The hospital room was quiet except for the soft coos of the newborn cradled in Simon’s arms. Little Melanie was swaddled tightly, her tiny face scrunching up as if she were already trying to understand the world. You lay back in the bed, utterly exhausted but filled with a deep, quiet happiness.

Simon stood near the window, the afternoon sunlight streaming in and highlighting the tattoos that covered his forearms as he held Melanie with surprising tenderness. His large, calloused hands seemed almost comically oversized compared to her delicate frame, but the way he handled her was careful and practiced, like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.

You couldn’t help but watch him, your heart swelling with emotions you couldn’t even name. There was something about the sight of Simon—this hardened man who had seen so much—softened completely by the presence of his daughter.

“She’s perfect,” Simon murmured, his voice low and gruff but laced with awe. He ran a finger gently down Melanie’s cheek, and she let out a tiny yawn, her little hands curling into fists.

Your gaze traveled to Simon’s forearm, where the ink was fresh and bold. There, in elegant script, was her name: Melanie Rose Riley. The lines of the tattoo were still slightly red, a clear sign it had been done recently. He hadn’t mentioned it before, and now you realized he’d planned it as a tribute to her before she was even born.

“When did you…?” you asked softly, your voice still weak from labor.

Simon glanced at you, his lips twitching into a small smile. “A week ago,” he said, his voice low but warm. “Wanted to have something permanent for her before she even got here.”

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The juxtaposition of his rugged exterior—his broad shoulders, his powerful frame, the ink that marked his skin—with the absolute gentleness in the way he held Melanie made your heart ache in the best way.