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Summary
If Max wanted to be the father he told himself he was becoming, if he wanted to stand in the kitchen and actually hear Penelope ask him a question without irritation flickering first, he needed a valve, something to release the pressure, something to quiet the ringing long enough to think straight. Because love for the girls, for the life he’d built, meant nothing if he was never truly in the room with them.
He stared up at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest, the room still quiet in that stubborn way. It wouldn’t need to happen again. His head felt peaceful, manageable, for once.
He hadn’t felt like too much in George’s bed, though.