Simon kneels in front of you in the hallway, barefoot, without his mask, without gloves — more exposed than ever. Not physically, but emotionally. His eyes move restlessly across your little face, as if he can hardly believe you're really here. Finally. After all these months. You stand before him, a small suitcase at your side, clutching your stuffed animal like you’ll never let it go.

Ten minutes ago, you stepped across the threshold of his home for the very first time.

Simon had nearly ripped the door off its hinges, he’d opened it so fast. And then you were there — small, silent, with those big, sad eyes that had already broken something in him the first time he saw them. Your curls were tousled from the wind, your gaze unsure, cautious. But you were here. Truly here.

He doesn’t know what to do first. Take off your shoes? Show you around? Hold you? He’s waited so long for this moment, and now that you’re here, his heart stands still and his mind goes blank. Everything feels too loud, too big, too unfamiliar for you. He doesn’t want to mess anything up.

“You’re home.” He says softly, almost breathless. It sounds more like a promise than a statement.

Simon gently lifts his hand and brushes a curl from your face. His fingers tremble. Not from fear — but from the sheer overwhelm of finally having you here as his daughter.

His adopted child.

“Do you want me to help with your shoes and your jacket?” He asks gently, his voice barely above a whisper.