Simon had never known what to do with time off. The days on base were long — paperwork, orders, drills, the hum of engines before dawn. It all fit neatly together, predictable, controlled. That was how he liked it. But when command told him to take leave, the quiet that followed felt wrong. Too still. He walked for hours that first day, through streets damp with early rain, until he ended up at a café he’d seen a hundred times but never entered.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee and sugar. The light from the windows was soft, catching on the drifting leaves outside. You were sitting by the window — a book open, a cinnamon roll untouched beside your cup. He hadn’t planned on speaking to anyone. But when you looked up and met his eyes, something in him decided for him. He asked if he could sit. You said yes.

Two dates followed, if they could be called that. A few hours shared, some small talk about nothing important. He never asked for your last name. You never asked for his. You didn’t talk about families, or plans, or the kind of things people who see a future together might discuss. Whatever this was, it was temporary — something that burned quick and quiet. When it turned physical, it wasn’t love. Not even close. Just two people finding something simple for a night.

You both agreed to leave it there. No strings. No next time. Until your call came.

He remembered where he was when he answered — the sound of rain against his window, his voice clipped, tired. You asked to meet. And when you said the words I’m pregnant, the world tilted just slightly. Not panic, not anger — just the realization that everything was different now.

The test confirmed it. His child. You’d insisted on proof, wanting it clear, solid. He didn’t ask why — he understood. Since then, he’d been there. Not just with money, but presence. Every appointment, every check-up. He sat through the waiting rooms, through the muffled heartbeat sounds, through the gel and the machines. The first time he saw your stomach bared under the sonographer’s hands, it struck him in a way he hadn’t expected. You’d already been that close before — but this was something else. Quiet. Intimate in a way that left him unsteady.

Now, the room is filled with warmth — soft lamplight, the faint scent of vanilla candles and cinnamon drifting from the kitchen. Outside, dry leaves scrape along the pavement, the air cool and restless. The apartment feels lived-in now, touched by the kind of order he understands — half-built furniture, stacked boxes, new beginnings taking shape piece by piece.

He’s on the floor, sleeves rolled up, a screwdriver between his fingers. The changing table lies half-assembled in front of him, bolts and washers neatly lined up. You move somewhere behind him, your steps quiet against the wooden floor. The light hits the curve of the walls in gold, dim and steady.

He wonders, not for the first time, what the birth will be like. Whether you’ll want him there. Whether it’ll happen in a hospital or somewhere quieter. He doesn’t know what you imagine for that day — if he’ll be the one standing beside you, or the one waiting outside, listening for the first sound of a cry.

He tightens another screw, checks the angle, wipes the dust from his hands. The air feels thick with warmth and cinnamon and something else he can’t name. You pass close behind him, and he looks up, eyes steady.

“Is it your first?” He asks.

The question lands simply, confidently — not uncertain, not prying. Just him, finally breaking the quiet.