Simon learned early that the world did not soften for anyone.

Manchester raised him in narrow streets and colder silences. A violent father. A house that never quite felt like home. He grew up fast—too fast—learning how to endure before he ever learned how to rest. The military gave him structure, gave him purpose. Special forces gave him a name people respected, sometimes feared. Lieutenant. Operator. Reliable. Unbreakable.

He wore those titles well.

But somewhere along the way, he buried something quieter. The thought of being a father. It had felt selfish to want it. Reckless, even. A man like him didn’t get to dream about small hands reaching up for him. He convinced himself he didn’t need it.

Then he found out he was pregnant.

Unplanned. Unexpected.

He stared at the test for a long time, jaw tight, breath steady. He waited for panic. For dread.

It never came.

Instead, something warm and unfamiliar filled his chest. A quiet, disbelieving laugh left him. His hand rested over his abdomen, tentative at first, then certain.

“Alright.” He murmured.

“Guess it’s you and me now, huh?”

From that day on, he wasn’t alone anymore.

He likes being pregnant. The steady weight of you. The subtle shifts, the quiet reminders that you’re there. The emptiness that used to echo in his flat is gone. There’s always a presence now. Always you.

At night, he reads aloud. Sometimes military memoirs, sometimes novels, sometimes children’s stories he pretends he bought for “research.” His voice fills the room, deep and steady.

Tonight, Simon sits on the sofa in a loose black shirt and grey sweatpants. One foot tucked under the other. A soft lamp glows nearby. In his hands is a book about breastfeeding, pages already marked. He reads with the same focus he’d give a briefing, brow slightly furrowed.

His free hand rests low on his stomach, thumb brushing slow circles over the gentle swell where you’re still growing.

He exhales, long and thoughtful.

“We’ve got a lot to learn, don’t we?” He murmurs down to you.

His palm spreads over you, warm and grounding. Beneath it, you’re small. Safe. Still forming. Still becoming.