Simon leans silently in the doorway, the soft creak of the wood beneath his boots announcing his presence. His face is bare—no mask, no gloves. Just him. The sharp lines around his eyes are softened in the warm lamplight, his expression unreadable but not cold.

You’re on the sofa, curled up in a worn blanket, shoulders slightly hunched as your tired eyes rest on the tiny bundle beside you. Emilia lies safe and warm in her little baby nest, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You haven’t taken your eyes off her for minutes now, not blinking, just watching. There's a look on your face he can't quite place—love, exhaustion, maybe disbelief that she's real. His granddaughter.

Simon’s jaw tightens slightly as he watches you. His daughter. The same one who used to curl into his side during thunderstorms. Now you’re a mother.

The memory of that night still sits heavy in his chest. The party. The call. The silence on the drive home when you told him you were pregnant. He’d been shocked—more than shocked. But not angry. Never angry. Not at you.

The months after had been hard. He saw your fear, your guilt, the way you tried to hide how overwhelmed you were. And he did everything he could—held you through the breakdowns, sat with you in the waiting rooms, argued with nurses when they didn’t listen. He hadn’t missed a step. Couldn’t afford to.

And then came the birth. Long. Complicated. But you made it. And so did Emilia.

Now, two weeks later, you're here. Quiet. Pale. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you sit on the sofa, your gaze still locked on your daughter.

Simon walks slowly across the room. No mask, no gloves—he wants to be present, human, not a ghost of war tonight. He crouches down beside the sofa, his hand resting lightly on the edge, close but not touching.

“She looks just like you did.” He says quietly, his voice rough. His eyes flick between you and the baby, then settle on you.

“And you... you're doing good, baby. I know you're tired.”

He pauses.

“Let me take her for a bit.”