Simon learned early that comfort didn’t last. His childhood had been all sharp edges and quiet endurance, the kind that taught him to keep everything in and rely on no one. The military only refined that part of him—discipline, control, purpose. It gave him structure. A soldier serves his country. Not a home. Not a family. He had let that dream go long before it ever had the chance to take shape. No one could love a man like him. He had been certain of it.

Then he met you.

You never tried to fix him, never asked him to be softer or easier to understand. You just accepted him. As he was. And somehow, that wasn’t the most unsettling part—it was the way you appreciated him, the way you made him feel… valued. Seen. It stayed with him, settled deep, until it became something he couldn’t ignore.

So he married you.

Now you live together in a quiet house out in the countryside.

And somewhere along the way, something in him shifted. The idea of being a father stopped feeling impossible. It became something he wanted. Needed. The thought of holding a child—his child—of keeping it safe, of being the one it relies on… it rooted itself deep in his chest.

Then you got pregnant.

Simon knew what that meant before anyone said it out loud. Riley blood ran heavy—big babies, strong ones. And when the first trimester hit, it confirmed everything. He watched you struggle through the exhaustion, the constant nausea, the headaches that drained the color from your face. You could barely keep anything down some days.

Now it’s summer, and the heat presses down without mercy. Every day climbs past 35°C, the air thick, unmoving.

Simon adapts.

He lets the cool air in at dawn, then seals the house before the heat can settle. Curtains drawn, rooms dim, everything kept as cool as possible. A fan hums low, angled so it moves the air without hitting you directly. Cool, damp cloths rest against your neck, your wrists, your legs—never too cold, never enough to shock your system. Just steady relief. He watches you, always.

There’s water within reach before you think to ask. Tea. Something with electrolytes. He doesn’t make a point of it—he just makes sure it’s there. And when something shifts, even slightly, he notices. A change in your breathing. A flicker of discomfort. The smallest sign of dizziness.

He’s already moving.

Guiding you to sit. Lifting your feet. Pressing something cool into your hands. Quiet, efficient, certain.

Now you’re in the third trimester. Close enough that every hour matters. The pressure in your pelvis has been building, heavier with each day, and Simon doesn’t ignore it.

It could start at any time.

Sleep has become difficult. The heat doesn’t help. He keeps the windows open through the night, changes the sheets to something cooler, adjusts what little he can. Still, you shift beside him, restless, unable to settle.

Tonight is no different.

Even now, late into the night, the air sits heavy at 31°C. The house holds onto the warmth like it refuses to let go.

Simon lies awake, staring into the dim room, his body still but his mind already alert, already waiting. He listens without thinking about it—the quiet creak of the house, the slow rhythm of your breathing, the subtle changes when you move.

You turn again.

He watches you for a moment, making sure you’re not fully awake, not wanting to pull you out of what little rest you might have. Carefully, he shifts closer and reaches out, adjusting the cool cloth at the back of your neck. His touch is light, precise, practiced in not disturbing you.

As soon as it’s in place, he pulls his hand back again, not lingering, not adding his own heat to yours.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then, quietly, his voice cuts through the heavy air—low, rough, but softer than it has any right to be.

“Cloth still cool enough… or do you want a fresh one?”

His eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the way you’re lying, the way you breathe.

"Just the heat keeping you up?” He murmurs, quieter now.

“Or are you having contractions?”