Simon never imagined peace would sound like this.

Not silence exactly—more like the low creak of wooden floors warming under the sun, the hum of distant wind over open land, the soft glow of lamps turning the house amber in the evenings. Your house. The one you chose together. A place built less for hiding and more for staying. He learned early how to move quietly through it, how to make coffee before you woke, how to leave doors half-open so light could travel.

Marriage changed him in small, permanent ways. There were no grand speeches, no sudden softness—just consistency. Coming home. Fixing things before they broke. Touching your back as he passed, just to reassure himself you were real.

When you talked about a child, he didn’t hesitate.

Simon wanted to be a father with the same certainty he once accepted danger. Not out of loneliness, but purpose. He wanted to build something that would outlast him. To raise a life with patience instead of force. That want settled deep in him and never left.

The spare room was the first promise. Renovated slowly, deliberately. Fresh paint. New shelves. A crib he assembled twice because the first time didn’t feel right. He stood in the doorway afterward, arms crossed, imagining footsteps that didn’t exist yet. Imagining laughter. Weight in his arms.

Throughout the pregnancy, he stayed where he believed he belonged—close.

He learned the rhythm of your nausea before you did, already holding your hair back without being asked. He waited through appointments, sitting stiff in plastic chairs, listening harder than he ever had to briefings. At night, he warmed oil between his palms and rubbed it into your skin with quiet care, speaking only when you did. Sometimes he just rested his forehead against you, breathing, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That the baby was growing. That this was happening.

The birth stripped everything down to essentials.

Time warped. Pain came in waves. Amy’s voice anchored the room, calm and practiced, guiding breath and movement. Simon stayed steady, even when fear brushed close. His pride outweighed it. His love drowned it out.

And then the sound—small, sharp, alive.

Now the world has slowed again.

The baby is here. Just minutes old. The house feels different already, fuller somehow. Amy has stepped away. The lights are low. Simon sits beside you, close enough to feel your warmth, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face with careful fingers.

His eyes move between you and the baby, lingering, memorizing. There’s awe there. Gratitude. A protective instinct so strong it almost aches.

He smiles -soft, warm- and leans a little closer, careful not to disturb the baby. His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, grounding, familiar.

“Do you want something to drink?” Simon asks quietly. Then, after a brief pause, his eyes flick toward the bedside table, thoughtful.

“Or should I get that cooling pad ready -like Amy said? The gel and the cold spray?”

He looks back at you, attentive, already halfway prepared to stand, waiting for your answer.