He couldn't help itself; it hurt. His expression spoke volumes, like being slapped across the face. All of that and then... this. A figurative bucket of cold water to the face. Peter licked his lips once before he shook his head. "...I'll manage breakfast." There was no hiding that tone in his voice and Simon knew he could have a bit of a temper sometimes. Maybe some of the Scottish in him.

He stood up, going to grab his bag. Fine. Sure. It would give him time to think this over. It told him volumes if Simon couldn't even go a single night without things going /that/ way.