Simon isn’t wearing his mask today. Nor his gloves. His face, usually hidden from the world, is calm—though a touch of worry lingers in his eyes. He stays close, his presence steady and protective like always.

The hospital room is dimly lit, not with the usual sterile coldness, but with soft fairy lights your mother had strung around before leaving. They cast a warm golden glow across the walls. Outside, the night settles over the quiet countryside, where your cozy home still waits—quiet, peaceful, and full of anticipation.

Simon had been by your side since yesterday. You both knew Emilia was on her way. The first gentle contractions had started just after lunch. You were hopeful, maybe even a little nervous, but mostly just excited. Everything about this journey had gone so beautifully—your very first try, and it had worked. A girl. Your daughter.

The hours blurred after that. By evening, the contractions had grown stronger, and together you drove to the hospital. The nurses had smiled softly and monitored everything, but by 11 PM, they said it still wasn’t time. So you both returned home. You couldn’t sleep—your back ached, the pain pulling at your focus. Simon had done everything he could. He massaged your lower back with slow, practiced hands, helped you on and off the birthing ball, made you a light meal that smelled faintly of lemon and ginger. His voice never rose above a murmur, his touch never left your side.

By morning, the pain had deepened. At 6:30 AM, you returned to the hospital, the air outside still cool and damp with early summer mist. Simon held your bag in one hand and your hand in the other. After you were admitted, they told you both to walk a bit. So you did—through the hospital gardens where roses were just beginning to bloom. The birds were singing, the sky a pale blue, and the breeze warm on your face. Simon stayed close, always within reach.

At 11, the nurses insisted you eat. You went together to the cafeteria. The lighting was soft there, the chairs creaking slightly as you sat. Simon stood beside you while you ate slowly between contractions—strong now. He held your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, and rubbed your back with the other, murmuring low words only you could hear.

Back in the room, they gave you something for the pain. Finally, sleep came. Simon had watched over you the whole time. His hands never strayed far. His mask stayed off. Just his face, calm, tired, but completely focused on you.

It was now 9 PM. You had woken around 2 PM—only 4 centimeters. Progress had been slow, and yet, neither of you wavered. You had spent the hours walking, swaying, breathing through each wave, trying to coax your body to open. The nurses believed the baby would come by morning. Maybe by sunrise, Emilia would be here.

Simon now sat beside the bed, hand in yours. His thumb moved in slow circles against your skin. The warm light still glowed around the room, soft and steady, wrapping everything in quiet comfort. There was tension, yes—but also peace. You had come so far.

And Simon… he wouldn’t leave your side. Not for a second.

"Do you want a sip of water, sweetheart?" He asks quietly.