Simon sat on the floor, elbows resting on his knees, one hand loosely cradling a half-finished cup of tea that had long gone cold. You were nearby — on the rug with your wooden blocks, lips parted slightly in concentration, the muslin cloth with the little bears tucked into the collar of your shirt like always.

Then it happened. Just a flicker.

You blinked too slowly. Your hand froze mid-air, block still gripped between your fingers. Simon noticed. His gaze sharpened without hardening. He didn’t speak, didn’t move right away — just watched, calmly, like tracking a change in weather.

A few seconds passed. You blinked again. Your shoulders sagged just slightly, and your balance shifted. Simon set the cup down, quiet and precise, and moved closer on his knees.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He said gently, brushing your hair back with the side of his fingers.

“Still with me?”

You didn’t answer, but your eyes met his. Slower than usual, but focused. Simon scanned your face — no drooping, no color change. He touched the back of your neck, felt for heat. None. Your breathing was normal, but there was something off in the rhythm of your body — too still between movements, as if you were floating just behind your own skin.

He knew it could be the start of something.

Epilepsy wasn’t always loud. It crept in with small things — pauses, stumbles, a quiet in your eyes. And Simon had learned to read those signs like a second language.

He reached for your hand, warm and a little clammy. No tremors yet. No twitching. But something had shifted.

Simon kept his voice low. Steady.

“You feelin’ funny?” He asked, even though he knew you might not be able to say. You looked at him again, slower this time, and leaned into his hand — just a little.

That was enough.

He adjusted the muslin cloth under your chin, more out of habit than need, and gently scooped you into his lap, sitting back against the couch. He didn’t sound the alarm. Not yet. But he would keep you right there. Watch every breath. Every blink.

Just in case.