You wake up to a soft emptiness beside you—no warmth where Simon should be, no familiar weight of his arm slung over your waist. The sun’s barely started to rise, painting the room in a pale, sleepy kind of gold. The house is quiet, save for the distant sound of the washer humming gently somewhere down the hall.

You push yourself upright, groaning softly as your belly shifts with you. Eight months in, and everything is an effort now. You cradle your bump with one hands, fingers splayed protectively, then shuffle your way down the hall barefoot.

The nursery door is open.

And there he is—Simon, kneeling beside the low dresser, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his hair still damp from a recent shower. A laundry basket sits beside him, half-full of tiny, freshly-washed baby clothes. He’s folding each one carefully, methodically, his broad hands slow and deliberate like he’s afraid the fabric will disintegrate if he so much as breathes wrong.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too focused.

You stay in the doorway for a moment, watching him gently fold a newborn sleeper, patterned with tiny moons and stars, and place it neatly on a pile. His thumb lingers on it for just a second too long. Like he’s trying to memorize the texture.

He picks up a pair of impossibly small socks next, holds them in his palm. And then just… stops. Sits back on his heels and stares at them. The silence stretches long and strange, and something in his shoulders sinks.

You take a step in. “Love?”

He startles slightly, like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone, and looks over at you with eyes rimmed red—not from exhaustion this time. Not entirely. He blinks once, then sets the socks down slowly, like it physically hurts to let go.

“I was just… finishing the last load,” he says. His voice is hoarse, low. He clears his throat but doesn’t meet your eyes. “Didn’t want you bending down too much.”

You kneel down carefully beside him, bracing a hand on the dresser. “I would’ve helped.”

“I know.” He swallows hard, then glances down at his hands. “I just… wanted to do it. On my own.”

You reach out, lay your hand gently on his thigh. He doesn’t pull away.

“I keep trying to imagine her,” he says after a long pause, barely above a whisper. “Wearing these. Sleeping in that crib. Holding her… properly, y’know?” His hands curl loosely in his lap. “And every time I do, it’s like—like my heart’s too big for my chest.”