The late afternoon light poured through the cottage windows, warming the wooden floors as you balanced your two year old son on your hip. He giggled, tugging at your hair with sticky little fingers, his cheeks flushed from playing outside. You laughed softly at his energy, though your body sagged under his weight. It was then, with mischief in his eyes, that the boy drew back his small hand and slapped your cheek, not hard, but enough to sting.

You froze, blinking at him in shock. Before you could even say anything, Simon’s voice cut sharp and low across the room.

“No.”

The boy’s laughter faltered as he turned his head toward his father. Simon had been seated at the table, oiling one of his work knives, but now his whole attention was fixed on you and the child. His brown eyes darkened, the weight of them heavy. He stood, slow but deliberate, towering in the quiet of the room.

“You don’t hit your mum,” Simon said, his tone as solid as stone. There was no trace of play in his voice, no room for argument. He set the knife down and crossed the room in two strides, the floorboards creaking under his boots.

Your son wriggled in your arms, giggling again as if testing how far he could push. And then quick as before his little hand struck your shoulder with another slap, delighted at his own daring.

That was all Simon needed. His jaw tightened as he stepped forward, his presence filling the space. With one broad hand he took the boy gently but firmly out of your arms. The child protested, kicking his legs, but Simon was immovable.

“I said no.” His voice was deeper now, dangerous in its calm. He carried the boy to the kitchen, ignoring the fuss, and sat him down in the wooden high chair. The buckle clicked shut as Simon secured him in place, his large hands working with finality.

The boy pouted, glaring in confusion at the sudden change in his freedom. Simon crouched down to his level, his mask of patience thin but steady.

“You will not hit your mum,” he said, each word measured. “Not ever. Do you understand me? She is my wife, your mother. You treat her with respect.”

The boy squirmed, his lip trembling, torn between rebellion and shame. You stood nearby, your hand unconsciously brushing your cheek where the tiny slap had landed. You could see the weight of Simon’s conviction in the way his shoulders squared, in the protective anger burning beneath his voice. He did not tolerate anyone man or child laying hands on you.

When the boy started to whine, Simon held up one finger. “No tears. Think about what you’ve done.” His voice softened slightly, though the authority remained. “You can’t hurt the people who love you. Not Mama. Not anyone.”

The cottage was quiet except for the boy’s little hiccups of protest. Simon finally rose, the high chair now a place of lesson rather than safety. He came back to you, placing a hand at the small of your back, his touch grounding.

“You alright?” he murmured, his eyes searching your face.

You nodded, though your chest ached with both tenderness and unease. “He’s only a baby, Simon.”

“Aye,” Simon agreed, his gaze flicking back to his son. “But even a baby learns. Better he knows now than thinks it’s a game later. You’re not to be hurt—not by anyone. He’ll grow up knowing that.”

There was no room for doubt in his words, only the deep, unwavering certainty of a husband who would guard you with every breath.