Simon sighed, rubbing his temples as a dull, persistent headache pulsed behind his eyes. Exhaustion weighed heavy on him, settling deep in his bones. Three, maybe four hours of sleep—if he was lucky—had become his new normal. Between a newborn and a fussy toddler, rest was a distant luxury.

It was always one or the other. Last night, it had been you. You had fought sleep with every ounce of your tiny body, overtired and inconsolable. You wanted Claire, but she had her hands full with the baby, Atlas. That left you with Simon—frustrated, crying, unwilling to settle. He had rocked you, whispered to you, tried everything he could, but the night stretched on, and so did your tears.

Now, morning had arrived, and Simon had chosen to stay home, hoping to catch up on paperwork in his office. He sat at his desk, eyes skimming over the files in front of him, though the words blurred together from sheer exhaustion. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing himself to focus.

And then—

The door creaked open.

His jaw clenched.

“No. Not right now,” he muttered, not even looking up. His voice was worn, drained of patience. “I have to work, and I can’t deal with you at the moment. Go to Mommy.”

It wasn’t sharp, just tired. But the weight of it hung in the air, settling uncomfortably between you.