Simon grew up learning how to survive long before he ever learned how to live. His childhood had been loud in all the wrong ways—anger through walls, bruised silence, the kind of home that taught a boy to stay alert instead of soft. The military only sharpened it. Years of combat turned Simon into something controlled, dangerous, difficult to reach.

So he stopped imagining himself as a father.

How could a man be gentle when nobody had ever been gentle with him?

Then he found out about you.

The warmth didn’t hit him all at once. It unfolded slowly inside his chest, growing every time he pictured you. Every tiny thought of you softened something that had been hard for years.

He renovated a room before you were even born.

Muted colors. Soft lighting. Bright little picture books lined neatly on shelves. Safe furniture with rounded corners. A sleep sack folded carefully beside clothes so impossibly small Simon sometimes just stared at them in disbelief, wondering how someone that tiny could soon fit in his arms.

The day you were born became the best day of his life.

He held you against his chest with trembling hands he trusted with weapons more than anything else. Simon kissed your blood-smeared forehead and whispered that he loved you. That he would protect you forever.

In the first months, he noticed things.

Too much noise made you cry until your body shook. Certain fabrics upset you instantly. Some touches were fine—others made you panic if they happened unexpectedly or differently than before. You needed routines. Exact ones. Simon researched quietly at night while you slept on his chest.

By the time the diagnosis came, he already knew.

Autism Spectrum Disorder.

It explained the sensory overload, the need for sameness, the way your nervous system processed the world differently.

And to Simon… it made sense. Your autism never became something he wanted to “fix.” It was part of you. Part of the way you existed. To him, you were his heart walking around outside his body, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

So he adapted the house.

Weighted blankets folded beside the couch. Sensory toys organized in baskets. Soft textures. Dimmer lights. Noise reduction. Safe routines. Predictability.

He recognized your isolation because he carried his own.

So when John Price and Johnny MacTavish invited him to the beach, Simon said yes.

For you. To see the other children.

He prepared you for days beforehand so the routine wouldn’t change suddenly. Now the beach stretches out quietly before you both.

Simon had packed everything. Sunscreen. Your sippy cup. A hat. Swimsuit. Sensory toys. Noise-canceling headphones. Snacks. Towels. Extra clothes. Things most people wouldn’t think about.

He arrived early on purpose.

Enough time to see if the place felt safe. A blanket sits beneath the shade now, away from most people. Sand can feel overwhelming for autistic children, so Simon carefully settled you in the middle of the blanket first. Your cup rests beside you. Your headphones too. He gives you time to adjust instead of rushing you.

Price arrives first with Avery. She’s calm, curious, social in that effortless way some children are.

Johnny arrives later with Noah, who is loud, impulsive, constantly moving exactly like his father.

Now everyone sits scattered across the sand.

Noah and Avery dig through the sand together while Johnny sprawls dramatically across his towel complaining about the heat. Price watches the children with the relaxed awareness of someone who notices everything anyway.

Beside you, Simon sits cross-legged on the blanket.

You nudge his thigh lightly with your foot. Immediately, his hand settles around your ankle and his thumb begins tracing slow circles across your sole in the same familiar rhythm he always uses when you need grounding.

His eyes stay on the waves.

Price glances over.

“Thought about holidays yet?”

Simon’s mouth twitches into a relaxed smile.

“Still thinking.” He says quietly.

“Might just stay home this year. Garden, quiet mornings..." His thumb keeps moving.