Simon had grown up in a house where order was not questioned. His father’s voice carried weight; when he spoke, the walls seemed to listen. His mother moved quietly through rooms scented with starch and stew, her hands always busy—kneading dough, wiping tables, steadying crying children. She belonged to the home the way the hearth belonged to the fire.

To Simon, it had never seemed cruel. It had seemed structured. Logical. Men bore heavier burdens in the world outside; they earned more, worked longer hours, took harsher blows. Women carried life itself. They were softer in some ways, stronger in others. Biology dictated difference. He did not see injustice in that—only design.

Only women could bear children. Only women had the patience to nurture them properly. And yes, in his mind, they cooked better. War had taught him that survival required clear roles. Protection and provision demanded strength. Care and cultivation required devotion. A household functioned best when it was guided—when someone led and someone followed.

He did not think himself cruel. Not a sexist. A realist.

The military shaped him further. Years in special operations carved restraint into his posture and silence into his habits. He learned discipline, command, endurance. He learned that leadership meant responsibility. That those under your care thrived when boundaries were clear.

He met Mara when he was still young enough to believe peace might be permanent. She understood that structure too. She had grown up in a similar home—where fathers decided and mothers sustained. They married quietly. Bought a house in the countryside with wooden floors that creaked softly at night and warm golden light that pooled in corners. It felt steady. Predictable. Safe.

Mara adapted easily. She organized the home. She deferred to him without bitterness. And when you were born, Simon felt something shift—something heavier than command, deeper than duty.

You were his daughter.

And daughters, in his mind, required guidance.

Not outdated. Not oppressive.

Just… right.

He wanted you prepared. Taught how to keep a home warm and ordered. Taught how to recognize a man worthy of leading—and how to support him without resentment. To understand your place not as something lesser, but as something purposeful.

The front door opens with the familiar click of metal and the low thud of boots against wood.

Simon steps inside, broad shoulders filling the doorway. The scent of cold air and faint gun oil follows him in. His eyes soften the moment they land on you standing there, as you so often do.

You greet him.

He bends slightly, presses a firm, warm kiss to your forehead.

“My darling.”

His hand cups the side of your head briefly before he straightens. He removes his shoes with methodical movements, lines them neatly by the wall. His jacket comes off next, hung carefully. His bag is placed beside the console table.

Only then does he look at you fully.

“Have you helped your mother with the household today?”