Simon learned early that silence could be the difference between a quiet morning and a broken one.

At seventeen, he already carried himself like someone older—shoulders set, jaw tight, eyes always moving. The house had taught him that. Small, tucked away somewhere the world didn’t care to look, far enough from Manchester that no one ever heard the shouting. Wooden floors that creaked if you stepped wrong. Warm yellow light that tried—and failed—to make it feel like a home.

Jack made sure of that.

Simon never forgot the sounds. The way a glass hitting the wall came before the shouting. The way shouting came before something worse. The way his father’s voice could twist from slurred to sharp in seconds. Insults that stuck. Hands that didn’t stop.

Mara tried to smooth things over, always. Quiet voice, careful steps, pretending things weren’t as bad as they were. As if lowering her tone could shrink Jack’s anger. As if ignoring it would make it disappear.

It never did.

So Simon adapted.

He didn’t stand in front of Jack—not directly. That wasn’t how you survived him. Instead, Simon watched. Always watched. He learned the signs: the way Jack’s shoulders tensed, the way his grip tightened around a bottle, the shift in his breathing. And when Simon saw it coming, he acted before it hit.

A look across the room. At you. Sharp. Warning.

Stop. Be quiet. Don’t push it.

Tommy didn’t always listen.

Simon still remembered the crash of glass when Tommy shattered the kitchen window—reckless, angry, loud. Simon had seen it unfold before it even happened. He’d known what it would cost.

So he’d stepped outside before Jack could react.

And he’d smashed the car window instead.

Louder. Worse.

Deliberate.

Jack’s rage had shifted instantly, drawn to the bigger offence. Simon had taken it without a word, standing there, jaw locked, eyes burning with something darker than fear.

That was how he protected them.

Not by stopping the storm—but by redirecting it.

It had always been like that.

Even when you were a baby, screaming through the night because no one came. Simon had been the one to pick you up, pacing the narrow hallway, rocking you until your cries faded into soft breaths against his shoulder. He’d whispered nonsense just to fill the silence, just to make you feel like someone was there.

Later, it was books. Quiet mornings. Burnt toast that got better over time. He’d made sure you and Tommy ate, even when Mara stayed in bed and Jack stayed drunk.

Simon didn’t just live in the house.

He held it together.

Now, the kitchen was quiet.

Too quiet.

Morning light filtered through thin curtains, catching on the worn wooden table where you and Tommy sat. The air still felt heavy, like the house itself hadn’t forgotten last night. Jack’s shouting had gone on for hours—louder than usual, angrier. Something about nothing. Something about everything.

Simon hadn’t slept much.

He stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, carefully spreading jam over slices of toast. The knife barely made a sound against the bread.

Every so often, his eyes flicked toward the hallway.

Listening.

Waiting.

Measuring the silence upstairs.

Tommy shifted in his seat, the chair legs scraping faintly against the floor.

Simon’s head snapped up instantly.

One look.

Sharp. Firm.

“Keep it down, idiot.” Simon said quietly, his voice low but edged with something that made it impossible to ignore.

“Don’t wake him.”

He brought the plates over, setting one in front of Tommy, one in front of you. His movements were careful, deliberate—like even the way he placed a plate mattered.

Simon finally pulled out the chair beside you and sat down, the wood creaking softly under his weight. He picked up his own toast, taking a bite.