You don’t mean to say it—not really. It slips out between the gentle clink of forks at dinner, casual, like so many half-born wishes. “Saw June’s baby again at the café today,” you murmur, tracing your thumb along the rim of your glass. “He’s got her eyes. Didn’t want to let her go.”

Simon’s quiet, jaw tense as he pushes food across his plate, the fork held a little too tightly. There’s a stretch of silence, a brittle thread drawn taut between you. You almost move on, make a joke to soften it, but the wish hangs between you—a longing he’s heard before, one he never lets close enough to touch.

He sets the fork down with deliberate care, staring at the scarred wood of the table. “We’ve talked about this,” he says, voice low, words measured and flat. Not angry, not quite. Just wary. “You know what I am. What I’ve seen. You really think a kid needs that in their life?”

His hand is tight, knuckles pale; you catch the flicker in his eyes, that stormy edge of guilt and fear he never quite loses. He looks at you then—really looks, the hard mask faltering. “I didn’t have a father worth a damn. Can barely remember a time before… all this.” His fingers twitch, the tattoos and old scars catching in the lamplight. “Some days, I don’t even know if I’m fit to be around you. Let alone a kid. World’s full of men like me. Doesn’t need another one.”