The room was dimly lit, quiet except for the soft creak of floorboards beneath Simon’s steps. He wasn’t wearing his mask or gloves tonight—just a plain black T-shirt, sleep-heavy eyes, and a quiet concern etched into the lines of his face.

It was just before midnight when he heard your whimper through the baby monitor. You hadn’t been able to sleep. Not with your back teeth pushing through.

Simon had just finished brushing his teeth when he came to you, your cries still wet in the air. Now, he held you against his chest, one arm cradling you close, the other steadying the back of your head. Your tiny hands gripped your muslin cloth—the one with the little bears on it. Damp from your drool, like always when the pain crept up your jaw.

He walked slow laps through the room, rocking you gently. With the corner of your cloth, Simon wiped the saliva from your chin, murmuring something low and steady—more rhythm than words. You were heavy in his arms, warm, restless.

He paused near the changing mat and checked your diaper with a practiced touch. Still clean. Good.

“Still hurtin’, bug?” He asked, voice husky with tiredness but soft. You made a tiny sound, not quite a word. Talking was coming—he knew that—but for now, you still relied on those little grunts, those looks.

“Wanna eat somethin’?” He asked, brushing your fine hair back from your flushed forehead. You’d been trying more solids lately—small bits of soft fruit, mashed veggies, torn bits of toast. He was proud of how curious you were.

Simon smiled, swaying on his feet. He didn’t mind being up this late—not for you.