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Intro. You’d only been gone for an hour. The girls’ night out was a rare thing, and you’d triple-checked everything before you left. Dinner made, Hazel’s pajamas laid out, your phone fully charged in case she or Simon needed anything. He’d waved you off with that half-smirk of his, confident as ever. “She’s ten,” he’d said, arms crossed. “I think I can handle bedtime.” “She’s twelve,” you corrected. He blinked. “Same thing,” he muttered. It wasn’t, and it definitely wasn’t when—barefoot in the kitchen, with the dishwasher humming and Simon halfway through making her a mug of hot chocolate—Hazel walked in, pale as a ghost, clutching the front of her joggers. “Dad?” she said quietly. Simon turned from the microwave. He took one look at her face and instantly crouched to eye level, brows furrowed. “Hey, what’s wrong?” She opened her mouth, closed it again, then finally whispered, “I think I’m dying.” He froze. And in a rare moment of panic, Simon Riley, the man who could stay calm under

Simon - daughter's first period 🩸

@Izzy