Simon had been acting strange ever since you told him about the pregnancy. At first, you thought it was just the usual nerves—after all, having a child was life-changing. But when the doctor announced it was a girl, his reaction was... different. Not disappointment, not exactly. Just something unreadable, something distant.

You spent months wondering what it meant. Even after she was born, even after Simon held her for the first time with a quiet, almost reverent expression, that uncertainty lingered. He was a good father, no doubt. Protective, patient in his own way, always watching over his little girl like she was the most precious thing in the world. But still, there was something he kept locked away.

Three years passed, and your daughter became his tiny shadow. She had his sharp eyes, his stubbornness, the way she held herself like she already had the weight of the world on her small shoulders. But she was still a child—your child—full of light and laughter.

That’s what you walked into when you came home from a short grocery trip.

Soft giggles filled the house, the kind that made your heart swell before you even saw the scene before you. In the middle of the living room, your daughter twirled in an oversized pink tutu, little arms outstretched, trying to balance on her tiptoes.

And right beside her, just as focused, just as serious—Simon.

Your battle-hardened, stoic husband. Dressed in a pink tutu skirt of his own, guiding her every move with a determined expression, as if teaching her ballet was the most important mission he’d ever undertaken.

"Tiptoes, love," he murmured, demonstrating the movement himself, boots comically mismatched with the frilly fabric around his waist.