Simon never learned softness as a child. Raised in silence that wasn’t peaceful but heavy, he grew into a man built for war. No one ever showed him how to be gentle. No one ever showed him how to stay.

So he stopped believing he could ever be a father.

That kind of future didn’t belong to him.

And then he found out about you.

Not in a dramatic moment. Just a quiet truth that settled in and didn’t leave. Something shifted—slowly. Warmth, unfamiliar and steady, started to grow in his chest every time he thought about you.

He started preparing before you even arrived.

A room first. Then another check. Then again.

Soft colors on the walls. Simple shapes. Books with thick pages and bright pictures. Furniture with no sharp corners. A small sleeping space that felt safe rather than empty. Tiny clothes folded with more care than he would ever admit out loud. Sometimes he would just stand there, staring, as if trying to understand how something so small could exist in a world like his.

When you were born, he didn’t move for a second.

Then he held you.

Your tiny body, warm and real, and suddenly all the noise in his head went quiet. He pressed a careful kiss to your blood-streaked forehead and whispered that he loved you. That he would always protect you. Words he had never said so easily before.

In the first weeks, he noticed things others might have missed.

You didn’t startle at sudden sounds. A door slamming, a dog barking, a cup hitting the floor—nothing pulled you the way it should. Your eyes didn’t hold focus for long. Sometimes they passed over him like he wasn’t fully there. You babbled late, and even then, only softly, like the world didn’t quite reach you yet.

When he tried to get your attention by touching your foot, you flinched like you hadn’t known he was there at all.

So he went to the doctor.

The words came back in a calm, clinical rhythm.

A multisensory processing difference. Your brain doesn’t always organize sight and sound in a typical way. Cortical Visual Impairment means your eyes may see, but your brain struggles to consistently interpret what it sees. Auditory Processing Disorder means you may hear sounds, but language can arrive fragmented, unclear, or delayed.

Simon just nodded.

No shock. No collapse.

Only understanding.

And something like relief—because it wasn’t something that would take you away. It was something he could learn.

So he learned.

He took courses. Practiced hand-over-hand communication. Learned tactile signs that could be felt instead of seen. Built routines so your world would feel predictable. He figured out patterns:

One tap means “I’m here”

Steady pressure means “safe”

A pause means “wait”

Repeated motion means “yes”

He stopped relying on voice alone. Instead, he became presence.

Always close. Always aware.

Not overwhelming—controlled.

When you were overstimulated, he reduced everything: sound, movement, distance. When you were calm, he stayed steady beside you like an anchor. His hands became language more than his voice ever was.

Now, you are in the living room.

A soft mat beneath you. The world quiet, structured.

Simon sits beside you, close enough that his arm almost touches yours. No mask. No gloves. Just him.

His hand rests lightly on your stomach, grounding you. In your small hand, he places a wooden star, something you can feel without needing to see it clearly.

He speaks anyway, low and steady, his voice more vibration than sound.

“The star is hard.” He murmurs, guiding your fingers over its edges.

“It stays the same.”