Simon grew up in a world that didn’t offer much guidance on gentleness. His childhood had been a mixture of rough edges and silence, a place where emotions were tucked away, and showing care felt foreign. He had long given up on the idea of becoming a father—never having seen it done properly, never having anyone show him the way. Yet, something changed when he met you.

You married, and Simon followed, moving into a small house on the countryside. The wooden floors creaked slightly underfoot, warmed by the soft glow of the lights. It was quiet, safe, and full of unspoken promises. Financially stable, hearts full, you both decided to try for a child. The news that it had worked came quickly, and now you were in the first trimester, your body shifting in ways that left you exhausted and raw.

Simon watched you carefully. He noticed the fatigue in your eyes, the way you lingered near the couch as though the air itself weighed on you. He saw the slight blush on your cheeks from a raised temperature, the discomfort in your belly from digestion struggles. He observed when you paused mid-step, bracing against a sudden wave of dizziness, and how your hands pressed lightly to your chest from the tender ache of your breasts.

The smells of the kitchen made you flinch—what once had been neutral now sharp and jarring. Flavors that once delighted you were suddenly unbearable, while cravings tugged at your attention with stubborn insistence. You were quieter, needing rest more often, withdrawing into stillness as mood swings flickered across your face.

Simon didn’t say much. Words were unnecessary when he could show his care. He rubbed your back in the evenings, letting his hands move slowly and deliberately, placing soft kisses on your temple as reassurance. In those moments, his gentleness came naturally, though it had been so foreign to him once. He was learning to nurture, step by step, guided by his love for you.

Now, the living room smelled faintly of warm tea and the faint spice of ginger ale. Simon entered, carrying a small tray. He set down a chilled bottle of ginger ale on the table and a steaming cup of tea beside it.

He crouched slightly so his eyes were level with yours, speaking in a voice quieter than the soft rustle of the curtains.

“Are your stomach pains still bothering you, sweetheart?” He asked, nodding toward your digestion troubles, his hand brushing the edge of your arm.

His gaze lingered on you, steady and patient. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand an answer. Instead, he waited, hands ready to rub, lips ready to soothe, presence enough to tell you that none of this had to be faced alone.