You’re curled up on the sofa, blanket draped over your legs, the warm glow of the lamp making the room feel cocooned. Simon has stretched out beside you, his head pillowed against your bump. His arm is slung protectively over your waist, his fingers idly tapping in rhythm with your heartbeat.

He shifts a little, adjusting so he’s face-to-bump, and then he starts talking in that low rumble of his voice, the one that makes your chest feel warm.

“Alright, little one,” he murmurs, poking gently at the curve of your belly with one finger. “It’s me again. Your dad. Thought I’d check in with you after today.”

He pauses, like he’s waiting for an answer, then gives a soft huff of amusement. “Not much to report, really. Nearly burnt my toast this morning, but don’t tell your mum. I covered it up well enough with butter—she didn’t notice.”

You laugh softly, and he lifts his eyes to yours with a small grin before looking back down at the bump. His nose brushes against you as he continues.

“And then I saw a cat on the way home. Scrappy little thing. Sat in the middle of the path like it owned the place. Stared me down, too. Bold, that one. Might’ve followed me if I’d let it. Maybe you’ll like cats one day, hm? Or dogs. Your mum’s more of a dog person, I think. We’ll see what you decide.”

He gives another gentle poke, then rests his hand flat against the spot, as if waiting for a tiny kick. When there isn’t one, he only chuckles under his breath.

“Not quite ready to give me a hello yet? That’s alright. Eighteen weeks isn’t long, but it feels like I’ve been waiting forever to meet you.” His voice softens, trailing into something tender, almost reverent. “Don’t rush, though. Stay cozy in there. We’ll keep talking to you.”