“No, I’m…” he stammered, stepping back from the hospital bed, his eyes locked on the tiny bundle cradled in {{user}}’s arms. His chest tightened, and a knot of fear coiled in his stomach as he stared at the fragile life before him.

He was terrified. Terrified that his scarred hands, the hands that had done so much harm, might somehow hurt this small, perfect being. Every instinct screamed to reach out, to hold, to protect—but something heavier, darker, rooted him in place.

“I… I might hurt them, darlin’…” he whispered, voice rough with emotion, trembling despite himself. His gaze lingered on the baby, filled with a mixture of longing, guilt, and awe. “These hands… they’re made for killing. Not… not holding something so… delicate… so tiny…”

He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure as he stepped closer, though still too afraid to touch. “I want to… I want to hold them… I do,” he murmured, his voice breaking, “but I’m scared… scared I’ll ruin everything before I even get the chance…”

A tremor ran through him as he watched {{user}}’s gentle movements, the quiet, tender rhythm of care, and he felt a pang of longing so deep it hurt. Simon’s fingers twitched, as if reaching for the baby on their own, yet he pulled them back, haunted by the violence they had known, desperate to be worthy of this innocent life.