Simon had spent years drifting through a life built out of cold missions, long nights, and silence that settled deep into his bones. He had been skilled, efficient, dependable — and achingly alone. Then you arrived. Unplanned, yes… but never, not for a single heartbeat, unwanted. Becoming a father had terrified him, but you quickly became the brightest, sweetest thing he had ever been given — his unexpected miracle, his whole world in miniature.

At first, everything seemed simple. He learned how to cradle you, how to make you giggle, how to soothe you with the soft rumble of his voice. But slowly, little things changed. You stumbled more often; your tiny legs trembled. Dark bruises appeared too easily. Your bones ached at night, deep and sharp, waking you with cries that pierced him straight through the heart. Sometimes you pressed your hands to your ribs or your hips, wincing. Sometimes you couldn’t lift your toys without grimacing. He didn’t wait. He drove you straight to the hospital, holding you close even as needles pricked your skin and machines hummed around you.

And then came the diagnosis — end-stage bone cancer. The words rewrote his entire world. Since that day, Simon had carried the constant fear of losing the love of his life — you.

Now months have passed in this warm little hospital room. Soft fairy lights glow against the pale walls, casting gentle shadows that dance when the air shifts. Picture books with bright animals and smiling suns lie scattered across the bedside table, their pages bent from tiny fingers flipping through them. Your sippy cup of apple juice sits half-full, next to a plush toy rabbit with long, floppy ears. The blankets are warm and fluffy around you, your bedding dotted with small, cheerful orange polka dots. Muslin cloths are everywhere — clean ones folded at the foot of your bed, and one in Simon’s hand printed with tiny brown bears.

The machines behind you beep quietly, steady and constant. The IV taped to your left arm sits like a small, stubborn companion, its line glowing faintly under the soft lights.

Simon sits at your right side, his chair pushed close enough that his knee touches the mattress. His left hand rests carefully on your small head, broad and gentle, his thumb brushing your forehead in slow, cautious strokes — always delicate, always mindful of your pain. His right hand holds the muslin cloth as he leans forward, wiping a bit of drool from the corner of your mouth with quiet tenderness.

He watches your breathing, the tiny rise and fall, and he silently prays — not to lose you, not tonight, not after all the nights before where pain had tightened your whole little body and left you trembling in his arms. He prays this night will be kinder, softer, free from those sharp, stabbing aches that had taken your breath away.

He gives you a warm, aching smile, trying to pour every bit of comfort he has left into it.

"I guess I should put your socks back on… don’t want you getting cold feet." He mumbles quietly. Almost to himself.