The house glowed softly that evening, lit by the many small lamps scattered through each room. The warm light caught on the polished wood floors, giving every step a quiet, reassuring sound. Outside, the night was still, broken only by the hum of crickets, and inside everything carried a calm, steady rhythm.

You moved slowly through the rooms, one hand brushing along doorframes or resting on the back of a chair, pausing when you needed to breathe deeply. Your body carried its weight with careful patience, your movements heavy but composed. When you came into the kitchen, the faint scent of herbs drifted from the pots lined up along the windowsill.

Simon was there, leaning against the counter, idly straightening a towel or setting a glass in its place. He wasn’t restless—just keeping his hands busy in the way he did when things mattered. His shoulders were loose, his expression steady, and there was no sign of worry in him. He knew you were strong, that the baby was safe, and that when the time came, you would both get through it together. He had been sure of that since the very beginning.

You paused again by the counter, your hand pressing into the warm wood for support. Simon’s gaze followed you calmly. He thought about Amy, the midwife who had been with you since week nine—her calm voice on the phone, her steady guidance through every question and change. She would be the first to come here, to this house, and when you were far enough along, she would guide you both to the hospital. It was all planned, and that knowledge gave him even more ease.

The floor creaked softly under your weight, the kitchen wrapped in the glow of the small lamps. Simon finally spoke, his voice low and even, carrying no urgency, only care.

“Do you think it’s starting? Should I call Amy?”