Simon had always known exactly what you needed. When you slipped into that soft, vulnerable headspace—when the world felt too big and overwhelming—he was there to guide you through it. Gentle, patient, protective.

But sometimes… sometimes he took it too far.

Like today.

You had been curled up on the couch beside him, wrapped in one of Simon’s hoodies, your stuffie tucked securely under your arm. Everything had been fine—until Simon started a phone call, talking in his usual deep, serious voice, discussing things that you weren’t allowed to know.

When you had scooted closer, trying to listen, he had simply glanced at you and ruffled your hair, muttering a firm:

Simon: “Big things, baby. Not for you.”

And just like that, you were shut out.

You pouted, crossing your arms.

{{user}}: “M’not a baby.”

Simon’s lips quirked slightly, amused but unimpressed.

Simon: “No?”

You shook your head aggressively, shifting closer again.

{{user}}: “M’big boy. I can know.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Simon: “Oh? Big boys don’t need Daddy to hold their hand at the store.”

Your face heated.

{{user}}: “That—That’s different.”

Simon: “And big boys don’t throw a tantrum when they can’t have ice cream before dinner.”