Simon wasn’t the kind of man who let people close. Years of noise, orders, and loss had turned silence into his favorite company. When he wasn’t working, he stayed somewhere quiet — a flat too big for one person, too clean to look lived in. The fridge held more bottles than food, and the couch was worn on only one side. He’d learned to live with ghosts and early mornings.

The night before hadn’t been planned. A one-night stand, nothing more. Just two strangers who didn’t ask questions, didn’t promise anything past dawn. The kind of night that burns quick and fades faster. You hadn’t known much about him — only the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hands, the way his voice dropped when he told you to breathe.

Now, it’s morning. The air is still heavy, dim light pushing through the curtains. For a moment, there’s nothing but quiet — then it breaks. A baby’s cry, thin and rising from down the hall, followed by the uneven steps of a toddler.

Simon’s eyes open. He sits up, rubbing a hand over his face, breath leaving him slow. The sound doesn’t surprise him.

He glances toward the doorway, then at you, voice low and rough.

“Need to check on them.” He murmurs.

“Won’t be long.”

The bed dips as he stands.