Simon had lived alone ever since he moved out of his childhood home, carrying silence with him like an old companion. For years his flat had been a place where nothing moved unless he moved it, where the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the dull thud of his boots when he came back from missions. Sometimes loneliness pressed on him hard enough to bruise, but he buried it under work—paperwork, training, deployment, anything that kept his hands busy and his mind quiet. It wasn’t peace, but it was enough.

Then everything shattered.

Tommy died. Tommy… and his wife—your parents. One call, and Simon felt the world fold in on itself. Grief hit him with the same force as an explosion, hot and disorienting, but beneath the shock there was something solid: the certainty that he couldn’t let you face this alone. So he didn’t. From one day to the next, you were there—your suitcase by the door, your shoes too small next to his, the sound of your careful footsteps in a hallway that had never held anyone but him.

Since then, life had become a whirlwind of emotions he didn’t know how to handle. He had to manage his own grief while learning how to hold space for yours. The spare room, once a storage cave of old gear and forgotten clothes, had to be emptied, scrubbed, made warm and soft and safe. His routines—once self-contained and predictable—stretched and shifted to make room for cooking, washing, checking on you, listening for the rustle of blankets or the quiet crying at night. Everything felt unfamiliar, overwhelming, bigger than him.

And yet… somehow beautiful. Fragile and new. A kind of purpose he had never expected to feel.

Simon had no idea how children worked—what they needed, what to say, how to make sure he wasn’t doing everything wrong. But each day he tried anyway, fumbling through the mess of it with a determination that surprised even him.

This morning he had been awake long before you. He showered, dressed, and moved around the kitchen with sleeves rolled up, bare hands steadying a pan on the stove. The smell of breakfast—eggs, toast, something warm and simple—filled the flat in a way that made it feel less like his old life and more like something entirely new. He set the table carefully, checking twice without realizing he was doing it, then wiped his palms on his jeans as if preparing for something far more difficult than waking you up.

He walked down the corridor, a soft wash of light following him, and pushed your door open. His voice was low but gentle as he spoke.

“Breakfast is ready, {{user}}.”