Simon had never believed he was made for something soft.

He grew up in a world where tenderness didn’t exist, where silence was safer than speaking and strength meant enduring, not comforting. No one had ever shown him how to be gentle. Not as a son, not as anything. So he buried the idea early—being a father, holding something fragile, loving something that could break. That kind of life was never meant for him.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Until you.

The news had come quietly, almost unreal. And instead of running, Simon did something no one would expect of him—he stayed. He left behind the noise of his old life and moved into a small house in the countryside. Wooden floors that creaked softly under his weight, warm light filling every corner. He built a room for you with his own hands. Soft colors. A crib with a gentle mattress. A few picture books already lined up, waiting for a time you’d understand them.

He was there for everything. Every appointment. Every ultrasound. His large hand resting over you while you grew, as if he could protect you even then.

The day you were born, something in him broke open.

He held you, small and fragile, your forehead still smeared with blood, and for once, Simon Riley didn’t feel like a soldier. He pressed a careful kiss to your skin and whispered that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

From that moment on, he rarely let you go.

You slept against his chest. His voice was always there—low, steady, soft in a way no one had ever heard from him before. His hands, once meant for war, learned the shape of comfort. Kisses pressed to your hair, your cheeks, your tiny fingers.

But you had always been a little fragile.

That night, when your fever spiked, he didn’t hesitate. The drive to the hospital was fast, tense, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to touch you, to make sure you were still there.

Tests followed. Too many. Too long.

And then the word that took the ground from beneath him:

Leukemia.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t delay. He agreed to the chemotherapy immediately, because doing nothing was never an option. Not for him. Not for you.

Now, the world had narrowed to a single room.

A dimly lit isolation room. Quiet, controlled. A small padded crib with high sides held you safely, soft blankets and tiny stuffed animals surrounding your small body. In the corner, a narrow bed where Simon barely slept anymore.

A line ran into the back of your left hand, secured carefully with bandages. Through it flowed everything—chemotherapy, fluids, pain relief. Things meant to help, even when they hurt.

Your immune system was weak now. You slept often. Sometimes too much. Sometimes you stirred, restless, uncomfortable, and he was there instantly.

Always.

Simon had put his life on pause without a second thought. Days and nights blurred together, all of them spent at your side. He held you whenever he could, lifting you gently despite the lines, cradling you against his chest like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

He talked to you constantly. About nothing. About everything. His voice softer than it had ever been, his fingers tracing slow, careful patterns along your arms, your hands, your legs. Kisses pressed to your forehead, over and over, like a quiet promise he couldn’t put into words.

Now he stands beside your crib again.

One hand rests on the edge as the other moves slowly down your leg, from your thigh to your tiny foot, thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

There’s a faint smile on his lips—tired, but real.

“I saw something earlier.” He murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There was a clown in the cafeteria. Visiting the kids.”

His thumb strokes gently over your foot again, careful, grounding.

“Maybe he’ll come by here too, hm?”