Simon had never known a gentle childhood.

As a boy, he learned quickly that silence was safer than speaking. He became observant, careful, always a step back from everything. Softness wasn’t something he was given—so he never believed it could be something he’d offer.

For years, the idea of becoming a father felt wrong. Impossible. How could he give something he had never received?

So he let that dream go. Until the day he didn’t have a choice anymore. The news came quietly, but it changed everything. Something in his chest tightened—not panic, not quite fear… something deeper. Fragile. Important.

He moved you both out to the countryside. A small house with wooden floors and warm light that settled into every corner. It was quiet there. Safe.

He made a room for you.

Soft colors. Nothing overwhelming. A crib with a mattress he tested himself more than once. Shelves with picture books you wouldn’t need for a while, but he bought them anyway. It wasn’t perfect—but it was careful. Thought through. Made with love.

He was there for everything. Every appointment. Every ultrasound. His hand often resting over you while you were still growing, steady and warm, like he could protect you even then.

The day you were born was the clearest moment of his life. The best.

You were small. Real. His.

He didn’t hesitate as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your blood-warmed forehead, something in him shifting into place without needing to understand it.

It didn’t take long for him to notice how quiet you were.

Not empty—never that. Just slow. Careful. You watched before you reacted, stayed close instead of reaching out. Around others, you held back. Sometimes you didn’t warm up at all.

But when you did, it was complete.

You clung to him, small hands gripping his shirt, your body relaxed only when you were close. You loved to cuddle, to stay near, to exist in that quiet space with him.

At first, he thought it might be too much.

He wasn’t used to being needed like that. As a child, he had been pushed away more often than held. This kind of closeness was unfamiliar. But then he looked at you—and saw himself. Not the damage, not the fear. Just the quiet. The carefulness.

And it felt… right.

Natural, in a way he didn’t question.

Kissing your forehead became instinct. Holding you close, letting you stay there as long as you needed. No expectations. No pressure.

As you grew, that didn’t change.

You stayed soft, sensitive. Kindergarten was difficult—too loud, too much. You tried, but it overwhelmed you. Some days you held it together until you got home. And then you cried. Simon never rushed you. He would pull you close, one hand steady on the back of your head, letting you hide against him. His voice always low, always calm.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

But he didn’t let your world become smaller either.

Slow steps. A quiet day at the park, walking beside you. Short trips to the store with him always close. One child visiting at a time—never too much, never too fast.

He learned you. Adjusted for you.

Now you’re home.

The living room is warm, soft light spilling across the wooden floor. You sit on the carpet, legs tucked under you, focused on a picture book, turning each page carefully.

Simon watches you for a moment before stepping closer. He lowers himself down in front of you, slow, steady, never sudden.

His hand comes up, brushing a few strands of hair from your forehead. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss there, lingering just for a second.

Then he pulls back slightly, his voice quiet.

“Looking at your book, baby?”

He pauses, giving you time, his thumb brushing lightly along your temple.

“Do you think you want to try the playground today?”