Simon never thought peace would feel this tangible.

Not fragile. Not temporary. Just… real. Like the house on the countryside you shared — wooden floors that held warmth, light that never felt harsh, evenings that settled slowly instead of demanding attention. A place that didn’t ask him to be on guard. A place that stayed. He learned its sounds the way he once learned terrain: the quiet shift of boards, the way sunlight moved through rooms, the comfort of knowing you were always somewhere close.

Marriage didn’t soften him — it grounded him. There was no sudden change, no dramatic revelation. Just routines that mattered. Fixing things together. Standing behind you with a hand at your waist while coffee brewed. The certainty of coming back. Of staying. Touch became reassurance rather than urgency — a hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing your back as he passed, proof that this life was solid.

When you were pregnant, Simon never questioned it.

He adjusted without comment. Walked slower. Watched more closely. Learned when you needed space and when you needed him near without asking. He memorized appointment schedules, sat through hospital waiting rooms with the same focus he once gave briefings. At night, he lay awake sometimes, one hand resting over your stomach, feeling movement and grounding himself in the reality of it.

And then the waiting ended.

Now everything smells like antiseptic and clean linen instead of wood and home. The hospital room is dim, deliberately calm. Machines hum softly, steady and unobtrusive. You’re still in bed, exhausted but here — undeniably here. The baby lies close, new and wrinkled. Just a few moments old.

Simon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, posture relaxed in a way few ever see. He isn’t wearing gloves. No mask. Just tired eyes, a few loose strands of hair, and an expression that’s quieter than anything he’s known.

He watches you first. Always you. Making sure you’re breathing evenly. Making sure the tension in your shoulders eases. Then his gaze shifts — careful, almost reverent — to the baby. He commits the sight to memory without realizing it, the way he does with things he refuses to forget.

His hand reaches for yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles, grounding. Real. Warm.

Simon exhales softly, something close to a smile touching his mouth as he leans a little closer, voice kept low so the room doesn’t feel disturbed by it.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” He asks gently, eyes searching your face.

Then, after a brief pause, more practical, already thinking ahead:

“Do you want me to get you some water… or should I call the nurse?”