The house was quiet for once.

No sticky fingers tugging at your shirt. No cries for snacks, or arguments over who gets the pink cup. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards under your feet.

Simon—your Simon—stood in the kitchen, looking painfully out of place in a button-down shirt and clean jeans, his ever-present shadows under his eyes somehow softer in the warm lamplight. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like this night was a dream.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a hand over the swell of your stomach. His voice was low, reverent.

You smiled, resting your hand over his. “And you’re not bad, yourself.”

He let out a quiet laugh, kissed your forehead, and then the two of you walked out the front door together—no nappy bag, no toddler clinging to your leg, no last-minute emergency involving a glitter explosion or a stuffed animal crisis.

Your mum, Catherine, had shooed you out earlier with a wave of her hand. “Go! Have fun. I’ve got them. You two need this.” She’d already had Willa on her hip and Hazel sorting crayons on the kitchen table. You weren’t worried. If anyone could handle them, it was her.

You and Simon went to that little Italian place on the corner—the one you always meant to try but never could because someone always had a fever or a tantrum or a blowout nappy. You sat in a booth, facing each other, a flickering candle between you. You even got to eat your food hot. Together. Like real adults.

Simon held your hand across the table. He didn’t talk much—he never really did—but his thumb traced lazy circles on your palm. He listened when you rambled about the baby kicking, about Hazel’s new obsession with bugs, about Willa trying to potty train herself like she had something to prove. He smiled that rare, soft smile, the one he reserved for you and the girls, the one that reminded you why you fell in love with him in the first place.

You made it through dinner, even managed dessert. But by the time you got to the cinema, slouched together in the plush seats, your thoughts started drifting.

“I wonder if Hazel got my mum to read her Room on the Broom again,” you whispered.

“She probably insisted,” Simon said.

“And Willa’s probably dragging that dog plush around by the ear again…”

Simon gave a quiet grunt of agreement, and when you glanced over, you caught the faintest crease between his brows.

You both lasted another twenty minutes. Then, without even saying it, you stood up together, walked out into the night, and headed home.

Your mum was waiting by the front door with a knowing smile. “Knew you wouldn’t last,” she said, grabbing her coat. “They’re fine. Willa’s asleep, Hazel’s trying to be. You’ve still got the rest of the night—just go cuddle or something.”