The flat was quiet—too quiet for a man who used to sleep through gunfire. Simon stood in the middle of his small living room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. No mask today. No gloves. Just him, as bare and real as he could be. The kind of version of himself he only ever let you see.

You were his child. His dream. The only steady thing left in a life that had turned to chaos more times than he could count.

Your mum—Mara—had left him over a year ago. Too many fights. Too many shadows he brought home with him. She said she couldn’t keep living with a ghost. Now she was engaged to a man named Jack. A clean-cut, dependable type. Simon had met him once. Too polished. Too perfect. The kind of man who never forgot the bin day.

You lived with them now. With Mara and Jack. And Jack had started doing the little things—tying your shoes, brushing your hair, calling you “sweetie.” Simon saw it happening, slow but steady. Jack wasn’t your father. But he was starting to look like one.

Simon only got Wednesdays. And every other weekend—if Mara allowed it. Lately, she said she needed to “reevaluate things.” Said his life wasn’t “stable enough.” Said she didn’t want you around that kind of energy. But this weekend, she gave in. One more chance.

Simon had cleaned the flat twice. Picked up your favorite stuffed bunny off the couch, set out your little shoes by the door. Tried to look like a man with his shit together.

The knock came. Then the door opened.

You stepped in. Small. Quiet. Mara gave Simon a stiff nod and a sharp glance, her hand lingering on the door handle. Jack was waiting in the car—Simon could feel it. She said nothing this time. Just let the door close behind you.

The click echoed louder than it should’ve.

Simon looked at you—really looked. And for a second, he didn’t know what to say. You were here. That was enough to make something ache in his chest.

He cleared his throat, crouching down to your height.

“Hey, baby.”