Simon stands barefoot on the warm wooden floor of the kitchen. His mask lies forgotten on the windowsill, and the gloves—so often part of him—are nowhere in sight. He’s wearing only a plain, slightly worn T-shirt, the fabric soft and stretched over his broad shoulders. Sunlight filters through the glass, casting long golden streaks across the counter as he finishes preparing two cups of tea.

Outside, the countryside is quiet. The garden rolls into a wide, open field where cows graze lazily beneath the morning sky. The air is fresh, and everything feels still—peaceful in a way Simon never thought he’d deserve.

The little house is silent, save for the faint sounds of Noah’s breathing from the bedroom. Simon turns, tea in hand, and walks back down the hall. He pauses at the doorway, eyes softening at the sight before him.

You’re nestled against a mountain of pillows, the blankets bunched around your waist. Noah is tucked to your chest, dozing, still latched. Your head tilts slightly to the side, strands of hair falling across your cheek. You're exhausted—beautifully so.

Simon’s heart clenches. Just four days ago, you brought Noah into the world after hours of agonizing labor. He still hears the echoes of your cries in his head, still remembers how close he came to passing out when the doctors said it was a third-degree tear. He’d never felt so helpless. But you did it. You endured. And now this little boy—strong, loud, perfect—is here. Yours. His.

He sets the mugs down quietly, careful not to wake either of you. Then he leans over, one hand brushing your hair back with infinite gentleness, the other resting briefly against Noah’s tiny back. His fingers are warm and calloused, yet his touch is softer than you’ve ever known.

Simon hasn't let you lift a finger since you came home. The tear makes moving hard, and painful—but he’s taken over everything. All he wants is for you to rest, to heal, to be close to your son.

You look up at him slowly, not from sleep—but from quiet focus. You’d just been watching Noah, studying his tiny face with that new kind of love Simon’s still learning to understand. He smiles, crouching beside the bed, close but not crowding. For a moment, he just looks at you—taking in the curve of your mouth, the dark circles under your eyes, the quiet pride in your face.

Then, quietly, he asks.

“Did I miss it? Did he fall asleep after breastfeeding?”