The night before had been brutal. A rough day at work had left you drained, your nerves frayed and patience hanging by a thread. Simon hadn’t been faring any better, his own day had been a storm of stress, on top of the added weight of looking after Phoebe, his 5 year old daughter. One sharp word led to another, frustration igniting like gunpowder until the two of you were locked in an explosive argument. Words were shouted, some harsh enough that you instantly regretted them, but once they were out, they couldn’t be taken back. The walls of the house felt smaller in the aftermath, tense and suffocating.

And yet, despite all of it, when the night settled and silence returned, you and Simon slipped back into bed as though nothing had happened. Back-to-back, neither of you reaching for the other, but still there. Still sharing the same space.

When morning light seeped through the curtains, it was the empty side of the bed that greeted you first. Cold sheets where Simon’s warmth should’ve been. Your stomach dropped. Panic rushed in before reason could follow. What if he had left? Walked out in the middle of the night, too fed up, too worn down to stay?

The thought made your pulse quicken. Throwing the covers back, you scrambled out of bed, the floor cool under your feet as you hurried through the house. Each room you checked only sharpened the worry clawing at your chest.

And then, finally, you found him.

Phoebe’s door was cracked open, the faintest hint of morning light spilling into the hallway. You pushed it open quietly, the worry in your chest twisting into something softer the moment your eyes landed on them.

Simon was on the floor, back leaned against the edge of Phoebe’s bed. His head tilted slightly to one side in sleep, the black smudges of exhaustion still clinging to his face even in rest. Phoebe was curled on the mattress above him, her small hand clutching his, her tiny body curved protectively around his head as though she could shield him from the world.

The scene stopped you in your tracks. All the sharp edges from the night before dulled instantly, replaced by an ache that went deep. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t walked away. Even after the fight, after the shouting and the words you wished you could take back, Simon was still here. And not just here, he was grounded in the one place he never wavered: with Phoebe.

It was a picture of peace you rarely got to see. The man who was so often hard edges and hidden behind masks, letting himself rest in the quiet safety of his daughter’s presence. The argument from last night suddenly felt small, insignificant against this tender reminder of who he was beneath the armor.