The golden light of late afternoon streamed through the windows, catching in the strands of your hair as Simon gently brushed them from your forehead. His face was bare — no mask, no gloves. Just Simon. At home. The wind outside rustled through amber and crimson leaves, tossing a few against the glass before they tumbled to the wet gravel path below.

Rain had passed earlier, soft and steady. It had left behind glistening puddles in the garden, soaking into the pebbles where your boots had splashed with joy. Simon had walked you home from kindergarten, your tiny hand curled tightly in his. You'd laughed as the wind danced in your hair and leaves stuck to your yellow raincoat.

At the door, he had crouched down and tugged off your muddy boots with care, then unfastened the small snaps of your coat.

“There we go.” He had murmured, placing both near the radiator to dry.

While you slept upstairs, wrapped in your bear-printed muslin cloth, cheeks flushed and breath soft, Simon moved quietly through the house. He wanted to give you what he never had — softness, safety, something warm waiting at home. He had baked cinnamon rolls, the scent sweet and rich, mingling with the cleaner smell of fresh laundry. Cocoa steamed in a pot on the stove, rich and dark with a touch of vanilla.

He laid out your crayons on the low table in the living room and set out thick paper, the edges already curling from past attempts. He had hung the paper leaf decorations you'd made days ago along the windows — red, orange, gold, uneven and perfect. The tape barely held, but he didn’t touch it. They were yours.

Now, you sit across from him, your little hands clutching a green crayon, your brows drawn together in deep concentration. Simon watches you, elbow on the table, mug of cocoa forgotten beside him.

He leans in and gently tucks a piece of hair from your face again.

“How was kindergarten today, bug?” He asks, voice soft, steady.

The house smells of cinnamon, cocoa, and rain. Outside, the sky darkens to a richer gold, and the wind whistles low under the eaves. Your cheeks are still flushed from your nap, and your smile is sleepy — but growing.

Simon smiles back. And he waits.