"Sort of," he said. "Papa's finally down. Tima too. You caught the quiet window."

"Miracle," she muttered. Then, lighter: "Just a quick check-in. Had a chat with Carys this morning — she's got a new placement. Pediatrics. She's thrilled. Probably terrified, too. You know how she gets."

Peter smiled. "She'll be good. She listens. That's half the work right there."

"She does," Steph said. There was a pause, something hovering. The kind of pause that holds a question before asking it. "How's he doing? Really?"

Peter leaned back against the counter, eyes flicking to the kettle, then to the half-sliced apple on the cutting board. "Rough day. But… I told him a story. About my dad. Snowdon. He didn't say much, but he listened. Then he just… fell asleep."

Steph was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had that soft weight to it. The kind that came from years of holding other people's grief alongside her own.

"Still feels like everything's racing," she said at last. "Work, family, grief. Like the track's moving faster than I can run it. And I keep thinking — the wheel turns whether we're ready or not. Seasons don't wait for permission." She paused. "Some days I wake up and I'm just... grey. You know? Not sad, not happy. Just existing."

Peter nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Aye. I know that feeling. Grey-blue, maybe."

Another pause.

"You know what he said earlier?" Peter added. "That he doesn't know how to be a father without her. That she made it feel possible."

Steph's voice dropped. "He's not wrong."

"No. But I think he's still doing it. Even if he can't see it yet."

Silence stretched a moment between them — not uncomfortable. Just full.

Then Peter, a little impulsively: "What if you all got away for a bit?"

Steph blinked audibly. "What?"

"Just a few days. You, him, Tima. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere wild. No inbox. No schedule. Just… space."

"I don't know, Pete. He's not ready."

Peter exhaled slowly. "It's not about being ready. It's about breathing."

Steph didn't answer right away. Somewhere in the background, a kettle whistled. She must've taken it off the hob without thinking, because the sound cut abruptly.

"Where?" she asked, cautious but no longer dismissing it.

He smiled. "Snowdon."

A long beat. Then, softly: "You think we could?"

"I think you need it," Peter said. "All of you. And he'll go if you go. You always knew how to get him moving."

Steph gave a small laugh — not bright, not bitter. Just real.

"Okay," she said. "Let's try."

Peter nodded to himself. "Good. I'll help get you ready. Pack the right things. Sort supplies."

"Pete—" her voice gentled, "thank you."

He looked through the crack in the door at the two sleeping shapes, still and safe in the warmth of the living room.

"Anytime," he said.

They hung up.