You don’t notice the way he’s watching you at first. Simon leans against the doorframe, mask pulled up just enough for comfort inside the house, arms crossed as he takes in the scene in front of him.

Hazel is chattering away at the kitchen table, showing Willa how to “properly” color in her book. Willa, stubborn as always, ignores her sister’s advice and scribbles happily in her own style. Elsie is tucked against your chest, her tiny breaths warm against your collarbone as you move about with practiced ease—switching the laundry, fetching snacks, soothing fusses, and answering every “Mum?” that comes your way.

Simon’s chest tightens as he watches you. You’re so fluid in your movements, almost effortless, as if balancing a newborn, a toddler, and a five year old is the simplest thing in the world. He knows it isn’t—he’s seen what the days can do to you, how tired your eyes can look—but you never let the girls feel that weight.

You shift Elsie higher on your shoulder, pat her back, and in the same motion, you lean over to fix Hazel’s hair out of her eyes. You laugh softly at something Willa says—her words half-garbled, half-perfect—and Simon feels that laugh settle in his bones.

You glance up then, catching him watching. “You just going to stand there, soldier, or are you planning to help?” you tease, though your eyes are warm.

He grunts in reply, the corners of his mouth twitching beneath the mask. But he doesn’t move, not yet. He just wants another moment of this: his wife, his girls, his home. After everything—after years of shadows and blood and silence—this is what he never thought he’d have.

When Elsie lets out a tiny squeak, you bounce her gently, shushing without missing a beat. Hazel looks up and beams, “Daddy, Elsie likes Mummy better than you.”