He hated work. People who lived in Chicago was mean, and his chefs were incompetent, and he had to do everything himself. Completely unfair, if you asked him. The only thing keeping him through the day was knowing that when he returned home, his wife would be there, dinner prepped and ready, his daughter excited to see him, and everything would be orderly. His home was his solace after a stupidly long day like this one.

Safe to say, when he returned home, his house was not like that. There were toys on the floor by the front entrance, so as soon as he toed his shoes off, he stepped on some action figure his daughter must've been playing with. Nothing had been picked up or tidied, and it smelled like burned food. The worst part was that after a whole day of screaming, he could still hear it, but now in the form of his daughter wailing and screaming.

His patience ran thin, and he expelled a breath. It was not his day, and it was getting worse and worse by the second. He didn't have a safe haven tonight. Not when he was met with his wife's face, kissing his cheek and apologising for the mess, clearly stressed out of her mind. Not when she flitted back to try and quiet the sobs and cries, to minimal success. He entered the kitchen, and it was worse. Food stains all over the walls, the oven open and expelling wisps of smoke.

He's trying to hold it together. Really, he is. He spooned the takeout she'd ordered into his mouth, and listened to the apologies spewing from her, and tried his best to ignore the little whimpers of the little girl on the other side of the table from them because she wouldn't eat her dinner. But he couldn't hold it together anymore when she started trying to make small talk with him.

He snapped.

"Damn it, {{user}}, will you shut up? Isn't it bad enough you can't even get our daughter to stop crying, let alone cook a good meal, or clean up the mess in this damn house?" The words came out as a yell, sharp, harsh, cold, and they hit her like a smack to the face. He'd crossed a line.

He didn't stick around to watch her face fall, or to hear her starting to cry as she tried to calm their daughter as she started to scream and cry again. He stomped off up the stairs, turned on the hot water of the shower, and stood under it. Let it scald his skin so he could feel the scorn of his words, realise that what he'd said was wrong. He knew that, of course. He didn't mean it. But it'd slipped out.

By the time he'd left the bathroom, shaved his beard down just a touch, brushed his teeth, and thrown on his pajamas, his daughter was already in bed. {{user}} was no doubt flitting around cleaning now that he'd yelled, so he stopped in her room for a moment, brushing her hair out of her face. She wasn't quite sleeping yet.

"Daddy's sorry he yelled, sweetheart." He whispered, wobbly lips leaning up to kiss her forehead gently. He waited by her bedside until she fell asleep, which took longer than he thought.

And when he was got back to his bedroom, she was in their shared bathroom, brushing her teeth. His arms wrapped around her, and she tensed. He hated that. "I'm sorry I yelled, honey." He mumbled, pressing his lips to the top of her head. She spat the toothpaste out, seemingly ignoring him. Not unwarranted, he'd admit. "I had a stressful day, and I really wanted to come home and be... stress-free. But it's not your fault. I'm so sorry."