Simon grew up in a world that didn’t leave much room for softness. His childhood was built on survival—on reading danger before it arrived, on silence that meant control, on never assuming safety for too long. Love wasn’t something he understood in a clear way. It was distant, almost unreal, something other people seemed to have access to but he never fully did.

He never believed he would fall in love.

Not once. Until he met you.

You were different in a way he couldn’t ignore. There was a quiet warmth to you, something steady that didn’t demand anything from him. You didn’t force noise into silence—you existed comfortably in it. And at the same time, you could change in an instant, full of energy, light, laughter that filled spaces he didn’t even realize were empty.

He didn’t understand it at first. He only knew he kept coming back. Kept listening. Kept staying longer than he planned.

You talked. About everything and nothing. Slowly, something shifted between you without being named. Dates became normal. Normal became routine. Routine became attachment. And attachment became something Simon couldn’t step away from anymore.

He fell. Hard.

Marriage came quietly, without spectacle. Just a decision that felt heavier than words. Then a small house in the countryside—wooden floors, warm lights, slow mornings, a place where the world felt far away enough to breathe.

Life became calm. Gentle. Safe in a way he had never known.

And then you decided to have a child.

Simon didn’t hesitate. Stable life, space, time—and something unspoken between you both: enough love to make room for someone new.

When you became pregnant, something in him shifted immediately.

He stayed closer. Watched more. Not out of control, but instinct. The first weeks unsettled him—nothing was certain yet, everything still fragile.

And your symptoms made it harder.

The nausea came early. The exhaustion too. You could fall asleep anywhere—on the sofa, in the bath, even at the kitchen table during breakfast, head dropping like your body simply gave up mid-moment.

Simon never made a big deal out of it. He just adjusted. Covered you with blankets. Stayed near. Observed quietly.

Typical, he thought. A Riley child doesn’t do anything halfway.

He knew his own birth hadn’t been small. Over five kilos. Strong from the start. Now he watched you carry something similar, and it made something in his chest tighten every time he thought about it.

In the second trimester, things eased.

Your body changed. Your belly began to show earlier than expected. The first time he noticed it clearly, he went still. Just looking. Processing. Then his hand rested on you carefully, like he was confirming it was real.

A small smile—rare, quiet.

After that, he softened. Less watching, more presence. He learned routines: what you could eat, when you needed rest, how your energy shifted. The house adapted around you without needing words.

But now you’re in the third trimester.

He knew it would be harder.

The baby was bigger now, heavier, pressing into everything. Your back ached. Sleep came in pieces. And the nausea returned—stronger, sharper. Some days were manageable. Others weren’t.

You could barely keep food down.

So Simon adjusted without discussion.

Toast. Crackers. Dry noodles. Zwieback. Simple food, nothing heavy. Chamomile and ginger tea. Still water always nearby.

He enters the living room quietly, placing a glass on the table, then a plate beside it.

He crouches down next to the couch.

His hand moves to your hair, brushing it back from your face, lingering just a second too long. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

His eyes stay on you.

“Did the apple sauce stay down this morning?” He asks quietly.

A pause.

“Don’t force food if it comes right back up. Just small bites. A bit at a time.” He adds, calm but firm.