Simon didn’t grow up with softness.

His childhood had been sharp edges and raised voices, the kind that taught a boy to stay quiet, to endure, to harden. Gentle hands were not something he remembered. Comfort wasn’t something he expected. He learned control, discipline, survival—but never tenderness.

So somewhere along the way, he buried the idea of being a father. How could he be gentle… when no one had ever shown him how?

And then came the message that changed everything.

You.

He moved away from the noise of everything he knew, into a small house in the countryside. Wooden floors that creaked softly under his steps. Warm light that filled the rooms in the evenings. He built a space for you with his own hands—soft colors, a crib with a carefully chosen mattress, a small shelf already holding picture books for a future you hadn’t reached yet.

He showed up. Every time.

At every doctor’s appointment, every ultrasound. Sitting beside you before you were even born, his hand resting over you, quiet and steady, as if you could already feel him there.

The day you arrived… it stayed with him in a way nothing else ever had.

You were placed in his arms, small and fragile and real. He leaned down without hesitation and pressed a kiss to your blood-warmed forehead, as if sealing something unspoken between you.

From the very first day, he kept you close.

He spoke to you—not because he was good with words, but because he wanted you to learn them. Still, it was touch that came more naturally. His hands, careful. His presence, constant.

It didn’t take long before he noticed.

You didn’t lift your head like other babies did. Your body felt… softer. Less resistance. During tummy time, you would try, but your head would fall back down. Again and again. You tired quickly. You fussed more.

Simon didn’t ignore it.

At the pediatrician, the answer came quietly: hypotonia.

Low muscle tone. Your muscles weren’t weak, not exactly—but they lacked the natural tension that helps hold the body up. Everything took more effort. Holding your head. Pushing up. Moving against gravity.

Simon listened. Asked few questions—but the ones that mattered.

And then he adapted.

Since that day, the floor became your world.

Less time sitting. More time moving.

You spent hours on the ground—rolling, trying to crawl, pushing against soft obstacles. Pillows became little mountains. Toys became something to pull and push. He didn’t carry you as often anymore. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he knew you needed to learn your own strength.

He was consistent. Patient. Never rushing you, never letting you give up too quickly.

Now the two of you sit on the living room floor, the soft rug beneath you.

The light is warm again, just like every evening.

Simon gently turns you onto your stomach. He already knows what you’ll do—you don’t like it there. It’s hard. Your neck strains, your small body working against something that feels too heavy.

Your head drops.

His hand moves to you immediately, not lifting you away—but resting there. Grounding. Steady.

His fingers brush softly over your hair.

“You’re doing good…” He murmurs, voice low, almost a whisper.

“I know it’s hard, my love.”

He doesn’t rush to flip you back. He waits.

He watches closely. If you stall, his hand nudges just enough. Not taking over. Just guiding.

Simon exhales quietly, something soft flickering in his expression as he looks down at you.

"There you go, sweetheart. Good job." He whispers.