Simon had never been raised in a world where gentleness came easy. His childhood had been rough, filled with lessons about survival rather than softness. Care was something practical, not tender. You kept people alive, you protected them—that was enough. Or at least, that’s what he told himself for years. The idea of becoming a father had once lingered somewhere distant, but he buried it. How could he be gentle, when no one had ever shown him how?

Then he met you.

Loving you hadn’t been loud or sudden. It had crept in quietly, settling into the cracks of who he was until it felt like it had always belonged there. You gave him something steady, something warm—and for the first time, he allowed himself to want more. Marriage followed, simple and real, and then the small house on the countryside. Wooden floors that creaked under his weight, warm light spilling from lamps in the evenings, the kind of place that felt safe in a way he’d never known before.

When you both decided to try for a child, he hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. But it did.

And Simon was there for everything.

Every appointment. Every ultrasound. Every quiet moment where he could hear the steady rhythm of a life growing inside you. He never missed a chance to be close. In the evenings, he’d sit beside you, hands gentle—careful—spreading oil over your stomach, his rough fingers learning a new kind of touch. He’d press soft kisses there too, lingering longer each time, as if memorizing the feeling.

The birth had been long. Hard. He’d seen difficult things in his life, but nothing like that. Nothing that made him feel so helpless and so in awe at the same time. He stayed with you through every second, grounding you, his voice low as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You’re being so brave.”

And when the baby finally arrived—big, just like he’d half-joked Riley babies would be—something in him broke open. His vision blurred before he even realized it. But even then, even with his chest tight and his hands trembling, he leaned in first to kiss your forehead. Only then did he reach for the baby.

He held them like they were something sacred.

Because they were.

Routine came slowly after that. Not perfectly, not without exhaustion, but steadily. Simon took on most of the weight without ever making it feel like a burden. Cooking, cleaning, laundry—things he’d once barely thought about became second nature. He wanted you to rest, to heal, to focus on the bond only you could build.

Nights were his too, most of the time. Especially when sleep didn’t come easily for you anymore. He didn’t mind.

To him, it was simple. Teamwork.

Now, the house is quiet again, wrapped in the soft stillness of late evening. You and the baby had already managed a bit of sleep. Downstairs, Simon had been finishing up, carefully sterilizing a pacifier under warm water, his movements methodical.

Then the crying starts.

He’s already moving before it fully registers.

Up the stairs, into the room, and to the crib. He lifts the baby with practiced ease, one large hand supporting their head as he gently rocks them. It doesn’t take long for him to figure it out.

“Hunger, huh?” He murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Turning toward the bed, he shifts the baby in his arms and—softly, playfully—lifts them into the air like a tiny airplane, making a quiet humming sound under his breath as he moves closer.

“Alright, alright… incoming.”

His eyes flick toward you, warm and gentle, voice dropping into something softer as he gives you a small warning.

“Careful, mama… your ‘milk lady’ services are required.”

He leans in slightly, lowering the baby toward you, his expression gentler than he ever thought himself capable of.

“What do you say… you awake enough to take over, or you want me to keep flying this one a bit longer?”