The café was warm and peaceful, filled with the gentle hum of conversation and the smell of fresh pastries. You sat at a small round table with your baby girl bundled against your chest, her soft breathing brushing your collarbone. A few months had passed since her birth, and Simon had insisted on taking you out for a moment of calm—“Just the three of us,” he’d said, voice softer than usual.

For a little while, everything felt normal again. Your coffee steamed gently. Your baby slept like an angel. And Simon, sitting across from you, looked at you as though the whole world was contained in that tiny café booth.

But then your daughter stirred. A tiny whine. A fuss. A scrunch of her little face as she wriggled unhappily. You knew the signs instantly.

“She’s hungry,” you murmured, already lifting her into your arms.

Simon was quick, pushing the diaper bag toward you, the stroller out of the way, helping without a single word. Precision and tenderness—both things he had learned to blend perfectly since she was born.

You tried to use the small blanket from the bag, but your daughter kept kicking it off, whining louder each time the fabric brushed her cheek. She needed to be close. She needed to feed now.

So you shifted in your seat, settling her against your chest, preparing to breastfeed her uncovered. Your only focus was her—her tiny hands, her soft breaths, her rooting movements. Nothing else.

And because you were focused entirely on your baby, you didn’t see the glances. You didn’t see the teenage boys across the café nudging each other. You didn’t hear the whispered comments or notice the way their eyes lingered.

But Simon did.

The moment your shirt lifted enough to nurse your daughter, he froze—not with anger, but with that deep, protective instinct that flared inside him stronger than anything else. His jaw clenched, shoulders tensing beneath his shirt. His eyes sharpened, darkened.

You didn’t see any of this. All you felt was the air shift slightly… a familiar warmth approaching.

Without a word, Simon stood up.

The creak of leather was the only sound he made before he gently placed his jacket around your shoulders from behind, wrapping you and the baby in its heavy weight. The scent of him—warm, smoky, familiar—enclosed you like a shield.

You blinked, glancing down at the sudden warmth.

“What’s wrong…?” you whispered, confused but touched.

He didn’t answer right away. He adjusted the jacket carefully, making sure it covered everything, his hands moving with a softness that felt like an apology and a promise in one. Then he stepped behind your chair—not leaving your side, not sitting back down.

You had no idea he was facing the boys head-on, his eyes cold and unblinking until they dropped their gazes. You didn’t hear the quiet warning rumble in his chest, or the way the table of teenagers froze the second they realized who they were looking at.

All you knew was that Simon stayed behind you like a wall, one large hand resting on the back of your chair, his warmth steady and grounding.

“Feed her,” he murmured, his voice low but gentle.