The house is quiet except for the hum of the baby monitor and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The lamps are dim, bathing the living room in a soft amber glow. You find him there, sitting on the couch, his broad frame taking up most of the space, but his attention completely consumed by the tiny bundle in his lap.

Hazel is swaddled, her small face relaxed, her breathing soft and steady. You stop in the doorway, leaning against the frame, not wanting to break the spell.

“She just yawned,” Simon says quietly without looking up, his voice low as if he’s afraid to wake her.

You smile. “I saw.”

He glances at you then, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest ache—a mixture of awe, love, and a little bit of disbelief. He’s still getting used to the idea that this little person is real, that she’s his.

“She’s got your nose,” he murmurs, reaching down with one careful finger to brush against her tiny cheek. Hazel stirs but doesn’t wake, just makes a little noise in her sleep that makes him go still until she settles again.