The afternoon sun filters gently through the white curtains of the small bedroom, casting warm patterns across the wooden floor. The window is slightly open, letting in the quiet sounds from the pasture beyond — distant, contented lowing from the cows. The air smells of lavender and fresh earth from the garden.

Simon sits barefoot beside the bed, without his mask, without gloves — just skin, warmth, presence. His hands rest gently on your swollen belly, rising and falling with each of your breaths. You're heavily pregnant, close now — so close to bringing Noah into the world.

There’s a softness in Simon’s eyes as he looks at you, a quiet awe that doesn’t need words. Pride sits in his chest like a weight made of gold. Gratitude wraps around every breath he takes. You're carrying his son — their son — and nothing in his life has ever felt more sacred than this moment.

The breeze stirs his tousled hair, and Simon smiles at you, slow and warm. His fingertips trace small circles over your skin. Outside, the world feels far away — distant battles, loud places, forgotten noise. Here, there is only the hush of your breathing, the occasional shift of your body as the first signs of labor begin to settle in.

Simon leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, then another to your lips — gentle, lingering.

"I'm here, sweetheart." He whispers, almost like a vow. The birth is beginning, and Simon won’t leave your side.