The front door of Matt and Simon’s cozy suburban home creaked open, a weary sigh escaping Matt as he dragged his suitcase over the threshold. Two weeks of grueling work travel had left him bone-tired, his shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion and the desperate craving for a warm welcome. He’d pictured Simon waiting for him, maybe with a sly grin and a glass of wine, or at the very least a quiet house to collapse into. Instead, the living room was a war zone of shrieking laughter and tiny, stampeding feet.
Simon was in the thick of it, chasing their two kids in a chaotic game of tag. His dark hair was a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his laughter rang out as he dodged a flailing arm from their eldest. Matt stood frozen in the doorway, suitcase still clutched in one hand, waiting for a flicker of acknowledgment. It never came. With a huff, he dropped the bag with a deliberate *thud* that echoed through the room, hoping the noise would cut through the pandemonium. No such luck.
Simon, utterly oblivious to the storm brewing in Matt’s chest, scooped up their youngest, Mia, with a dramatic flourish. “Incoming! Air Mia taking off!” he bellowed, spinning her in circles as her delighted squeals pierced the air. Matt’s jaw tightened, his hazel eyes narrowing into a pointed glare that Simon somehow managed to miss entirely. The air thickened with Matt’s unspoken frustration, a bitter taste settling on his tongue as he muttered under his breath, “Invisible in my own damn house.”
He stalked toward the kitchen, each step heavier than the last, and yanked open the fridge door with more force than necessary. The clatter of bottles rattled through the small space as he snatched a beer, popping the cap with a flick of his thumb. He slammed the door shut, the sound a sharp punctuation to his simmering irritation, and took a long, defiant swig. The cold liquid did little to cool the heat of his temper.
From the living room, Simon’s voice finally cut through the chaos, casual and infuriatingly late. “Hey, babe, you’re back!” He was still on the floor, wrestling with their eldest, Jake, who was attempting to climb onto his back like a monkey.
Matt leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest, the beer bottle dangling from one hand. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he shot back, “Oh, glad you noticed, Captain Obvious. Thought I’d just slip in and out like a ghost. Seems fitting.”
Simon looked up at that, his playful grin faltering for half a second before it returned full force, as if he could charm his way out of this. “Come on, don’t be like that. We’re just having some fun. Missed you, though.” He punctuated the words with a wink, but Matt wasn’t biting. He rolled his eyes so hard it nearly hurt, turning on his heel with a muttered, “Yeah, sure. I’m hitting the shower. Gotta wash off the neglect.”
The rest of the evening passed in a haze of routine—dinner, baths, bedtime stories for the kids—but the tension between Matt and Simon coiled tighter with every passing minute. Once the house was finally quiet, Matt sprawled on the living room couch, beer in hand, pointedly ignoring Simon’s attempt at small talk as he hovered nearby.
“So, how was the trip?” Simon ventured, dropping onto the couch beside Matt and resting a hand on his knee. The touch was warm, familiar, but Matt jerked away as if burned, his voice sharp and cutting. “Don’t bother now, I’m fine here on my own. Been managing just fine for two weeks, haven’t I?”
Simon’s brow furrowed, his hand hovering in midair before he let it fall to his side. The silence stretched between them, taut and heavy, broken only by the faint clink of Matt’s beer bottle as he took another exaggeratedly nonchalant sip. Simon watched him, jaw tight, clearly wrestling with what to say. Finally, his voice came low, almost a whisper. “I’ve missed you, you know.”
Matt scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Sure doesn’t feel like it, buddy. Felt more like I walked into a circus than a home. Ringmaster Simon, at your service, right?”
Simon’s eyes darkened, a flicker of frustration crossing his face, but Matt didn’t give him a chance to respond. He stood abruptly, grabbing a throw blanket from the arm of the couch and tossing it over himself with dramatic flair. “I’m sleeping down here tonight. Don’t worry about me. I’ll survive.”
Simon stared at him, his jaw working as if he were chewing on a retort. Finally, he stood too, his voice tight with barely restrained irritation. “Fine, be a drama queen. I’ll be upstairs if you decide to stop sulking.” With that, he turned and headed for the stairs, leaving Matt alone with his beer and his brooding.
The house fell silent, save for the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of settling wood. Matt lay awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling, the blanket bunched uncomfortably under his shoulders. His anger had dulled to a quiet ache, a mix of hurt and stubborn pride keeping him rooted to the spot. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there when he heard the soft creak of floorboards on the stairs.
His eyes flicked toward the sound, catching the faint outline of Simon descending in the dim light. Matt’s breath hitched, though he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Simon’s shadow loomed over the couch, his presence a tangible weight in the stillness. The air crackled with unspoken apologies, raw need, and the lingering heat of their earlier clash. Matt’s heart thudded in his chest, waiting for Simon to make the first move, to bridge the icy gap between them—or to widen it further.
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