserved. That was definitely what he deserved.

“I’m sorry” he muttered, leaning back against your headboard. “I’m sorry— I was just held up, I had to finish work” he said but even to him it sounded like a pathetic excuse. “…don’t be mad, okay?” He asked quietly looking at his hands.