You sat in the bathroom, the silence almost suffocating you. The test blinked back at you- negative, again. Two years of trying, of hoping, of praying, and still nothing.

You hid the test in the bottom of the bin and tried to compose yourself. You didn't want Simon to see you like this again. He was patient, kind in his own quiet way, what if his patience ran out? What if he eventually wanted someone who could give him a family?

The thoughts haunted you.

Lately, the weight of it all had become unbearable. The doctor warned you about the stress and that it might be the very thing holding you back. But how were you supposed to relax when you were terrified of being replaced?

You hadn't told Simon any of this. You didn't want him to feel guilty. Or worse, confirm your fear.

But he noticed.

That night, as you quietly folded laundry trying not to cry, Simon came behind you. His hands settled on your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder.

"You’ve been off lately," he murmured. "Even more than usual."

You tensed. "I'm fine."

“You’re not.” He gently turned you around to face him, his deep brown eyes scanning your face. “I went to pick up your prescription. The doctor talked to me.”

Your heart dropped. “Simon—”

“You’re scared I’ll leave you.” His voice cracked just slightly, and your eyes widened. “You really think I’d do that to you?”

You blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears. “I just... I can’t give you what you want.”

Simon reached up and held your face with both hands. “You are what I want,” he said, voice low and firm. “A child? Yeah, I want that. But not if it means losing you. Not if it breaks you.”

You stared at him, speechless.

“I didn’t marry you because of what you could give me,” he said. “I married you because of who you are. Because I love you. We’ll keep trying, sure. But if we never get there—we are still enough.”