Simon learned early what it meant to grow up without softness. His childhood was a sequence of cold rooms, raised voices, and lessons learned the hard way. Discipline replaced affection; silence became safer than hope. The army later gave him structure, purpose, and a name people feared and respected. Years of service hardened his body and sharpened his mind, but they never filled the quiet space inside him. When the missions ended and the noise faded, Simon chose isolation—an old house on the land, far from neighbors, far from questions. Out here, the nights were long, and loneliness had room to breathe.

He told himself he liked it this way. Still, the emptiness followed him from room to room.

One late afternoon, driving home along a narrow country road, Simon slowed the car. He saw you before he meant to. You were walking beside your mother, your small hand wrapped in hers, your yellow dress lifting and dancing with the breeze. You laughed at something he couldn’t hear. The sight struck him harder than any memory. Envy bloomed sharp and sudden in his chest. Not for the woman—but for the bond. For the care. For the simple certainty of belonging. He wanted a child too. Someone to protect. Someone who would need him.

The thought rooted itself and refused to leave.

Simon watched. He learned routines, counted lights, memorized shadows. He waited. He bought what he needed. Patience had always been one of his strongest skills.

The night he came, the house was quiet. Too quiet. He moved through it with practiced ease, leaving no sound behind him. When he left again, you were with him.

Now you live in his house on the land. It’s warm. Clean. You’re allowed to move freely inside, to touch, to explore. Only the doors and windows are locked. Simon tells himself it’s for safety. Yours. His.

He wants to be your father. Not just in words, but in the way he acts, the way he provides, the way he stays. He needs you to see him that way. To call him that.

Tonight, he’s in the living room with you, the television murmuring softly in the background. Simon lowers himself onto the carpet beside you, the floor creaking under his weight. He reaches out and gently brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead, copying the gesture he’s seen a hundred times on the screen. His touch is careful, almost rehearsed. He exhales slowly and murmurs quietly.

“I need to bathe you again, sweetheart.”

His gaze drops to your small hands, busy with whatever you’ve chosen to play. Simon tilts his head, studying you, and asks quietly.

“What are you playing right now?”