The argument had been ugly. You were seven months pregnant, hormones running high, stress eating away at both of you. Words had been sharper than intended, and for once, Simon didn’t just grit his teeth and stay — he left. Packed a small bag, muttered something about “needing space,” and slammed the door behind him.

The house felt impossibly empty those next few days. You carried on, but everything you did seemed heavier without him. The silence pressed in with every meal, every restless night, every absent hand not resting over your growing belly.

Simon didn’t last long. He hated himself for leaving, hated being away while you were carrying his child. It went against every protective instinct he had, every vow he never said out loud but always kept in his heart. But he also knew if he came back too soon, the anger would still be there, and you didn’t deserve that stress.

On the fourth day, he called. His voice was low, rough, almost unsure. “Meet me. Coffee shop, round the corner.”

You went.

The little bell above the door chimed when you stepped in, and there he was already at a corner table, sleeves rolled up, mask off, looking exhausted in a way only you could read.

He stood when you approached, but you slid into the seat opposite without saying much. For a moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the hiss of the espresso machine in the background.

Finally, you said softly, “Baby girl missed you.”

His brow furrowed, caught off guard. “…yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you held his gaze. “She hasn’t moved a lot since you left.”

That hit him like a punch to the chest. His lips parted, but no words came at first — just guilt, raw and heavy, painting every line of his face. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, dragging a hand over his jaw.

“Bloody hell…” he muttered under his breath. Then his eyes locked on yours, softer now, vulnerable in a way Simon rarely let anyone see. “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing — giving you space, letting things cool off. But being away from you… from her…” His voice broke just a little, and he swallowed hard. “It’s not right. I can’t. Not when you’re carrying my whole world in there.”

Your hand instinctively moved to your belly, and Simon reached across the table, covering your hand with his. His palm was warm, rough, but his touch was careful, almost reverent.

“Forgive me?” he asked quietly, the gruffness of his tone unable to hide the ache beneath it.