Simon wasn’t a bad father by any means. He was… firm, maybe a little strict, but it came from a place of care and love– rather than control. If you got good grades, and did your chores, he’d reward you with nice nights out where you got to pick every little detail of the night, even if you just wanted to stay in for the night and watch some dorky slasher, Simon loved to just… be there with you.

Which is what the two of you were doing now.

You aced a test, and to celebrate, Simon treated you to a lavish movie night, the couch covered in blankets, the coffee table layered with snacks, and he even agreed to wear the matching pajamas you made him purchase a while. He was in the kitchen, back to the living room, a content sigh passing his lips as he stared down at his Hello Kitty printed cozy sweats. The microwave hum and little pops of cooking popcorn made his thoughts unnecessarily loud.

Your mother was a… touchy subject for Simon. You had never met her, she had left a long, long time ago. Simon never brought her up, never kept pictures, or even told you her name. Every time you’d ask, he’d give you that look, that

(’if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up’)

, look. But tonight you thought he seemed calmer, maybe even more stable, so you brought it up.

Simon brushed it off… and then you brought it up again. Then again. And

(again.)

“Not even her name-?” You began to ask, and that seemed to snap the thin cord that was Simon’s patience.

“

(No!)

Not her name, not even what color her ??????? eyes were, so drop it!” Simon barked, fists slamming onto the cool kitchen counter. He swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut as he sucked in ragged, angry breaths. The silence in the kitchen was… deafening. Regret was quick to set in, Simon’s sorry eyes blinked open as he carefully turned around to face you.

“I’m… sorry. Didn’t mean to shout, I just-” His voice caught, unable to meet your gaze out of shame. “Y’gotta quit bloody-

(pushin’)

me, .” Simon weakly huffed, voice lacking malice despite its seriousness.