The room was dim, bathed in the warm, muted glow of the wall lamp above the hospital bed. His wife slept deeply, her body still recovering, her hand resting near the empty crib.

Simon stood a few steps away, holding you in his bare arms. His mask and gloves were folded on the chair—set aside, like armor no longer needed. For once, there was nothing between him and the world. Nothing between him and you.

You were swaddled in a soft, cream-colored blanket, the fabric light and warm, patterned with tiny bears. Underneath, your little body was dressed in a soft onesie, loose at the arms, the sleeves slightly folded to keep your hands tucked. Your skin was still flushed with that newborn red—delicate, a little wrinkled, impossibly soft.

Simon studied you with quiet intensity. A fine trace of hair covered your small head, soft as breath, barely visible in the low light. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy but not quite closed, and he knew—your eyes couldn’t really see him yet. Not clearly. Still, he looked at you like you were watching him back.

“You’re so beautiful, honey.” He murmured, almost not speaking at all.

You gave a tiny shift in his arms, not a cry, just a movement—your body reminding him how new you were to this world. He adjusted his hold instinctively, wrapping the blanket a bit tighter, one large hand supporting your fragile frame with effortless care.

He could’ve laid you in the crib. But he didn’t. He kept moving slowly through the room, step by step, memorizing every breath, every sound, every flicker of your tiny presence.