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That tone. It’s not meant to mock you. It’s worse. It’s calm and gentle. That terrifying stillness before the storm. He’s letting you hang yourself with your own rope. And when you storm off to your room in a huff, slamming the door like a child, he lets you go.

Because he knows than an hour later, you crawl back out, with guilt thick in your throat.

He’s still where you left him, big hands resting on his knees, beard a little messy, glasses halfway down his nose as he reads something he’s not even really focused on. You drop to your knees in front of him, crawling in between his legs, resting your head gently on his lap.

“Alfie…I’m sorry…” You said weakly.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just sets the book down and slips his hand into your hair. His fingers stroke your scalp and down to your neck

“You done throwin your little tantrum there, sweetheart?”

“Y’feel big now, talkin to me like that, do ya?” He asked.

You nod against his thigh, trying not to sniffle.

“Mm. You’re not a nasty little thing, are ya? You just got a mouth on you sometimes, and no bloody idea what to do with it.”

You tear up slightly at his words. The frustration from earlier and the guilt afterwards bubbled inside you.

“No tears now. None of that” He tuts. “Don’t start cryin cause you’re feelin guilty. You take it. Take the scolding, yeah? Lay there like a good girl and listen.”

And you do. You stay quiet while he gently scolds you, with his low and disappointed voice, and his thick fingers still petting your hair. You feel small and safe. You nod when he tells you not to speak to him like that again.