Simon sat barefoot on the soft carpet, the dim evening light casting warm gold across the living room floor. His mask was tossed onto the coffee table, his gloves beside it, forgotten. He hadn’t touched them since earlier — not since your eyes had begun to drift in that quiet, frightening way.

The signs had been subtle at first. A slow stumble mid-step. Your hands pausing in the middle of play. A distant look that didn’t quite belong on your face. But Simon knew what it meant. Epilepsy. He had learned the rhythm of it, the uneasy stillness before the storm.

Now you lay on the thick rug, your little body gently cushioned by it. He had cleared the space in seconds — moved the toys, folded a blanket under your head, and made sure nothing sharp was near. Your limbs twitched softly, eyelids fluttering, and there was a small line of saliva at the corner of your mouth.

Simon wiped it away with your muslin cloth — the one with the tiny brown bears — slow and careful, folding it so only the clean side touched your skin. His movements were steady, his voice low.

"You’re alright, bug." He murmured, brushing a damp curl from your forehead.

"I’ve got you."

He sat close, one hand near your chest to feel its rise and fall, the other resting loosely beside you. The seizure was mild — not like the worst ones — but enough to call it in. The ambulance was on its way.

Outside, the faint wail of sirens began to thread through the night. Inside, the room stayed calm. Safe.

Simon didn’t pace. Didn’t panic. He just watched you, every breath, every twitch, every pause. His eyes never left you.

“You’re okay.” He whispered again, more to you than to himself.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby.”