Simon learned early that the world wasn’t something you trusted—it was something you managed.

His childhood left him with habits that never really faded: quiet observation, controlled reactions, the instinct to anticipate before anything could go wrong. Softness wasn’t given. It was something you built yourself, carefully, if at all.

If someone had told him back then that he would grow up, marry a man, build a life that looked nothing like the one he came from—he would’ve dismissed it instantly. It wouldn’t have fit into anything he understood.

And still, even as a boy, he knew something about him didn’t align.

Other boys watched girls, whispered, nudged each other with curiosity Simon simply didn’t feel. There was no interest. No pull. Just absence. So he buried it. Like everything else that didn’t have a place.

The military gave him structure, sharpened his control.

Then came Johnny MacTavish.

Johnny was relentless. Loud, boundaryless, constantly pushing where Simon held firm. It wasn’t romantic. It was exhausting.

Until the moment Johnny kissed him.

No warning. No hesitation.

And something in Simon—something he had ignored for years—finally made sense.

He didn’t fight it. He didn’t need to. He accepted it quietly, kept it to himself until it felt solid.

Years passed. They built something steady.

They married. Found a quiet home on the edge of everything.

And still… something was missing.

A child wasn’t a sudden idea. It was something that settled into place the moment it was spoken.

They considered adoption. Thought it through. But they wanted something that was theirs in a different way.

So they chose it.

Simon’s DNA. A surrogate.

Nine months later, you were there.

Simon sat in a hospital chair, looking at you like he was trying to understand something fragile and permanent all at once. And he smiled. Soft. Unguarded. Tears in his eyes.

Johnny leaned in close, voice warm as he told you that you had two daddies. That they would always love you. Always protect you.

Simon didn’t say it. He showed it.

—

There were no roles.

Simon stayed home because it made sense. Because he wanted to.

He noticed early that you experienced the world differently. Before anyone named it, he adjusted.

You have autism.

Your environment changed—not you.

Soft textures. Familiar routines. Space that belonged only to you. Headphones when things got too loud. Objects that grounded you when nothing else did.

He learned your signals the same way he had learned everything else—quietly, precisely.

Your bond with him became something steady. He was predictable. Calm. Always there.

With Johnny, things moved differently. Lighter. More flexible. He found ways to meet you where you were, without making anything feel heavy.

Together, they built something that worked.

—

Today hadn’t started well.

The night had been restless. Broken sleep. Too much, too close together.

Now it showed.

You refused everything.

Food. Touch. Even the things that usually helped.

The living room was quiet.

Johnny sat on the sofa, watching carefully, giving space but staying present.

Simon sat on the floor in front of you, close—but not too close.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t push.

In his hand were your noise-canceling headphones. He held them loosely, not offering them forward, just letting them exist between you.

You didn’t take them.

Didn’t look.

Johnny shifted slightly, voice softer than usual.

“Has she eaten anything today?”

Simon didn’t look away from you.

“A few grapes.” He answered quietly.

Simon adjusted slightly where he sat, lowering himself just enough to be on your level without closing the space you kept.