Simon didn’t grow up with softness.

His childhood had been quiet in the wrong ways—rooms filled with tension instead of warmth, words that cut sharper than silence, and a kind of loneliness that settled deep in his bones. No one had shown him how to be gentle. No one had held him just because he needed it. For a long time, he believed that part of him simply didn’t exist.

So he buried the idea of being a father.

How could he ever be something he had never seen?

But life didn’t ask for his permission.

The moment he learned you were coming, something shifted. Not loudly, not all at once—but steady, like something long asleep deciding to wake up.

He left the noise behind and moved into a small house in the countryside. Wooden floors that creaked softly under his steps. Warm light pooling in the corners. A place that felt… safe.

He built a room for you with careful hands. Soft colors on the walls. A crib with a gentle mattress. A small shelf already holding picture books, waiting for the day your eyes would follow the pages.

He went to every appointment. Every ultrasound. Sitting there, quiet, focused—his hand often resting protectively over you while you grew, as if he could already shield you from everything.

The day you were born became the most important day of his life.

He held you like something fragile and infinite at the same time, pressing a careful kiss to your blood-streaked forehead, not caring about anything else in that moment.

From the beginning, he stayed close.

He talked to you so you’d learn his voice, his words—but he always relied more on touch. Holding you, grounding you, letting you feel him there.

When your first teeth came at seven months, it broke something in him.

You cried through the nights, and nothing worked. Not pacing the floor, not the pacifier, not the bottle, not the teething ring. He stayed awake with you anyway, exhausted but unmoving, holding you until those small lower teeth finally came through.

At twelve months, when the next ones followed, he prepared himself better. He read, learned, tried to understand every small detail he had missed before.

Now the rest were coming.

The hardest ones.

Your molars.

You drooled, chewed on anything you could reach, your gums swollen and red. Sleep came in fragments, and your body ran slightly warm again and again. You didn’t cling to him—but you followed him everywhere, small sounds of discomfort slipping out because you didn’t yet have the words.

Simon felt every bit of it.

It sat heavy in his chest, unbearable in a quiet, steady way.

Evening settled into the house.

In the kitchen, he stood by the counter, carefully placing a washcloth soaked in chamomile tea into the freezer. Slow, deliberate movements—like if he stayed calm, you might feel it too.

When he turned, you were there again. Close. Watching. Fussing softly.

He crouched down in front of you, one hand reaching for the cooled gel from the fridge.

“Easy, {{user}}…” He murmured, voice low, steady.

His fingers were gentle as he applied it along your sore gums, careful not to hurt you.

“I know it hurts.” He added softly, his tone simple, shaped for you to understand—not the words, but the feeling behind them.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

Then he pulled back just enough, holding his hands out toward you—open, patient, offering comfort without forcing it.

“We’ll get more gel tomorrow, yeah?” He said quietly.

“Pharmacy run.”

A small pause. His gaze softened as he watched you.

“Do you want your teething ring, baby?”