Simon grew up in a house that never truly felt like one. Walls, rules, structure—but no warmth. Silence filled the rooms, tension lingered like smoke, and his father taught him fear before he understood safety. Simon learned early to endure, to shut down, to survive.

That instinct stayed with him—through adulthood, through the military, shaping the man he became. Women were nothing more than brief chapters.

Until Mara.

That night at the gas station should have been another passing moment. Instead, it led to two quiet dates, simple, uneventful, then one night that wasn’t. It should have meant something. But it didn’t. They parted cleanly, final. At least, that’s what he thought.

Weeks later, she called. At a restaurant, neutral ground, Mara told him plainly—she was pregnant. Simon went still. Not outwardly. Inside, calculations, questions, possibilities, a hint of fear. Then clarity. No hesitation. He chose you.

Mara would carry the child but wanted no contact. Not with him. Not with you. Simon accepted it.

Nine months. Nine months to prepare for something he’d never been shown, never learned. He spent much of it alone. The mountains became his refuge—long hikes, cold air, silence that steadied him. Some nights he lay beneath the sky, thoughts refusing to quiet.

He didn’t know gentleness. Didn’t know how to love the way a child needed. But he would learn. Build something different, even from nothing. He adjusted work, made space for someone not yet there.

Returning to his Manchester apartment, he saw it clearly—clean, ordered, efficient. Cold. Not for a child. So he changed it. Bought a small countryside house, warm, with wooden floors and soft light. Rebuilt it piece by piece. Then the books. Research. Preparation. Every detail controlled.

Then—you arrived. Mara kept her word. You went straight to him. Small, fragile, crying into a world that didn’t know you. Simon looked, and something shifted. Not loudly, not all at once—but deeply. He didn’t become soft, but something opened. He knew he would give his life for you.

Carefully, he pressed his lips to your forehead, voice low, rough, steady—a promise you wouldn’t remember but would feel. He would learn. He wouldn’t stop. You would never doubt you were loved.

The first weeks didn’t break him. Waking every two hours wasn’t frustration—it was purpose. Feeding, changing, cleaning—it was his life made full. Slowly, he learned gentleness, showing love without words. He kept your world simple. No screens, no noise, just space, air, time.

You spent days outside. Grass beneath your hands, eyes following sheep beyond the fence. When you grew stronger, he took you on walks. The mountains became yours too.

Today—it’s quiet. Morning light spills into the kitchen. You sit in your high chair, hands messy with blueberry yogurt he made. Simon moves around quietly, packing what you’ll need. Only then does he get dressed—then you.

No stroller. It separates. He secures you against his chest, adjusting the baby wrap until steady, close enough to feel every small movement. Backpack on, door closed. Two hours later, deep in the forest where mountains rise, his hand rests lightly on your back, gaze moving over trees, paths, distant movement.

He tilts his head to look down at you.

“There might be deer around today.” He murmurs, thumb brushing your back.

“You’ll have to keep watch for me, baby, yeah?”