Simon had never had a blueprint for gentleness.

His childhood had been sharp edges and silence—lessons taught through endurance, not care. Softness was something other people seemed to understand instinctively, something he had only ever seen from a distance. For a long time, he believed that was reason enough to never become a father.

How could he give something he had never been given?

So he buried the thought. Locked it away like everything else.

Until you.

The news had come quietly, almost unreal at first—you were going to exist. His child. And something in him shifted, not loudly, not dramatically, but in a way that refused to be ignored. Fear came first. Then responsibility. And beneath it, something steadier.

He moved you both out to the countryside soon after. A small house, wood floors that creaked under his weight, warm light pooling in corners instead of the harsh glare he was used to. He built your room himself—soft colors, careful choices. A crib with a mattress tested more times than necessary. Books placed neatly on a shelf, waiting for a future he wasn’t sure how to picture yet.

Simon didn’t miss a single appointment. Not one.

At every ultrasound, he stood close, silent, watching. His hand would rest absentmindedly over you, as if he could anchor you there, keep you safe even before you were born.

And then—

Two heartbeats.

Twins.

For the first time in a long while, Simon didn’t have an immediate response. The word echoed heavier than expected. Two. Double the responsibility. Double the risk. His mind ran through scenarios, calculations, contingencies.

…but also—

Two lives.

Two chances to do this right.

The pregnancy stayed healthy, steady. You, smaller than your twin, but strong in your own way. Simon adjusted. He always did. A second crib appeared. More supplies. More structure. More planning.

When you were finally born, he held both of you like something unreal—fragile in a way that made his chest tighten. He pressed a quiet kiss to each of your foreheads, his voice low, almost rough when he made a promise he didn’t take lightly.

“I’ve got you.”

The newborn phase was… a different kind of battlefield.

Not chaos—just constant demand. You and your twin weren’t in sync at first. One cried while the other slept. One needed feeding while the other needed changing. Simon adapted, moving between you with a kind of quiet efficiency.

But he noticed.

You weren’t the same.

You responded to small clicking sounds, settling faster to that than any soft “shh.” Your twin preferred the opposite—gentle hushes, steady rhythm. Simon memorized it all without realizing, adjusting instinctively, learning you like he would any mission… except this time, it mattered in a different way.

As you grew, movement made everything harder.

Two sets of hands reaching, two bodies shifting, two directions at once. His attention stretched thin in ways he wasn’t used to. He compensated the only way he knew how—by watching everything.

Always watching.

This morning starts earlier than usual.

You and your twin had woken before the sun had fully settled into the sky, restless and hungry. Now you’re both strapped securely into your high chairs, small trays in front of you. Simon moves around the kitchen with quiet precision, preparing something simple—oats mashed with banana.

Two bowls.

Equal portions.

He sets them down carefully, one in front of each of you.

Then he pulls a chair over and sits directly in front of you first.

The spoon rests in his hand, steady. His gaze softens just slightly as he leans in, close enough that you can see the faint exhaustion in his eyes—but also the focus.

“Alright.” Simon says quietly, voice low but firm.

“Open your mouth for me, {{user}}, baby.”