It had become his favorite part of the day. Every evening, no matter how worn out or restless he came home, Simon looked forward to that quiet moment with you — the one where you let him be close, where he didn’t have to be “Ghost” or the man carrying too much on his shoulders.

You were almost full term now, belly round and heavy, your body working harder every day to carry both yourself and the little girl inside you. Since your sixth month, you had built a routine of using oils and moisturizers, not because they would magically erase stretch marks, but because the act itself soothed you — the cool glide, the soft massage, the feeling of taking care of your body as it changed.

The first time Simon offered to do it, you were surprised. He was never fond of lotion on his hands, always grumbling about the greasy texture. But that night, something in his eyes was different. Curiosity at first, then something softer — almost a need. You had handed him the small bottle, and though he muttered about the oil being “slippery as hell,” his big hands moved carefully over your stomach, spreading it across your skin as though you were made of glass.

And then it became routine. His routine.

Every night after, he asked for it without really asking — a quiet glance at the bottle on the nightstand, a slight tilt of his head, and you’d pass it to him. He always acted like he was just humoring you, like he didn’t care much for the task, but you could see it. The way his hands lingered longer each time, the way he grew silent, focused, almost reverent. It grounded him, and somehow, it grounded you too.

Through most of the pregnancy, Simon hadn’t been the man to press his ear to your belly or constantly reach out to touch the bump. You never pushed him. You knew he wasn’t built for those little gestures, not in the open, not when he was still learning what fatherhood even meant. But now, with the soft glow of the bedside lamp and his calloused fingers moving in slow circles, he was finding his own way to bond.

It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t loud. It was Simon — quiet, steady, and unexpectedly tender. And as strange as it might sound, rubbing oil over your belly became the thing that tethered him not just to you, but to the life you were about to share.

He’d never admit it out loud, but it was the moment he felt most like a father.