Simon stood in the kitchen, a knife in one hand, a banana in the other. He sliced the fruit into uneven pieces, glancing over his shoulder at you. You were sitting on the floor, your tiny fingers clutching one of his socks, which you must have found somewhere. Your curls bounced with every movement of your head.

“Breakfast.” He muttered more to himself than to you, as he pushed the cutting board aside. He was still wearing yesterday’s pants, the shirt inside out. No one had told him how early kids wake up. Or how much you’d need him—for everything.

Simon knelt down in front of you, holding out a piece of banana.

“Eat it yourself, okay?” His voice was calm, but uncertain. He meant well. You looked up at him with wide eyes, so much like hers—your mother’s, the one who vanished three years ago, not long after you were born.

He lifted you up, light and carefully, as if you were made of glass. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and he felt the weight—not physical, but something else. Loving. Binding. Unknown.

Simon loved you. That much was certain. But he underestimated how much you needed. That you wouldn’t just walk beside him like a tiny soldier, eventually figuring things out. He didn’t understand why you cried while getting dressed or why you chewed on the toothbrush instead of using it properly.

He’d never learned what affection looked like in small gestures. In his world, you were on your own. Childhood had been silence and cold toast. Now you were sitting there, barefoot, porridge on your cheek—and he didn’t know if you were happy or sad. All he knew was that you were here. And that he’d do anything to make sure you stayed.