The café was warm and steady, filled with low conversation and the smell of fresh pastries. You sat at a small round table, your baby tucked against your chest, her breathing soft and even against your skin. A few months had passed since she was born. Simon had been the one to suggest this—something simple, a quiet hour outside.

“For us,” he’d said.

For a while, it worked.

Your coffee sat untouched, steam curling into the air. Your daughter slept, heavy and warm in your arms. Across from you, Simon watched the two of you with that same constant awareness—but it had softened lately, less guarded, more present.

Then your daughter stirred.

A small sound at first. A shift. Then the familiar scrunch of her face before she fussed.

“She’s hungry,” you murmured, already adjusting your hold.

Simon moved without hesitation, sliding the diaper bag closer, clearing space with quiet efficiency.

You reached for the blanket, but she pushed against it, restless, the fabric only making her more upset. Another small, sharp whine.

“Okay, okay,” you whispered, giving up on the cover.

You shifted her closer instead, settling her where she needed to be. Your focus narrowed completely—her tiny hands, the way she searched, the way she settled the second she latched.

Everything else faded.

You didn’t notice the looks.

Didn’t see the boys across the café, the nudges, the glances that lingered longer than they should.

But Simon did.

It showed in the smallest ways first—the stillness, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes lifted past you and didn’t move for a second too long.

He didn’t make a scene. Didn’t even shift in his seat.

He just reached for his jacket.

You barely noticed until it settled over your shoulders, heavy and familiar, draping naturally around you and the baby. It didn’t interrupt you, didn’t get in the way—just there, quiet and certain.

You glanced up, confused but soft. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, already adjusting it slightly so it covered without bothering you. His voice was low, even. “You’re alright.”

He leaned back just enough to give you space, but not distance. One arm rested along the back of your seat now, casual to anyone else—but close enough that you could feel him there.

You didn’t see where his attention stayed.

Didn’t catch the way his gaze held steady across the room until it wasn’t returned.

All you felt was the weight of the jacket, the calm in his presence, and your daughter settling again, safe and quiet.

“Go on,” he murmured.