The late afternoon sun filters through the living room window, casting golden shapes on the floor. Crayons are scattered across the table, and Noah sits in the middle of them, tongue poking out in concentration as he scribbles bright lines onto thick paper. His little feet swing beneath the chair, too short to touch the ground.

Simon moves around the room slowly, one hand adjusting the blanket draped over the back of the couch, the other cradling your tiny form close to his chest. You're tucked against him in a baby wrap, snug and still, your head nestled just below his collarbone. He can feel your breath—soft, shallow, but steady—warming the front of his shirt.

No mask. No gloves. Just Simon. Bare hands, tired eyes, and the low weight of you held tight to his chest. Every few seconds, his fingers rise to your back, checking. You're still so small, still fighting to keep warm on your own. But here, against him, you're safe. His body does the work yours isn't ready for yet.

He exhales quietly and leans down to pick up a crumpled blanket from the floor. The room's not messy, not really—just lived in. A few toys left out, a bottle on the end table, the faint scent of formula and laundry powder in the air.

Noah hums to himself, then looks up.

"Daddy, look." He says, holding up his paper proudly. A crooked house, a tree with too many branches, and stick figures holding hands.

Simon walks over and crouches beside him, careful not to jostle you. He glances at the drawing, then ruffles Noah’s hair with a free hand.

“Nice one, mate.” He says softly, lips twitching into the smallest smile.

“That us?”

Noah nods.

“That’s me. That’s you. That’s the baby.”

Simon looks down at you again. You're still asleep, a little fist curled against the fabric of his shirt. He shifts his stance and straightens up, careful, always careful.

He keeps moving, keeps picking up after the long day—his eyes always drifting back to you.

The world outside can wait. This is where he is now.