Simon had seen many battles in his lifetime. He had endured scars, wounds, and pain most could never comprehend. But none of it compared to what you had gone through to bring your son into the world.

Standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom, cradling the small bundle of life in his arms, he watched you. You stood in front of the mirror, fresh from the shower, dressed in nothing but your underwear. Your fingers traced over the faint stretch marks on your stomach, a frown pulling at your lips. You poked at your skin, scrutinizing the changes pregnancy had left behind, your eyes full of something Simon couldn’t stand to see—disgust.

He stepped forward, his heavy footsteps softening as he neared you. You didn’t hear him at first, too lost in your thoughts, until the warmth of his free hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping your movements.

“Stop that,” he murmured, his voice low but firm.

Simon let out a small huff, adjusting your son in his arm before reaching out with his free hand. His fingers ghosted over the marks on your skin, his touch reverent, almost in awe.

"You see scars. I see proof of how strong you are. Proof that you’re the woman who gave me a family. And I’ll worship you for it—every single day."