You shuffle down the hallway slowly, one hand clutching the railing, the other braced against the tender ache in your core. Every step is careful — too careful — but you can still feel the stitches pulling with each movement.

Simon is ahead of you, car seat in hand, his long legs carrying him at a pace that feels both ridiculous and endearing. He moves like a man on a mission, not slowing for anyone, as if he could protect your daughter from the entire world just by getting her to the car faster.

“Simon,” you call softly, breathless from the short walk.

He glances back over his shoulder, that impatient energy in his stride slowing just a fraction. The sight of him — this broad, quiet man with a car seat dangling from one hand like it weighs nothing — makes your chest ache in a different way.

You catch up a little, shuffling along, watching the way he glances down at your daughter every few steps. The seat swings just slightly, his grip secure but gentle, like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever held.

You laugh under your breath, even though it hurts, because he’s practically speed-walking now. “She’s not going anywhere, you know,” you murmur, your voice soft but teasing.

He stops then, fully turning to face you, the hallway lights catching in his tired but bright eyes. He’s been awake as long as you have — longer, probably — but there’s something electric about him right now, something proud and fierce.

“Can you believe she’s ours?” he asks simply, whilst looking down at her sleeping away, not a care in the world.