Simon had never imagined himself as a father. Growing up, gentleness wasn’t something anyone had taught him; his childhood was strict, harsh, and full of lessons about survival, not tenderness. The dream of holding a child, of being gentle, had always seemed out of reach.

But then the news came: he was going to be a father. The thought hit him like a shockwave. He moved to a small house in the countryside, wooden floors, warm light spilling through the windows. He had prepared a room just for you, soft colors, a crib with a plush mattress. Already, the first picture books were stacked neatly on a shelf, waiting for the day you could read them together.

He attended every appointment, every ultrasound, his hand often resting over your mother’s belly as if trying to reassure you even before you were born. The day you arrived was the happiest in his life. He kissed your blood-streaked forehead, overwhelmed by a love he hadn’t thought possible.

From the start, he believed you shared a closeness beyond words. You talked about everything, or so he thought. Then came the day you walked into the living room and admitted you had taken pills.

Simon’s world shifted in an instant. He drove you to the hospital, heart hammering. In the emergency room, dizziness swept over you. He tried to steady you, but you pulled back, insisting you could manage. Together, you navigated the confusing maze of hallways to the pediatric ward.

Questions were asked, vitals checked, and Simon watched your face turn paler, your energy draining. The staff decided you needed transfer to another hospital. A helicopter would have been faster, but the risk of vomiting was too high. While waiting for the ambulance, a nurse gave you charcoal by mouth. Simon stayed close, his eyes never leaving you.

The ride was tense, chaotic, but every moment, Simon found a way to be near you. A hand on yours, a quiet word, a reassurance that you were not alone.

At the new hospital, you landed first on the ground floor because the ICU was still preparing. Electrodes on your chest monitored your heart. The doctors left, saying your body now had to fight this itself. Simon stayed by your side, draping his jacket over you like a shield, a comfort.

Hours later, you were finally allowed into the ICU. The room was calmer. You settled into a proper bed, connected to an IV, with monitors tracking your pulse, heart, and blood pressure. Midnight had passed.

Simon sat beside you on a chair, eyes flicking between your pale, exhausted face and the glowing monitors. He leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.

“We’re staying here in this room for now, baby. I know it's hard but try to relax… I’m not going anywhere.”