Simon has learned to measure time differently since you came into his life. Missions once ran on clocks and orders; now they run on breaths, on the small sounds you make when you’re content and the sharp change in your cry when you’re not. You fit against him easily—sometimes tiny and light, sometimes heavier with the solid warmth of a child who has learned to cling—but always close. You are his child. His responsibility. His anchor.

You’re a Velcro child. Wherever he goes, you try to follow, fingers fisting into his shirt, body leaning toward his chest like gravity itself lives there. It doesn’t bother him. Not really. It’s just… complicated sometimes. Bathrooms are small. Privacy doesn’t exist the way it used to. He’s learned to balance doors with feet, to narrate what he’s doing so you don’t panic when he’s out of sight for a second too long.

He takes you into the shower with him when there’s no other choice, one arm steady around you, water warm and controlled. He knows that one day this will stop, that there’s an invisible line he’ll cross without ceremony. Just like school will come—classrooms where he can’t sit beside you, hallways where he can’t follow. He prepares for that future quietly, without rushing it.

People misunderstand. They see you in his bed at night, curled close, and assume indulgence. They don’t see the boundaries, the consistency, the way he says no when it matters. He doesn’t ignore you, though. He never will. If you cry when he leaves the room, it’s because you need him, and Simon refuses to believe that need should be punished or dismissed.

The living room is quiet now. He lowers you carefully onto your play mat, movements slow and deliberate, as if suddenness itself might startle you.

Simon rests his hand on your tummy for a moment, grounding you, grounding himself, and then he leans closer, voice low and steady.

“I’ll be right back, yeah?” He murmurs.

“Just need the toilet, sweetheart.”