Simon had always wanted a family, but no one wanted one with a man who spent most of his life on deadly missions. They wanted him for what he could give in the moment — company, pleasure — but not a life. Sex, yes. Life together, never. So he had taken matters into his own hands.

He rented a small section of a crumbling warehouse deep in the woods from an old man. It was quiet, isolated, imperfect, but it had potential. Simon rebuilt it carefully: a small kitchen, a bath, a bed, a couch. The walls were insulated and soundproofed. Inside, the outside world couldn’t reach them. This was his family’s space, his vision of what a family should be.

Every evening, he checked on you and Noah. He made sure you were safe, aware, present. Once, you had tried to run. He had found you. Lessons were necessary. Noah was four now, lively and curious, and another life was growing inside you. Simon noticed everything — the slight swell of your stomach, the way you moved, the small hesitations when bending or reaching.

It was Saturday. Simon unlocked the warehouse door, boots thudding against the concrete, and closed it behind him. He carried a small bag of sweets for Noah. The boy’s face lit up immediately. Simon ruffled his hair, then gestured toward the table.

“Sit. We eat together.”

Breakfast passed in quiet focus. Noah fidgeted, and Simon reminded him patiently yet firmly of the rules: meals were for everyone, together. No distractions. No rushing. Afterward, Simon turned to the pile of wood beside your bed. Today he would assemble the new bed for the baby, just as he had built Noah’s beside yours. He measured, laid out the pieces, inspected every angle.

Finally, he went outside and returned with a box from the car. The crib. He set it carefully beside your bed, looking at you with steady, controlled eyes.

“Which side of your bed do you want the crib on?”