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 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.

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

Months have passed in this warm little hospital room. The rhythm of hospital life has settled around you both. Nurses move in and out with quiet smiles. The faint scent of disinfectant lingers, sometimes mixed with warm food drifting up from the cafeteria downstairs. Soft fairy lights glow against the pale walls. Picture books with bright animals lie scattered on the bedside table. Your half-full sippy cup of apple juice stands beside a plush rabbit with floppy ears.

A feeding tube rests against your cheek, secured with a small plaster decorated with tiny red apples. Simon remembers the first time they placed it, how carefully he watched. Now he smooths the edges whenever they begin to lift.

The blankets are warm around you, dotted with cheerful orange polka dots. Muslin cloths are everywhere — clean ones folded at the foot of your bed, one in Simon’s hand printed with tiny brown bears. The machines behind you beep steadily. The IV taped to your left arm sits like a small, stubborn companion.

When you’re taken into surgery, Simon walks beside the bed until the double doors stop him. He presses a kiss to your forehead and waits. Sometimes he sits stiffly outside the operating room. Sometimes he forces himself down to the cafeteria, ordering coffee he barely drinks and food he barely tastes, staring at his hands until someone tells him he can see you again.

On better days, he wheels you into the hospital garden. The air smells of damp earth and flowers. Birds hop along the hedges. Sometimes he walks alone while you nap, circling the path to steady himself. Other times he kneels beside you, pointing out butterflies and letting you touch soft petals, talking quietly just to hear you laugh.

Now he sits at your right side, his chair close enough that his knee touches the mattress. His left hand rests gently on your head, thumb brushing your forehead in slow, careful strokes. His right hand adjusts the little apple-patterned plaster before wiping drool from the corner of your mouth.

He watches your breathing — the tiny rise and fall — and silently prays. Not tonight. Not after all those nights when pain left you trembling in his arms. Let this one be softer.

He offers you a warm, aching smile.

"I was thinking…" He murmurs quietly, brushing his thumb beneath the apple plaster.

"Maybe later we could see if Amy’s feeling better. Think you’d like to play with her for a bit?"