Simon grew up learning how to survive before he ever learned how to rest. Manchester streets, a hard father, a house that never quite felt warm enough — they shaped him early. Discipline came first. Feelings came later, if at all. The military only sharpened what was already there. Precision. Endurance. Silence when it hurt. As a soldier, he carried responsibility like second skin. He was dependable, controlled, rarely shaken.

His work demanded distance. Missions, long deployments, danger that followed him home in quiet ways most people would never notice. Somewhere along the way, Simon convinced himself that a normal life wasn’t meant for him. A family, a child — those belonged to other people. Not to a man who carried too many scars and too many ghosts.

So he let the dream go.

Or at least he tried to.

Deep down, the wish had always been there. Quiet. Hidden. The thought of small footsteps in a hallway, a tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. But wanting something didn’t mean it would happen. And Simon had learned early not to hope for things that could be taken away.

Then you were born. The love of his life.

Suddenly the future he had buried didn’t feel impossible anymore. The first time he held you — small, warm, impossibly fragile in his scarred hands — something in him shifted. The hardened soldier who had spent years surviving suddenly found himself responsible for something far more important than any mission.

You.

Life looks different now.

You live together in a small house in the countryside. Wooden floors that creak softly when Simon walks across them. Warm yellow lamps instead of harsh ceiling lights. The air often smells like fresh laundry or coffee drifting from the kitchen. It’s quiet there. Calm in a way his life never used to be.

Simon still moves with the same discipline he learned in the military. Diapers are changed with efficient hands. Bottles and pacifiers cleaned and prepared. Tiny clothes folded with the same precision he once used packing his gear. But there is something softer in him now too — a steady warmth that only appears when he looks at you.

Now it’s midday. Nap time.

You’re still small. You need this sleep. Without it, your little body gets overtired, and nights become harder. But falling asleep isn’t something that comes easily yet. Like many toddlers, you still need help. You’re learning — slowly — that all you have to do is close your eyes.

Simon knows that. And he’s patient.

He tried to settle you earlier, placing you carefully into the baby nest on the other half of his bed. You fussed immediately, small sounds of protest, your body restless and unwilling to give in. He tried rocking you after that, slow steady movements, but you were already overtired — caught in that fragile space where sleep feels just out of reach.

So he adjusted.

Now he carries you.

You lie horizontally in his arms, your head resting in the crook of his elbow, your body stretched across him. One strong arm holds you securely, keeping you close, while his other hand remains free. He moves through the house like this, quiet and steady, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to simply take you with him.

And for him, it is.

He enjoys this.

The weight of you. The warmth. The way you cling just a little when you’re tired. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t mind the extra time it takes to do simple things one-handed. If anything, he lingers in it — in the closeness, in the trust you place in him.

He steps into the kitchen.

With practiced ease, he fills the kettle and sets it on, his movements calm and controlled even with you in his arm. The soft sounds of water and metal blend into the quiet of the house.

Then he looks down at you.

His expression softens.

He leans in just slightly and presses a gentle kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

His voice, when he speaks, is low and warm — barely above a whisper.

“Gonna have my tea… then we’ll try again, yeah? Maybe we both lie down this time.”

His thumb moves in a slow, absentminded stroke against you.