Simon had learned early that softness didn’t survive in the kind of home he grew up in. Voices were sharp, hands were rough, and silence was something you earned by staying out of the way. There were no lullabies, no gentle reassurances in the dark. Just tension, and the constant need to endure it.

So he buried the idea of ever becoming a father. It didn’t fit him. How could he offer something he had never been given?

And then the message came.

He read it twice. Then a third time, slower. Something in his chest shifted—unfamiliar, heavy, but not unwelcome.

He left the city not long after.

The house was small, set far enough from everything that the loudest thing at night was the wind brushing against the trees. Wooden floors creaked softly under his weight. The lights were always warm, never harsh. He built a room for you with careful hands—muted colors, a crib with a soft mattress, shelves already holding a few picture books he didn’t quite know how to read out loud yet.

He showed up to every appointment. Sat through every ultrasound. His hand would rest over you—over the place where you grew—quiet, steady, as if grounding both of you at once.

The day you were born, nothing in his past seemed to follow him into that room.

You were placed in his arms, small and fragile and loud. He didn’t flinch. He leaned down instead, pressing a kiss to your blood-warmed forehead, his breath uneven for once.

For a while, the crying didn’t scare him. It meant you were breathing.

But it didn’t stop.

Hours turned into days. Days into a pattern. You cried until your body trembled, until your voice broke into something raw and desperate. And Simon—he watched, listened, learned.

Doctors said your body was healthy. No pain, no illness.

But they kept observing. Watching how you reacted, how you struggled to settle.

The conclusion came quietly: a regulatory disorder in infancy. And a suspicion—early, uncertain—of autism.

Simon didn’t react the way people expected.

He didn’t panic. Didn’t get louder to match you. Didn’t rush.

The house adapted instead.

The curtains stayed half-drawn, softening the daylight. No television ever flickered to life. No background noise filled the rooms—just the wind, the distant rustle of leaves, birds somewhere beyond the glass.

And you.

You were always close.

When you cried, he offered his chest first. If that didn’t work, he moved—slow, deliberate steps through the house, your small body held securely against him. He noticed what helped. What didn’t.

Gentle stroking made you tense. But pressure—firm, steady—seemed to anchor you. So he adjusted. The baby carrier became something constant, wrapping you close to him, giving you that weight you seemed to need.

He learned you without words.

Now, the house is quiet again—except for your uneven breaths.

Simon sits on the sofa, his back sunk into the cushions. You’re lying against his chest, small and warm, your cheek pressed just over his heartbeat. One of his hands pats gently against your bum, a slow, rhythmic motion, keeping that steady pressure you seem to settle into. The other holds a book—pages filled with notes on autism, sensory processing, early signs.

He reads, even now.

Preparing.

His head tilts down after a moment. His lips brush softly against the top of your head, careful, almost hesitant in their gentleness.

His voice follows, low, roughened by exhaustion but steady.

“Maybe… we get you some sensory toys, yeah?”