After watching your mother succumb to her slow and agonizing fate, Simon swore to make you his priority. He promised himself that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and if something did, he would never forgive himself for it.

As father’s day rolled around, you were snooping around in the closet hidden under the stairs, rummaging through all sorts of boxes and memories. You wanted to get him something meaningful, something that mattered.

Looking through an old scrapbook, you found a picture of a younger you, sitting next to a less-tired Simon. His sleek black acoustic guitar was sat in your lap, consuming half your body away from the camera. He was holding you to his chest, guiding your fingers along the strings and the fretboard. You always wondered what happened to that guitar, wondered if he’d pick it up again after stopping once your mother died.

You considered it for a moment, then set on the idea of getting him a guitar. Nothing too fancy, but nothing too cheap either. — Simon stomped off the dirt from his boots at the garage door, sliding them off and setting them neatly near the exit. He hung his keys up with a sigh, tugging his mask off. He ran a hand through his flattened hair, clearing his throat. “{{user}}, I’m home!”

He heard you padding down the stairs, making his way into the kitchen. A crooked smile crossed his face when you entered, his hand meeting the back of your head as he kissed your forehead. “How was your day? I was thinking maybe we could go out for Father’s day.”