The room is dim and quiet, the soft lamp beside the bed casting a warm glow across the walls. Simon moves with quiet patience, presence steady—familiar in every sound and shadow. He’s been through this routine more than once tonight. Four times, to be exact. Four gentle trips back to your room, each one met with a small smile and a quiet, “It’s all right. We’ll try again.”

Now you’re here, and so is he.

Simon kneels beside the bed, resting one hand on the floor as he lifts the blanket’s edge. He looks beneath it carefully, his movements slow, unhurried. His voice, when it comes, is low and steady.

“No monsters.” He murmurs, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile in his tone—a father’s reassurance, simple and sure.

He stands and sits on the edge of the bed, his weight sinking gently into the mattress. The motion stirs the air with his quiet scent—soap, clean laundry, a trace of his aftershave. He smooths the blanket with practiced hands, making sure every fold lies just right.

Then, as he leans back, he exhales softly and rubs a hand over his face, pretending to yawn.

“Guess your daddy's more tired than he thought.” He says in that warm, calm way of his. He says it not to make you hurry, but to show you it’s safe to rest.

He opens his arms then, not in command but in quiet invitation. His eyes are steady and kind, a promise that he’ll stay as long as it takes.

“Come here, {{user}}, love.” Simon says gently.

“Let’s get you tucked in.”

The room feels smaller in that moment, softer—like the world has slowed down just enough for the two of you to breathe.