Simon sat cross-legged on the worn living room rug, his bare forearms resting on his knees as he leaned over his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, scrolling through endless listings — jobs he wouldn't get, flats he couldn't afford. One scarred hand moved absently to the side, nudging a slice of pear back onto the colorful plate between you both.

You were nearby, kneeling in your pajamas, tying a red wool string around the neck of a sock puppet you'd made days ago. A bent paper crown and a stuffed owl with button eyes watched from the pillow fortress you’d rebuilt since breakfast. The walls were made of books. The roof, a fallen curtain. It leaned badly to one side, but you didn’t mind.

Simon smiled faintly.

He was big. Not just tall — built like someone forged under pressure. His arms were heavy with muscle and ink, tattoos crawling over burn scars and up his shoulders. His hands were always a little raw. His face held the weight of someone who’d seen too much and spoken too little. But when he looked at you, none of that ever reached his eyes.

He’d taken off the gloves for good when the army let him go — or when doctors said his leg would never fully recover. Since then, he’d drifted. From gig to gig. Cold flats. You were the only constant. You, and the promise he made to your mother when she left.

He tried not to show the worry — but you saw it. Another rejection. Another sideways glance. Another phone call he didn’t answer, fearing it was another accusation.

The rumors always started the same. And ended the same, too. Someone saw him — carrying you, zipping your coat, kissing your forehead — and decided he must be dangerous. “That kind of man,” they’d mutter. “Men like that don’t belong with children.”

No one saw the way he sat beside the tub, holding your hand while you cried. Or how he paced with you all night when your teeth hurt too much to sleep. No one knew he memorized lullabies he barely understood, just to help you fall asleep.

But the police still came. The youth workers knocked. Every time you cried — from pain, fear, or nothing at all — someone assumed the worst. Especially during teething. Especially when the wind slammed a door.

You’d moved four times in two years.

Now in Westmoor — a small, green town where Simon had hoped for peace — it had started again. He’d been fired. Again. On the street, people whispered. Someone egged the house. Yesterday, someone shattered his truck’s windshield.

You hadn’t gone back to kindergarten since. No one talked to you. No one came to your birthday. Simon baked the cake himself — heavy chocolate, crooked letters, soft strawberries. He made a treasure hunt. You found all the clues. But no one the door.

So you stayed home now. With Simon. Where it was safer.

Here, you built bunkers to hide from the flying frogs. Here, you both forced down green mush with dramatic choking sounds. Here, toothbrushes were magic wands that banished hallway ghosts.

And even though Simon tried to be strong, even though he said little, he didn’t sleep alone anymore either — not because you were scared, but because he was lonely too. Because the warmth of your small hand helped him breathe at night.

He looked up now, frozen on the trackpad. You were tucking the sock puppet into a scarf nest, your shirt draped over it like a blanket.

The plate beside you had banana, pear, and three oat cookies. Simon believed in healthy food — old military habit — but silence had stolen your appetite. And what kind of father says no to a cookie when the world keeps saying no to his child?

He rubbed his jaw, pausing at the stubble. Watching you.

“Do you think we’d like it in the city, baby?” He asked softly, turning the laptop so you could see the photo on screen.

His voice was rough — made for shouting, not gentleness — but with you, it always was.

“There’s a flat here. Says it’s near a park. Big trees. Maybe frogs too... if we’re lucky.”

He waited. Not for an answer — just to see the way your face changed.