The drive home had been long, the kind that left Simon’s shoulders tight and his hands aching from hours gripping the wheel. The country roads wound endlessly between fields, the late summer air shimmering above the asphalt. By the time the farmhouse came into view, the sky was already shifting to deep gold, shadows stretching across the yard.

He parked the truck beside the fence and sat for a moment, letting the quiet settle over him. The house looked the same as it always did—white paint weathered by the years, the porch light glowing even though the sun wasn’t gone yet. It was steady, familiar. A place he’d fought hard to make safe.

Stepping out, he caught the faint smell of fresh grass and the softer, homely scent of laundry drying somewhere nearby. Boots thudded against the porch boards before he kicked them off at the door. He hung his jacket, loosened his shoulders, and stood still for a moment, listening. Somewhere deeper in the house, the muffled voice of your three-year-old son rose and fell—Noah, probably arranging his dinosaurs into another elaborate prehistoric scene.

Simon’s gaze swept the hallway as he made his way in. A plastic T. rex lay on its side against the skirting board. The little blue jumper Noah had worn that morning was draped over the banister. Life here was never spotless, but it was full—something Simon never took for granted.

When he stepped into the living room, his eyes went first to you. You were on the sofa, leaning back into the cushions, one hand resting naturally against your belly. It wasn’t large yet—just enough to show the beginnings of the life growing there. This was your second pregnancy, and Simon remembered exactly how the first had gone—the sickness, the exhaustion, the way you pushed through it all despite him wanting to take every bit of the weight from you.

You’d told him, more than once, that you didn’t want to be wrapped in cotton. That you could handle it. And he knew you could. But that didn’t stop him from watching, quietly measuring if you were eating enough, sleeping enough, if Noah was giving you too much of a hard time on the days when the nausea was bad.

He crossed the room, the soft floorboards giving under his weight, and lowered himself onto the sofa beside you. His eyes lingered on your face—tired, but steady—and then dropped briefly to your stomach before meeting your gaze again.

Simon’s mouth curved into a faint, warm smile, his voice low from the day’s long hours.

“How’re my girls doing?”