You wake to the sound of quiet breathing. The room is dim, the steady beep of a monitor marking the fact that you’re still here. Your body feels heavy, sore, but not empty—and then you hear it. A soft, wet sound.

You turn your head, and there he is. Simon is sitting in the chair pulled close to your bed, his shoulders hunched forward, his hands covering his face. His broad back shakes with every ragged breath he pulls in.

“Simon?” Your voice comes out a whisper, rough from exhaustion.

His head snaps up. His eyes are red, rimmed and raw, and you see tears streaking down his face before he even tries to wipe them away. The look on his face nearly undoes you—relief, terror, and love all tangled together.

“You’re awake,” he says, voice cracking, and then he’s standing, taking your hand so gently you almost don’t feel it. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, like he’s scared you’ll break if he holds on too tight.

You squeeze back, just enough to let him know you’re here.

“It was bad,” he says quietly, as though saying it out loud might make it real again. “Everything—everything went wrong. I thought I was going to lose you.” His breath stutters, and fresh tears run down his face before he can stop them.

You turn your head toward the small bassinet at your side, where your daughter sleeps, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that feels impossibly steady.

“She’s alright,” you murmur, tears pricking your own eyes now.

“She’s perfect,” Simon says. His voice is reverent, almost like a prayer. “You both are. But—God, I was so bloody scared.” His free hand finds your face, rough palm cupping your cheek as if he’s reassuring himself you’re solid.