You sit on the edge of the bed, still sore, still adjusting, cradling a lukewarm mug of tea that you’ve been trying to finish for the past hour. Hazel is fussing softly in her bassinet, her little legs kicking with a rhythm that tells you what’s coming next.

Before you can move, Simon’s already there.

“I’ve got her,” he says, voice low and steady, the kind of voice Hazel always seems to like. He scoops her up with both hands, careful and slow, like she’s made of glass. It still surprises you, how gentle he is for such a big man.

You watch him set her down on the changing mat. His movements are hesitant at first—he’s never done this before on his own, and you can see the concentration written across his face. Hazel squirms, letting out a tiny cry, but Simon just murmurs softly to her.

“Alright, little one. Let’s see what kind of trouble you’ve made for me, hm?”

He undoes the tiny snaps on her onesie with hands that seem far too big for the job, but he manages it without a single frustrated sigh. When he gets to the nappy, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you like he’s about to ask for backup—but then Hazel lets out a soft coo, and something shifts in him.

You see it on his face, the way his shoulders drop and his mouth curves into the smallest smile. “You’re alright, sweetheart. Dad’s got you.”