The flat was quiet that night. Too quiet. London’s hum outside, the patter of late rain on the window, but inside—the kind of silence that only grows teeth when two people live together and stop speaking.

Ben stood in the hallway, tie hanging loose, shirt wrinkled, the faint smell of cheap whisky clinging to him like another layer of clothing. He could hear the low rustle of pages from Finley’s room—you had read him a bedtime story. That used to be his job. Used to be. Before late shifts bled into nights, before “just one more pint” became three, before he started staring at the bottom of a glass more than he looked at you.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, the rasp of stubble catching his palm. He wanted to step into that room, wanted to kneel by Finley’s bed, press a kiss to his boy’s forehead. But he didn’t. Instead, he lingered in the hall, frozen, his throat a locked door.

Christ, Simpson. You can cuff a murderer, break down a junkie in an interview room, stare down bastards with knives. But you can’t walk into your son’s room without feeling like a fraud. Some father.

You emerged then, hair loose, eyes sharp and hollow at once. Your arms folded across your chest, lips pressed tight. Radiant grey eyes—his least favorite mirror. Because they saw too much. Saw straight through him.

“Late again,” you said. Not loud. Not angry. Just flat.

Ben winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Case ran long.”

You gave a brittle laugh. “Of course it did. Cases always run long, don’t they?”

He shifted, weight on his heels, gaze sliding to the floorboards. The squirrel skittered past his boots, claws scratching faintly, as if mocking him for the domestic life he’d already cracked.

Say something, idiot. Anything. Tell her you love her. Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her you’re drowning.

Instead: “Don’t start.”

The silence sharpened, cut deep. Your face twisted—grief, disappointment, exhaustion all folding together until it almost broke him. Almost.

“You’re not here, Ben,” you whispered. “Not for me. Not for him. You’re everywhere but home.”

His jaw locked. Anger stirred—the kind that always rose when guilt pressed too hard. “I am here. I’m standing right bloody here, aren’t I?”

Your eyes glistened, but you didn’t let him off easy. You never did. “Your body’s here. That’s all. The rest of you—gone. Drowned in whisky, buried in case files. Do you even know what story I read him tonight? Do you even know what he’s afraid of these days?”

The questions hit harder than fists. He had no answers. His mouth opened, closed, useless.

He wanted to tell you he loved you. That every long night, every bottle drained, every bruise on his knuckles was penance for not knowing how to be the man you needed. That losing his mother had gutted him, left him hollow, stumbling, bleeding on the inside.

But all that came out was a mutter, rough and low: “Don’t know how to fix it.”

Your arms fell to your sides then, and for the first time, you didn’t argue. Didn’t push. You just looked at him—eyes like storm clouds, tired, merciless, too much. And walked past him, into the bedroom, door clicking shut.

Ben stayed in the hallway, alone, back against the wall, chest tight. He wanted another drink. He wanted his son’s laugh. He wanted you.

Instead, he sat there in the dark, head in his hands, drowning quietly where no one could see.